Dario Bellezza

For Enzo Carnebianca
While Enzo gives silence
to his creatures
drawing from the bottom loneliness
clear, tempestive and sour
comes from the asphalt a warm breath
heavy of faith.

I scratch the page, he models
the bronze.
We both follow the pleats
of the soul, insisting and absurd
to remind us of veins
of blood sick and infected
of memories.
They even press our dreams
that become nightmares.
Later will come the fog imponent
will shade off houses, trees
to veil desires.

Dario Bellezza

Elisabetta Granzotto

Il Tempo

If before any thing there was time
with rugged sleeves caves of mourning
one sole embrace of love dread
then it became infected with cruelty for all.
Chronos running an anthropomorphous world
ordered the wind the gale the sun
promised the smiling parasites teeth split by din
invited the fresh zones of always
to the ball under the alluvion: the illusion
He marked hearts in couples and round apples
for the arms on the dawning balcony
like the hour or oratorio its the same.
Meanwhile cardio or apple with the leftovers
coloured by crumbling thighs
thieve nymph cheeks in the ravine.
Time abandons you in order to exist
it defends itself within the delivery of women
that look at clocks like beacons saints
heated by warmed soap slowly trickle from the altars.
Therefor Waiting is the last warrior
sumptuous and invincible revolution
sows the light with play.

november 1994

Elisabetta Granzotto

Antonio Lo Iacono

Sculpture of time
Sky-eyes adrift
open drawers
full of knowing vacuum’s
that seek the key of time

playful limits
bonds between heaven and earth
twins like day and night
like water and fire
like parallels that meet
in the infinite space of thought

hands to touch starched silences
rugged encounters of things to the touch
uninhabited since the beginning
that look for deserts for company

jewels for convention
snob matter and
search approvals in shapes
and betray the betrayals
of the critical voyeurs
of creation

replicant the visages in the dreams
invent old dimensions
and kill themselves falsifying death
and fight within
like the ghosts of poets
talking about a halted time
of an unlimited space
without dawn and without sunset
where stories rain down
coloured by the dreams of tomorrow

from the damp darkness of the cave
to the light of a glance
needs and nostalgia
growing in the desire
playing with magic

born to give birth
to other stories in the sculpture of space
to reflect oneself in uncertain days
on the path of conquests

the enigma the lock
in the sky’s head
the key of dependence
the abandonment of earth
taking-off towards the rosy horizon

to detach from the matrix of solitude
mirage in the heart’s desert

… and the adieu a daily exercise
that does not finish
at the end of time …

Antonio Lo Iacono

Mario Lunetta

Cera Persa Cleopatra

Immaterial detachment from the polished matter
ancient history adventurous of long gone past
of future incursions in the mind in the bowels
maybe thought in a dry gesture in an obscure
stand
of a macro cephalic automaton of lacquered
windy epidermis

in loops of darkness deep in sacks of golden dust
with wild passports in black parameters of razor
sharp light
of vertical antennae whilst the cockerel sings
and the crocodile sleeps with all his remorse
within the hasty oval of the muscular forms

androgynous dance in space invulnerable metallic
malaria frozen beneath the impact of deaf masks
of pander confinement drinking the amniosis of
Eros
stunned twisting serpent on the chairs
corrupted before the transformation before the
eternal
return to the maternal fauces to the uterus of the
father
poisoned by the petrifaction of medusa sculptor
protagonist of his invisible double stiffened
the archaic dream of today in the Martian
diving-dress
within the apple that oscillates in the hollow of
the breast-bone door

in the screen of the impassive scribe grafted
to the pyramid lost key useless lock
all in the vortex is lost to be found again
figure in his insane reverse everything
unthreads its own skin in one ten one hundred
thousand
spirals without a spiritualistic end

here in this treacherous place in this perverse
oasis
Cleopatra soubrette on the cat-walk hard little
buttocks
spiteful titties on alert looses the right-hand shoe
like a snow-white in a spacecraft there who
knows where
in who knows which changing room of the abyss
and of nothingness

two diving-suits mime the approaches harshly
of a bronze intercourse there are two unmarried
fish in the void of silence in the anxious paraphrasis of
sleep
now on the green plane six drops of rubies bleed
on the gold of the pendants like a threat a
memento

a memory of days to come.

Accademia Platonica, maggio 1994

Mario Lunetta

Vito Riviello

Cosmic Bronze

Carnebianca’s men, the bronzes golden
and dark molten by wax
lost with the infinite universe,
they are the same shadows
of our lost souls
for journeys without time.
It?s useless to stare at the time
of a presumed accomplishment,
there’s no compass there’s no star
that can stop us
serene in front of the sky
pitiful on the beach front.
Noble or wandering, always careful
to discover the fate that made us penitent
in a sure life for an uncertain death.

Centro Babuinico, may 1994

Vito Riviello