Wherever Poetry

© Caio Pezzola


And suddenly, a warm cut
plunged into the immaculate pulp,
while I barely glanced at the mutilated half.

Undeniably the sharpest silhouette
I ever faced, actually a quite juicy piece
of my five decades life.

The glowing full moon lit up the night
of my beloved memories in a packed arena
where overflowing faces are performing
sneers and winks, recalling the meaningful
frames that silently have been nurtured
by pure joy and plain sorrow.

Now definitely collapsing behind the silver lining.
The lighter part left, the greedy tomorrow.

50 grams

And suddenly, a warm cut
plunged into the immaculate pulp,
while I barely glanced at the mutilate half.

Undeniably the sharpest silhouette
I ever faced, actually a quite juicy piece
of my five decades life.

The glowing full moon lit up the night
of my beloved memories in a packed arena
where overflowing faces are performing
sneers and winks, recalling the meaningful
frames that silently have been nurtured
by pure joy and plain sorrow.

Now definitely collapsing behind the silver lining.
The lighter part left, the hazy tomorrow.



Blackness and Darkness,
if by chance they should bump
into each other
I would barely sense
the vast merging flower.
Maybe the blind,
as I can see from his placid smile,
is even sailing its scent
while sharply the view seizes his mind.
Ever since you told me
to soak into that flower
my fears went numb,
my harrasment drier.



“Every pore of my body, every atom of my being”

D. feels the very first sweat drops running down her ivory back

and with a finger she moves aside a lock of hair

releasing the forehead for a blessed blow of fresh air.

“Every parfume of my youth, every experienced sense”

She simply blends her tiny hand into her mummy’s one

and pops up the eyes

climbing new trajectories while hanging to the leading ones,

endlessly trusting the horizon R. keeps in custody for her.

“Every round flat stone, every missed water circle”

And she breaths so gentle to not bother the wind,

while she turns her hip and stares at the skirt

waving by drawing its shadow on the dock.

Those shiny red shoes are melting softly

with the sand now,

recalling the two hearts that gave their life for hers.

“Every well performed jump, every angel holding up”



Fingers stick together like after ages in glue bowls.
Trying to set them free by stretching the palm,
greedily filtering the light of dawn.

I was told air should shape every single touch,
well, give me as much air is needed to lay a caress,
to lift a giant patch of land up to everyone eye line view
and that will be the new beginning, the rebirth for few.

Now I fear the lightest jump, when even
for subtle moments that gap becomes endlessly empty.
Better fight any damn second squeezing the balance
under a shivering foot…
Keeping the glance right above the heaven roots.


Caio Pezzola · THE WAY WE STAND



Those white pearl birds are just far as she can see,
engaging with burned colour patches
hanging on the early summer breeze
she was desperately waiting for… and quietly seize.

She barely recalls the bitter wounds while getting drunk
on the purest water ever poured.
Vermilion lips blow up and peel off the barren dust.

A well settled life seems now picking a suitable frame
even if the unfinished sometimes has to be dressed up,
not necessarely accomplished.





And that is the very moment when finally
everything looks bright clear,
when footsteps roll ahead drying up salt and honey tears.

Feel once in a life the blue taking its legitimate room
swallowing those useless nuances that unconsciously
stain the whitest canvas of our younger years.

Well that’s when you distinctly sense the downhill
getting closer and the air let your bites
gain the borderlands.

Now the heart-shaped tree is eagerly rising the gate
while spreading its tasteless poison
towards the grey souls attempting to enter
the new world.


I try myself hard when I sense colors in the dark,

when light pins draw the milky way behind my eyelids

and suddenly the petrified soul melts in a green syrup

that peacefully begin tickling the entire fence of my body veins.

My hands weave together mirroring tiny animals silhouettes

while their shadows engrave the ceiling and…

that’s exactly the time I crave that astonishing lightness,

that built-in freedom persistently recalling

my overwhelmed eagerness.

Just blend your shadows with mines now

and we will breeze past the ceiling.



It looks like somebody already stepped on

the cherries row, leaving darker scars

into the dew dunk grass.

This time no one will notice the missing jewels

despite the thief overflowing basin.

Nature flushed by generosity this summer.

