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lunedì 16 gennaio 2012

African spleen

(It's buca l'ombrello's season, objects are in a screen.)

How do I look for African silence?
I eat ingeras. Shrirog is a fasting food. You know your dirty cloths?
I'm situated. Colors are bright. White is bright.
I write. Everything is spicy. The lips, the hair, the smiles.
Earth and eyes. In a small village in Tigray I sit in a rock.
The kids watch. My white... shirt.
I hold a necklace, a magic scholar implement, and I look up.
The birds are green or they are blue and they are small.
The etiquette of the regions tells people to be noisy - silence is for those who are not entitled
A laughter?
We forgot to bring the book of Rimbaud poems that Diana Torres lent us for the trip.
Because it is a trip, or is it a miasma?
I open my bottle, suck the dusts, possession.
Did the king Menelick I missed Babylon?
The chairs of the lobby in the Axum Hotel in Mekelle look at me as if they are thrones
for kings that never existed
silence is for those who are not entitled
I eat ingeras. Do you remember your dirty cloths?
I feel dizzy and an insect comes my way.
There is something else in the air: rocks being present, people being present
Today girls left the school as if it was the first day
the last day
I shout with my nose that I am foreigner
A miasma comes to rescue me
I drink coca-colas all day long.

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