Burnout
                                                                                             Prima implodi. Poi, da piccola brace
                                                                                             ti fai grande incendio:
                                                                                             bruci emanando fumi letali
                                                                                             fino a soffocare
                                                                                             della tua stessa combustione.
                                                                                             Con te bruciano i valori
                                                                                             che non avevi messo in salvo.

                                                                                             Catecolamina
                                                                                             Il mio è un sistema nervoso antipatico:

                                                                                             dalle sinapsi traboccano ormoni

                                                                                             tossica barriera e trabocchetto

                                                                                             al fiele del mondo.

                                                                                             Sto all’erta, i nervi contratti

                                                                                             in nodi scorsoi per le vene

                                                                                             in cui scorre l’ira

                                                                                             su pallide tracce ematiche.

                                                                                            Dedizione
                                                                                            Una strada a senso unico

                                                                                            un nastro srotolato ad infinitum

                                                                                            un tapis roulant

                                                                                            dell’anemia dell’anima,

                                                                                            dissanguamento senza fine.

                                                                                            L’inizio, i tuoi denti

                                                                                            affondati qui,

                                                                                            sotto il mento.

                                                                                            Espirazione
                                                                                            Non posso, proprio non posso, trattenere

                                                                                            oltre il fiato compresso nei polmoni.

                                                                                            Si sta inzuppando da anni di schifezze:

                                                                                            devo prendere aria e sputare il rospo-morbo.

                                                                                            Inspirai a fondo ch’ero fanciulla!

                                                                                            Ci vuole una bella espirazione,

                                                                                            e che non mi sbagli e mi tocchi

                                                                                            (un’altra volta!) un’espiazione.

                                                                                            Galaad
                                                                                            C’è un posto al mondo

                                                                                            un u-topos odioso

                                                                                            abitato da uomini potenti e concupiscenti

                                                                                            che fottono (laggiù in basso)

                                                                                            con il rischio di clonarsi

                                                                                            in mille piccoli nani bastardi.

                                                                                            Era un bel paese, Galaad.

                                                                                            Humanitas
                                                                                            Non vendo tegami, né pentole:

                                                                                            senza coperchi men che meno.

                                                                                            Il grande Venditore le ha piazzate

                                                                                            in ogni casa: ci cuociono le anime che lui si mangerà.

                                                                                            Ho una nuova paideia, da qualche parte,

                                                                                            se qualcuno sapesse che farsene.

                                                                                            Non la vogliono: non attacca.

                                                                                            Invece
                                                                                            La tentazione è forte:

                                                                                            l’incertezza e il tormento

                                                                                            di questi anni di latta,

                                                                                            che sminuzzano la pazienza

                                                                                            anche ai santi, fanno fare

                                                                                            cose stupide, come chiedersi

                                                                                            se questo o quello non fosse accaduto,

                                                                                            come sarebbe se per esempio invece.

                                                                                            L’indifferenza e l’inattingibilità

                                                                                            dei luoghi malabitati dagli umani

                                                                                            (dismesse vie di lemuri desolati

                                                                                            caseggiati cantieri abbandonati

                                                                                            iati di cemento tra cosa e cosa

                                                                                            musei a cielo aperto cariatidi

                                                                                            di onnipotenti banche onnipresenti):

                                                                                            aspiro a un mondo sempre più lontano.

                                                                                            Memoria
                                                                                            E’ un peso talmente insopportabile

                                                                                            quello che di colpo ti assale

                                                                                            alle reni, se volgi il capo a ritroso,

                                                                                            impaziente malfido Orfeo!

                                                                                            Per contro t’accorgi della leggerezza

                                                                                            dei tempi accampata su uno sfondo

                                                                                            di atti e parole consunti, inservibili,

                                                                                            che stralunati sbirciano dal magazzino.

                                                                                            Nimrot
                                                                                            Neolingua postbabelica: mi chiedo

                                                                                            se sono l’unica a trovar poco da dire

                                                                                            se mi parlano di civiltà elastica

                                                                                            di principi olistici di alterità.

                                                                                            So solo che mi batto e arrabatto

                                                                                            rabbiosa e furibonda perché le mie parole

                                                                                            dicano le cose. Vado a capo, talvolta,

                                                                                            perché non ne vengo a capo, per dar la volta.

                                                                                            Ov(ul)ation
                                                                                            Alla maturazione consegue il disincanto

                                                                                            del riconoscere troppe anime mute

                                                                                            occhi che non guardano quando un tempo

                                                                                            era tutto un vocío e un trafiggersi degli sguardi

                                                                                            un assalto dei corpi da tenere a bada.