But tell me you recall that early June

when ruby necklaces were dancing

on the trees’ branches and then falling

perfectly crowning your immaculate breast.

And then the pouring rain weaved

with a vertical heavy wind and in seconds

collapsed countless juicy marbles shaping

a bottomless vermilion carpet

where you finally lie down and rest.



What if I would have chosen to simply ignore
her unripe dance in the pouring rain.
Broadening the concience shelter keeps
my thoughts dry, drowsy the pain.

Ignore the evidence of the sharpened blade,
slides smoothly and shades the guilty shame.
Ignore her eyes that bravely spill those
dry thoughts just like the snow falling
relentlessly on the water bowl.

The cliff seagull, its wondering gaze,
addressing my fragilities towards
the sea skin blaze.



Since the very first step out of our mama’s belly
she run that fast that I lost her traces.

But the year time difference between our births
kept beeing so soaked of her good soul scent
that I never stopped following her,
never stopped overlapping
our faces with no shadow nor light in between.

Brotherhood feeds itself with the purest milk
ever poured and I thankfully enjoy every single drop
she uncarefully leaves behind.

Let her now paint whatever landscape for
her liquid eyes to embrace…
while nature may easily reflect her vivid beauty
and make it skin for the prosperous curves
of its God design.



My comfort doesn’t come from them.
Neither from the beauty that flows tight or loose
between the stars and the emerald lawn.

It doesn’t come from the platitudes and clichés
that dignity swallows just like flavorless dessert.
The flowers get dried on purpose,
keeping the undying balance that lays at once
over seeds and ash.

My comfort comes from the short time
we had together, when your words were housing
my feet like warm sand and the placid wave
of your pale caress unmistakably marked
the boundaries of my delight land.


Caio Pezzola · THE SILENT WAVE



I see my feet on Mars in ten years,
while white wolves are marking a circle,
safeguarding the perimeter of my consciousness.
Revealing the scab of a rusty emptiness.

The martian terrain is sucking my breath
and thankful releases thick ropes
that taste like bitter hazelnuts
to my drowsy mouth.

Then suddenly she comes from behind
and my neck gets wrapped by a drool crown
that insolently announces her scaled tongue
breaching my inside.

I sneak my fingers under her skin mantle
and easily seize her colors, her smell.
Her nonhuman devotion.



I guess I was sleeping

when she carefully pointed

at the stone not that far,

shaping it gracefully with one finger,

she outlined our house…

from her daydream jar.

Now that feeble flames tickle my feet,

they are indeed sharpened blades

splitting forever our life seeds.

Hot blooded memories

are seeking a beehive where unwind.

I gently smile, no stage clothes to borrow,

only my short sighted glance to sorrow.



Have you ever asked yourself
what is concealed into the ship’s bloated chest?
Why that much room between the keel blade
and the passengers’ cabins…
There is no grace, neither proportion
between the iron foil, smooth and blind,
and the round eyes, the squared ones,
soaked in salt glass, alongside the flanks, higher.
And down there, in the dark ship paunch
we stow in rolls and fleets our memories.
They repaint their outlines and brushing against,
mixing up skin splinters, both lively and aged.
It is pretty clear now why they’re stuck in the bottom,
to gently breath and let us stay afloat.



I told you I lost it right behind the corner
of the 9th with the 5th
and since that lazy step I felt vaguely drunk,
leaning my hands on a spider web wall,
sticky and sunk, a labyrinth shaped crust.

It was indeed the last rice grain in my pocket
and I am so afraid I will wander for hours in vain.
From up there, where you quietly count the yellow
cabs like frenzied ants, you can finally see
the glossy line of grains, drawing the easiest path
to find me, just toss down here the last fistful
before we get lost…

While the cement harms of NYC are glued
at the bottom sidewalks,
their mirrored nails grind the stretched shadows
between the powder of the day and the darkness marvel.
The noblest blue kisses the fruitless grey.



No sign on the gravel, she was barely caressing the soil
gaining balance from my arms widened in flying posture,
engaging the wind in a lazy dance, an excuisite torture.

The cars now have their headlights switched on,
pale yellow marbles in the weak afternoon light.
I am riding my bike, legs tight.
Past the wall is a field of dry shrubs and hedges
with a few paths tunneling through it.

