died a poet
A poet who did not know, I discover only now.
Luigi Di Ruscio (learn) was the Marches, who emigrated to Norway in the late fifties, he had always done the metal worker and had never published a major publisher.
of his poetry have written Franco Fortini, Salvatore Quasimodo, Antonio Porta, Sebastiano Vassalli, Tiziano Rossi.
E 'died on Wednesday, February 23, 2011, aged 81. On
Country Indiana (where I draw the poems that follow) is his memory;
here is a site about him, and
here you can download his entire book in pdf,
Witches s'arrotano dentures (1966).
*
with the end of human skyscrapers suddenly
will be covered with lichens foamy
the asphalt will start
blooms that will attract insects brighter
no cat in danger of being castrated
and the universe will remain the shining memory
that he had seen with the human eye
*
huge crowds of mosquitoes and rain that they removed the roof
whistled constantly in a vain attempt to make everyone know that I was there with all my
lines that were only decrypted
accomplices of Our plot
poetic even when the light was gone and there
urtavamo laughed
then returned to business as usual and we saw in our faces the usual ferocity
*
pay close attention to the things the reality was a detonating caps
words more real than reality itself
my poverty made her love me desperately
poetry without instant communication to uncertainties
fast as road signs in the traffic jams you could even get to fly
things lost would find it as soon as I stop trying
everything but what I'm looking
*
today April 1 feast of creation
anniversary of the explosion of the world egg or cosmic comic
is the revelation of the verb to be when all the verbs
the universal expansion began
here we live under the influence of the ocean
long winters and very short springs
I shall die here on foot or by bicycle or struck by traffic or
dall'arteriosclerosi
and that the hard metal ball is holed up scratched
find the beast within us
report
whistle with only this life is not absolutely required
*
I knew that going against their conscience
is especially dangerous for me that I always go
Cycling
a risk as if nothing was the catastrophe on the asphalt
brain cancer risks as if nothing had
insomnia and grief in a constant hell
*
hope was immediately shown
useless
keep hidden for fear that was robbed
support it with verses blasphemous or spherical
and at the end of the compositions as
slamming the lid of a coffin
to close all