Giulio Malcangi
The Pirate
I stumble
till the end of the day,
till the end of the day,
sponge,
filled with the humidity,
that i assimilated.
The Parakeet mocks,
unwittingly,
every profanity heard
on this Ship.
I rest
on the crest,
of the ups and downs,
maritime and emotional.
Waves smash
and the hull
bursts them off
the deck,
like rain,
refreshing my pain
and solitude.
My steps,
scanned to death,
by the wooden ticking
of my leg:
prosthesis
of my escaping wishes.
“Is this the moment to stop,
ponder
and regret?”
I succeed to whisper.
To myself.
The moon's full
The Night
is a drunk gloom.
Subalterns
of subalterns
snore,
nasal and guttural,
echoing
through Neptune's abode.
Loves,
from past life.
They materialize indelible,
cast on that cloud,
cinema of memories
of my imagination.
Love exists
because of Hate.
“And only God
knows
How much i hate you..”
I whisper again
“..Peter Pan!”
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