Clay roofs and chimney pots rise above a high brick wall
alongside me, and then it wraps around, enclosing the beach.
I loved her with a mad, jealous ardor,
since that day when she took me, hands off the dumbbell,
to the harbour.

The ground was gray with a ribbon of purple at the horizon
and the sky, foaming like the spindrift of a huge unseen wave, was bearing down on me.
My bike, she shyly hold my sharpened thoughts
and squeeze them under the ring bell.
That’s the celestial music I shall hear and cry
the day I pretend to die…



She brings a fiery sun into her belly.
Feel the unexpected wave with no sound or shape.

May you size the motionless air when it runs over
your thoughts like a warm velvet glove.
The brush’s bristles never been so soft and meek
while painting the season’s splinter.

Golden frames are melting noble brown shades
where the time finds the spot to linger.

And it is Autumn all around,
looks like the earth chosed her cherished gown by now.
The ground gets tender facing harsh clouds,
found her name heavily engraved on my
every single soul’s pound.



In a quiet pool she extends her pale arms
alongside the lane rope,
with apparently no effort, no age to show.

The red cap arises once in a while
and faintly recalls memories
like a fog lamp drives the wonderers.

It took me there, when she untied the apron knot
for a more comfortable hug,
and suddenly we were hanging the fresh linen
to the barren wire.

When she led my hands crossing the laces
down on her knees,
or she pulled me up to the rope ladder,
holding so tight,
soaking up my sour fears in a bite.
Now she emerges from water,
Hope she’ll sense how much I loved her,
my mother.



There is no room for dust in the reader’s box.
Another skin is laying on the shelves top.
Hundreds of novels are sticking tight one to each other,
no need for a single breath once they have been read.
And there is no season dress within the paper walls,
air is still and warm,
charming flavours underneath the door.
The leather chair drowns in the wooden floor
while million of eyes arise from the pages’ blades,
waiting for the silver hair guest to sit and choose by chance.
His child face goes through the lines’ streams.
The finger like an arrow, catching the beauty even in the shadow.



It was a heavy push from the back
and the young boy found himself
fluttering meters ahead.
Kicking the air in a joyful wobble
makes him lighter,
keeps him afloat
much easier than a swim in the water,
to a sun burn much closer.
Trying to yell any bizarre sound
to shape the excitement far from the ground.
The red trousers and the white shirt
are melting together
drawing a perfect pink circle,
gracefully dancing and paying court
to the sleepy moon,
in the bracing sunday afternoon.
Pupils and parents enjoy their ride
and then smoothly slide to the amusement beside.
The young boy still up there,
grabbing the seat ropes
just like the rains of a glorious horse.
How much I yearned for such an endless merriment,
now it’s on my side.
Can I get one more ride?



That fresh varnished star
was the first thing I noticed
in the grey-packed fog.
What a surprise such a early pick up,
in the very middle of my life walk,
with no ring bell or ticket to ride,
but I guess a decent story to tell aside.
Track n. 4, just a light and pleasant queue
of quiet people I never knew.
Whispering their names to the door man,
he moves up and down his head
without even hearing them.
They won’t tell me where the train takes
but far the sign says.
And in three steps I am up the iron stairs
holding to lazy passengers looking nowhere.
Everybody is hanging to each other’s glance,
half a smile is enough to become good friends.
Looks like it’s time to leave,
the steam swallows my beloved on the bench
while I am still sending kisses by hand.
Back soon anyway,
start counting the days.



They say you are a fruitful mind
if you often dream about falling into empty,
bottomless space.
Every single night I actually picture it in the deep of my pillow blossom.
Getting used to losing any substance you can barely touch
and hang in mid-air for a while,
a fearless vertical slide.
Time goes along at an unfamiliar rhythm
and blank eyes are fighting to lead the wish between getting
squashed to the ground or enjoying a never-ending descent with no sound.
Just like flying without wings, smiling with no teeth to show,
a wizard playing magic with no audience applause.



