Dressed up, nothing happens.
People touch the others dressed in armors.
They crush into each other like electric cars in a Luna park.

If one wants to do it in a fur coat it makes no sense
If she believes that pride turns her forehead into gold it makes no sense
If he thinks he is smart because he reads books, he better goes read more

That thing doesn't happen because one invokes it
It doesn't happen because he deserves it
Or for a specific reason

It happens if and only if one is ready to undress completely
In front of another who is also naked

That thing cannot be arranged or demanded, cannot be provoked
It happens after one has given up to all jewelries
all the scaffolding all the ornaments

And it happens simply
by itself
As it happens the dusk
or fall of the leaves

The sunsets of the childhood


The most beautiful thing, in a big city, in the summer evenings, is when kids play out at dusk, when the voices mix and fade into each other. If you sit somewhere inside, lie down in bed, with no thoughts, and listen to them, you may capture echoes from other times and worlds.

It seems to me that the voices of the neighborhood have been silenced. They are covered by other sounds, artificial or by a quietness that isolates.

The rhythms of the artificial heart beats of the big cities, with which we are bombarded everywhere, are sound buffers between each and every one, they amplify loneliness, raise sharp, even menacing walls between people. One associates that unnatural sounds with concrete and wire, not with the beautiful images that follow the chuckles and laughter and rumbling of the streets of the evening.


All of my childhood I saw old trees in my reveries, country roads, strangers whom I could guess the fate and the character in the features of the face, the same type of people like those unknowns who appear in the dreams, and we know somehow, even if we cannot call them by name. I have longed for the roads that lead to the sea or the forests, to the hills. I dreamed of the ones that bake their own bread, cultivate their garden and drink their tea under ancient walnuts, make love in secret attics or under the open skies. I dreamed of worlds in which, if you raise your eyes, by night, you can see the stars.

In the big cities the sky is black. The stars are no longer visible.


Industrialization has not marked just our clothes, but also what we wear inside. The new generations of children dream of scenes, reflectors, luxury clubs, top models, fetish images of an entirely artificial world, ice stars, halls full of illusions, roads that all lead to a giant screen.


Since I were 10 I felt the need to write about the melancholy and the destinies of the beloved ones, that we carry inside us.

Who are all those people, angels, and beasts that show up in our dreams?


What the source of desire is? Where does it come from? What made us blind to some people and able to see so vividly some others?


Unclear then, lucid now, my wish as a child was to become a peasant.


Becoming a villager is not a destination in space but in time. I wanted to emigrate in the past, in the simplicity of a world where people did not delude themselves about what was natural and what was not.


We are prisoners of big cities, with the minds caught in fights that are not our own, in huge holograms build by recyclable words.


Take me by the hand and lead me to the spring of longing. Come with me in that land where everything is unnamed yet.


“Few sea birds are quarreling in the sky for a few pieces of cane. I picture myself on a desert beach all day long. At dusk, the water which is already calm becomes even more silent. Is there any meaning in all these? Charming fear of being, sweet neighborhood of a danger whose name we do not know, is living only meant to guide us to our own loss?” “It has always seemed to me that I live somewhere on the seaside, in the heart of a kingly happiness.” Albert Camus, The Summer.




Aren’t you tired of the dictator from inside you?

Aren’t you sick of that inner guardian

that commands you to be better

to love more

to love less

to move forward

to hold on

to let go

to get up from the dead


Aren’t you tired of this soul-predator that keeps you awake

and running

aren’t you exhausted of

running away

running inside

running around the same rusted ghosts?


Aren’t you bored of the tyranny of this Soul

bullying you like a prick

mocking your hunger, blaming your fears


Haven’t you been enough in his service

like an obedient slave

born blind and helpless

and pushed by his Master

to creep through impossible wonders?

Essential matters


Stefan Caltia

Let’s wear only skins made of deep longing
And never tell long stories with big punt
Let’s be the sense-free sailors of becoming
The fools that prophets mock with every bunt

There is no room for battles between us
No place for glamour or for desert freedoms
Only for quietness, for fire, for rain’s fuss
And for the haunting sound of waves

The world should not get close to our grove
There is no place for trades no time for noise
No lover needs to understand what’s love
No happy fellow claims the right of choice

The city wants to speak its rampant grief
In my own tongue, while piercing through my chest
But I won’t carry on a false relief
I keep the silence, like under arrest

It makes no sense invoking the mistrust
The disappointment or the tempting face
Of all those things that turn next day to dust
There is no point in naming the disgrace

I leave the words unspoken, place for vows
So that the wind to pierce though their muteness
And to be heard while opening the windows
Maples’ growth to be seen with clearness

Only essential matters, I’m asking willingly
He took the tea? what does he mean by “tie”
How is he dressed, his beard has grown wildly
The light of sunrise ever made him cry?


Soul mates

Leszek Bujnowski

Image by: Leszek Bujnowski

We could have carried huge sacks in one of the world’s harbors.

We could have been two teenagers captive in an oriental brothel.

We could have been moonstruck.


We could have been two fat moles digging their tunnels under the frozen land

ending up together in the skewer of an old Eskimo.


We could have been some irate nerds preaching the socialism to a pack of hungy dogs.


It’s not that bad what we have been fated to.


I could have had the luck to be a sleepwalker and go, through the night, to head for your lands,

like a turtle pushed towards the sea by her primordial thoughts


One day we’ll be meteorites

or bodies of water


maybe elephants

aren’t you curious how the elephants desire might be like?

We will recognize each other instantly

and the fever will break out


there are other lives

don’t cry


Troy for instance

When I was little I imagined myself with long hair with thin arms and skinny knees

I  invented myself breasts of all shapes and sizes I was afraid they would never grow

As a teenager I screamed: Fuck ”communism” in the streets and I invoked a homeland

Flocks of mysteries and fears passed with the rage of bullets through my fabulous hair which has grown in my dreams up to my knees

Heroically I fought all the nightmares and all the chemistry exams

All the locks and ice lands

Heroically I stood the lost of springtime

Everytime I heared “No” I insisted to say: “Oh, yes”.

I dragged my imaginary sins through all catacombs

Until the day he  invaded my wonderland with his long hair, disheveled, like a savage From then I couldn’t spell certain words without blushing such as Troy, for instance

Until that moment I didn’t even have a language of my own or a truth dignified to wear my name

I had no homeland or breasts


photo: Jen Kiaba