|438_ C'était à Rome dans la petite maison|
de la Campanell'
Avec le bruit des gens
qui réparaient des voitures
dans la rue
Ou qui construisaient des meubles
Et d'autres choses bruyantes
et pittoresques -
Nino Ferrer, Le Plan de Rome
"Bow, my lover, she says,
Your wallet's too plane
Too vast not to deliver,
And not too long in the shadows of the days,
Not too ample
Not to be able to amble
Up a money convoy,
Down the river Tiber."
I mightn't be poor enough to be a heat purveyer of an esquire boy,
Apt to glaciate everything he tries to tamp on demand,
But the ether her spirits command,
(And which they had turned upside down to give vent
To a great pair of legs,
Adorned on the city's Belisha beacons,
As in London commonly undercover are the powder kegs,)
Still met the requirements of our nearness, even in the streets of this dormitory
Town where eveybody seemed totally spent.
T'was in Rome, its petty masons
Of today never read a line of Tomaso Campanella across the capital's shutter ridges.
"Let's have a brew-up", she announced to me,
Reappearing with the tea-things from the vestiges
Of a past civilization she was used to give a rub
With the soft brushes of her skin,
(One of a kind, one tatoo.)
The beverage's hot, my fingers melt from the blaze of the canakin,
She has to go out,
To make love to a guy I knew
Beyond reasonable doubt.
Says : "Il ragazzo is sad since I met you
Babe, I can't let him rot in my norwegian bathtub
I'll have to check on him somehow, defuse the hostile blur."
Then she picked up her marbles, sumonned up the wild rambler
And went home.
I figured Rome
Subdued by the same strain
that plagued New York
In the TV series by Guillermo Del Toro
Ghetto closed, trains tracks clogged again,
Cash blocked, bambini stalked by a giant stork
One hundred replicas of a living dead Henry David Thoreau
Cruising the Circus Maximus,
Breath of their pestilent vampiric virus
Scorching the reclaimed islands old terrain
With a dark hot new gloomy gain.
Would the pavement burn her shoes
After having scrapped the soles of the last of Juno's Capitol goose ?
At stupor's pace I watched a cloud that had the face of King Metabus munching the vicino's roof,
Obamian drone with a nervy hoof (?)
Road rage all the way down from Sienna,
Some Palio's Pegasus turned mad,
A monster of La Torre chasing the Onda nomad ?
Or just the usual sound fabbrica
Of the young polish tenant, aloof
du 4e Fiévreux, throwing out his fear's esoterica ?
Heard a small fractus of a din
On the window
pane. It was Camilla, Giulia's twin,
A Piedmontese girl from Murello,
Lightfooted like the splendid calf of an elephant in a classroom,
Reflows of gingered keratins like a steelhead caressing gills that sweep the oar up to the loom,
Or a cat walking on a warm thin loof,
(The palm of my reading hand,
Whose lines became to her like shorhand)
With a mince squashing the cumbersome
Challenging all things a glove holds fireproof,
Among other Ming vases made of torrid vitreous China,
Like a sweet regina,
James Ensor's foster-sister in a porcelain store.
She didn't put anything on show
And held the wind in a tender embrace
When the street lights were at amber
Hoisting the colour
About her naked Blue Peter navy blood lace,
Her long legs masting the high heels
Feeling her sublime ways into the mist
Of the Roman hills,
In the noon of the night that the sunken sun never missed.
Both fallen in love with the other angel
Never could we fathom
The whys and the wherefores of the profaned evangel
That would bring together our heavily bestranged personal clove chromosom
In the enormous room and its brass bed
Where her electric green eyes and pipit velvet elmo's magnet melted away my choda's membrum signet, where we fused some
Insane carotic fights that had tails only and no head.