While you are sleeping
I set up everything for your immortality.
Just stay as you are for a bunch of minutes
and once your eyes will be open you will see things
that I can’t even imagine for my coming days.
I am painting the walls with glossy colors,
writing the marvelous words you taught me in big letters,
in a very perfect line, just the way you like.
Your funny monsters are hanging all around,
their widest smile is waiting
for a never growing child.
Just sleep…
My heartfelt feelings are melting in a jelly mould,
welcoming your body’s shape
to deliver it to the ancient Gods.
They drew the immaculate path
toward the never-ending joy,
daily fed by my holy wishes and tiny prayers.
Just tell me “love you,dad” once in a while
and I will multiply it by thousands.
What for you is only an easy gesture,
if addressed to me is thick like a giant tree
and I am holding tight to it.
From now on remember to leave me a candy
every seventh birthday of your endless journey
and I promise I will cry a diamond tear into your pot.
My son, warm blood of my deepest inside,
my pure conscience.
This is the gift I owe you.
Enjoy it.



Enter again the sweet forest,
enter with naked feet and sink them
into purple soaked leaves.

Here is the feast we’ve been promised,
here is the warm nest that wraps around us
like a nourishment bag.

Leave out the poor scent,
it’s time to flaunt the queen’s dress.
Let your hands blend with my flesh
and pull out the pearls your love grew inside me,
nicely matured for the joyful harvest.

Just spread them in circles shaping our dance floor edge,
a jeweled frame blessed by the shy shadows.
Embracing the enchanted dark,
you are the one I would choose,
barely caressing the magic around you.

And the show can begin,
I have built a bridge across the ancient trees
and placed signs all around.
Your beloved souls will find the way to come,
animals and birds will assist
to the never-dying kiss.



A massive mirror is cutting the city in two,
widening perspective to never-ending edges
for the ones who live in the good half,
shading the view with a dull coating for the others.
Neither half sees beyond the glass plate,
take a wild guess who smile and who moan each day.
But it’s been raining for ages from the same sky
and there is a warm sea flow underneath
the stone pavement of the moist town.
No one pays attention to the waves rattle
but silver fishes are sliding unnoticed
between people’s hurried feet.

And how many abandoned luggage
are standing in towers along the sidewalk,
multiple sizes and colors but no stories inside,
filled with air, no secrets to hide.
A white dot among thousands of squared umbrellas,
a middle-aged man, his face towards the clouds
and mouth wide open swallowing the rain stream,
just like the sweetest medicine
healing his entire body skin.



I am a life biter and,
when I breathe, air goldbricks fill my body
till the very last edge,
matching so perfectly within a shining puzzle.

No difference at all between
carrying my feet ahead,
both on the warm land or placid water,
straight up towards the ceiling
or pretending to be an acrobat
with a fake glance to the thinnest cord.

Without any gravity touch,
no more falling, neither fear so far.
Only sea sand sprinkle brushes from my hand.
But I think I’ll disappear for a while.

Making sure somebody will keep an eye.

Swimming below the surface
brings the human souls closer and softer,
and I enjoy collecting them with my narrow fish net.

And when I am back
I kindly allow the time passing by
to paint my skin in multicolored layers,
feeling so glad that even my own shadow
doesn’t find a comfortable spot to linger
while I shape figures with my fingers.



She has plenty of time to enjoy life.
Doesn’t realize that she’ll never die.

No chances for the delivery boy
to find her at home,
he just throws over the daily lovers
bunches of flowers all around the backyard,
a blossoming blanket that she pulls back inside
once in a while.

Without even reading the mushy notes,
it’s hundreds years she knows.

Because if you just fall for a very moment
into her gaze you’ll find yourself dazed,
cannot weed out her heavenly grace
from any whatsoever mirror of your mind.
Cannot afford to keep this lie alive.

And when you finally forget her,
another fellow brings her back to life
through his fairy tale drowned into enchanted eyes.
And she never sleeps and doesn’t ask why,
the night’s stillness is feeding her
with a no-sound lullaby.



Deep in the downtown night veins,
I was about to start flirting with the mannequins,
sending warm kisses through the heavy glass
of the store window.
All of them were staring at me,
having no other target at all
in the dark abandoned street.
Polite smiles and far ages gestures,  
wondering if the plastic bodies agreed
with the make up color framing their blind eyes
in shiny textures.
What a weird sensation
and magic at the same time,  
the emptiness of this noble city
is sucking out my thoughts in a bite.
But the glass answered with a welcomed reflection,
Mr. Basilewsky finally lifts his hat 
greeting me from the back.



