VOICES FROM THE FIRE: Aldo Quagliotti

The comet is me

The night is flooding

hitting us with ink tentacles

forgotten stars, so many miles afterwards

falling in love with our glares

why cannot summer just last forever

and winter hibernate, so that spring spreads its afternoons

on our romantic cheeks

whilst the crickets sing along

our inner chants of freedom

echo these oceanic times

always rhyming with restlessness

being happy because it’s happening

is too much to handle

so we prefer pretending we’re comets

burning the time-lapse of this passage

and summery days get flipped

like pages of a bestseller

yet to be lived.  

Through the crack

as light filtered through the crack 

our faces densely packed 

with ragged-looking petals

were similar to a burgundy variety

of sunset

we were tangling our majestic spires

hands floating like flies 

falling like spiders along our arms

a new day was starting, we were recovering

from the night

debating what season would come next

right inside our room

a sweaty summer of enveloped bodies

or a myriad of autumn impervious clouds

I decided your lips 

would suit spring better

so I covered you with kisses

to replenish our rebirth

Yay 

chromosomes triumphing

our chemical affinity 

is indisputably tender

you inseminate my hope

a kiss seals a newborn

like abdominal cavity 

you can’t do much 

if night is enamored of fear

and the mucous plug of braveness

stretches to reach out the idleness 

of chilled afternoons codified in cuddles

we close our eyes to grab 

a nearby lagoon

your legs raveling out my frights 

so that you can spoon me

with unrestricted fierceness

Crudités  

The body is ephemeral

doesn’t smoke out its potential

yet it prevents us from dying

more than once in the same cycle

in the erroneous shape

that ages by yawning 

the need for evasion

castrated by permanence 

and the rebellious attitude

to fit an incongruous manner

in the jacket of bon ton 

kisses challenge the escapade

of this hide and seek

life and death equally 

makes us sick 

like a spurious pregnancy

every time we swell gradually

we get promised Apocalypse

it turns out it’s a Genesis 

the deep-rooted calligraphy of love

to bolster faltering steps

is named Poetry and nothing else

so slice your anger and fear

in practical crudités  

make your life the best portion

prêt à manger

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