Adriano Spatola Poems

The wonder the sense of lacquered objects
bolted measured tricked out in the clock
generous happy mature penance shadow
...

in my father's tomb the gods have been buried for millennia
in Crete Mycenae Mexico or Babylon
and your task, young ephebe, is radically changed
we're not talking about singing in chorus by the light of the moon
...

The sun is made of many mysterious concepts
cowardly resentments with listless rotation
they say they don't say but they demand attention
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an adjective breathing the window open
the insertion's exact dimension in the rustling of pages
or see maybe how the text uses the body
...

(exordium)
this extreme dissolution systematically carried
to the limts of violence and up to the land of fire
...