                                                                                            Vedere e riconoscere questo sfarsi

                                                                                            esserci arrivata mettere il dito nella piaga

                                                                                            varrà almeno il suono di un applauso?

                                                                                            Pietas
                                                                                            Dacché ho finito di penare sui miei lari,

                                                                                            sarà trascorso un anno, è giunta

                                                                                            quasi l’ora perch’io mi larizzi

                                                                                            confusa tra i pilastri della casa,

                                                                                            immobile, ridotta a sussurri,

                                                                                            consigli per gli acquisti,

                                                                                            se mettere o no il sale alla minestra:

                                                                                            un lare di carne, alla finestra.

                                                                                            Qui pro quo
                                                                                            Ci sono bugie in forma di sciocchezze

                                                                                            che non arrivo a tanto benché mi sforzi

                                                                                            di carpire i suoni posati sulle lingue

                                                                                            o arrotati sui denti e sui palati.

                                                                                            Quando credo di capire o fingo per pietà

                                                                                            di essere dei loro (pietà di me, non è per dire)

                                                                                            non varco nemmeno la limitata soglia

                                                                                            delle sensazioni: figurati se ne intendo le ragioni.

                                                                                            Rinuncio da fare
                                                                                            Hanno rinunciato per me alle seduzioni

                                                                                            del demonio: non gliel’ho chiesto io,

                                                                                            pensavo ad altro in quel momento.

                                                                                            La buona educazione, solo quella,

                                                                                            ha fatto il resto: che assumessi fattezze

                                                                                            umane e mi accollassi una vita perbene

                                                                                            scontando per tempo dell’inferno tutte le torture:

                                                                                            non le gioie, non l’energia, e il carnevale.

                                                                                            Prendi Buzz Aldrin: alle macchie di Rorschach

                                                                                            rispose sempre farfalle. Sapevo che potevo dire farfalle

                                                                                            ma sentivo i pugni nello stomaco e nella testa:

                                                                                            così ci ho visto i miei avvoltoi smembrati, figure

                                                                                            dell’oltretomba con artigli, uteri e polmoni

                                                                                            squaternati, sangue che cola da ferite,

                                                                                            due donne goffe ad un tavolino di bar.

                                                                                            Ero quei visceri, ero io, a pezzi, o in due.

                                                                                            Tentazione
                                                                                            Le sconfinate possibilità sono un’invenzione

                                                                                            dei filosofi, la libertà un giogo insopportabile,

                                                                                            una tentazione alla grandezza demenziale.

                                                                                            Giorno dopo giorno fatichiamo a raggiungere

                                                                                            noi stessi, sempre un po’ più indietro dell’ultima

                                                                                            tappa, tappando falle, vuoti, colmi di mille

                                                                                            pretese deliranti, scansando l’appuntamento

                                                                                            per esserci, quella prima e ultima volta.

                                                                                            Umiltà da fare
                                                                                            Quello che si vede in superficie

                                                                                            è il resto di un’ustione, la materia

                                                                                            grigia e ingrata di una rinuncia,

                                                                                            di un approccio sghembo alla parola.

                                                                                            Storte le sillabe, storta l’anima

                                                                                            che le ha nutrite figlie prodighe,

                                                                                            che se tornano non ho di che dargli

                                                                                            a mangiare, io sola al sole, a mendicare.

                                                                                            Vanità
                                                                                            Posseggo il dono della chiaroveggenza:

                                                                                            è la mia unica vanità. Irrompe talora

                                                                                            un sogno mentre mordo l’angolo

                                                                                            del fazzoletto: immagini oltre i vetri,

                                                                                            l’alito ghiaccio dei miei vecchi sul collo.

                                                                                            Non albe o promettenti tramonti, ma

                                                                                            giornate di piombo mi tendono le mani,

                                                                                            e il desolato sentire profondo dell’oggi.

                                                                                            Zena da fare
                                                                                            Zena scriveva (per arrivare a vedersi intera)

                                                                                            enfiati viluppi di memorie. Scrive ancora:

                                                                                            lottando contro il caos spera varchi

                                                                                            spazio-temporali. Ma resta qui,

                                                                                            nell’ombra trasognata. Invecchiata sogna

                                                                                            che un lamento le sfugga e s’offra

                                                                                            all’orecchio del ladro: contempla

                                                                                            il suo niente su un evanescente quadro.