Let me grab that shy moon shadow
before I miss the breeze of it
over her velvet skin.  
What a perfect nightfall
to speak up the purest love.
Then we found each other
walking without weight
along the darker side of the hill,
as in a lifelong journey.
Laid down on my back
I feel the earth measuring my body’s mould
with the smoothest pencil.
But the grey line is merely ignoring
that there are two of us.
It draws one single egg shaped outline,
declaring to heaven our endless bound.



We all went through the flames.
Shaping the annoying feelings in tiny statues
in a perpetual and steady row.
Tearing off the oily wall paper
to make a crunchy ball
and finally listening
to the whispering naked wall.
We all went through the dust.
Adjusting our hair with a stroke,
blowing ahead to set the path free from death,
while the sponge soul is getting heavily grey
and shyly imploring the body to stay.
We all went through the woods.
Being harms and legs of the crowded nature doom,
being guest.  
Eyes seeking beyond,
while feet are kissing the roots.
We all went through the sun.
Pouring bitterness drops into a golden vessel
till the evaporation makes its course
in a peaceful silence.
Buckets of air fill the lungs
and life cells are celebrating
within a prosperous flaw.
We all get to the light.



A perfect line of elegant people
is going through the cemetery gate.
It is their beloved ones’day to celebrate.
Every single flower brings colored  shadows
on the grey and white gravel  
that gently shapes itself
under the guests’ heavy steps.
The massive marble walls
passively design the labyrinth of sleeping death
and the wet dew is polishing the oval picture frames
with a photoshop lifting effect.
But  I can see more than that now,
more than anybody else.  
I see the passed away as well.  
What a tackle to the grieve
floating in tiny clouds right above the alive ladies
and the gents’ caps:
a polite party is going on in the same place,
on the very same gravel,
but without moving a single stone.
Parents’ and friends’ souls dressed
according to the epochs they belong to,
smiling to each other
while caressing or slapping the living silhouettes,
sneering at them in a perpetual carousel.
Sooner or later they will join the party,
leaving the grieve cloud on earth.



Figuring out weired shapes
on the polished linoleum floor
while the bunch of sleepy people
is staring at the immaculate door.
No better time slot
to think about your life spot.
In the mind’s net, holes never been so wide
and even softer the wire.
Happiness and pain are mixing so loud
within the same fluid bound.
Underneath the chairs
swinging  feet are delivering behave pills,
framing multicolor personalities
that go from heavy storm wind
to motionless countryside hills.
The baby boy laying on his mama’s knees
completely ignores the waiting fee,
the old man right in front of him
won’t  care  about what the verdict will be.
Next calling, door opens.
Faces up in  a raw and eyes wide shut
to catch a piece of destiny of the people exiting.



I am trying to deliver one tiny promise
to every single glance I meet.
That is the beloved task for me,
walking  with nimbleness
through the hundreds of heavy heads
hanging on the airport gates’ numbers.
It has never been so smooth
going along the imaginary rails
that drive me liquidly
towards the assigned destination.
Let me just seize the memory
of a charming face,
of a purple trolley and its noisy squeaking,
of a kiss release,
of a golden hair wave.
Wondering if my vivid thoughts
could leave tangible signs
on everyone’s shoulders,
just like precious paper cuttings
in a luxurious carnival party.
I am crying tears of joy
staring at the magnificent
drawing of humanity
squeezed in a glass nest.



It was like in an ordinary painting,
willing to capture
the magic soaked in a moment.
The frame, a quiet street
within the heart of a lake-side village,
sorting the pleasant thoughts
from the fussy ones,
warming up my bold head
caressed by an early march sun.
Then my eyes met his face,
not the other way around.
That’s why only from my view side
the past relighted our friendship’s sound.
Spying his moves for seconds,
counting the years passed by
and ask myself if I owe the right
to awake him from this bracket of time.
Easy, just a natural pat on his back
would be enough to bring him
on that good fella track.
Decided not to.
Empty words would flow
within a regards brush stroke,
better enjoy  this intimate bubble
within my memory drawer,
overblown and narrow.



Air never feels so comfortable
like inside an abandoned house.
Dust reveals its own devoted nature
laying unnoticed on dumb wreckage,
even on its shadows.
Seasons flow in a spiritual silence
while half brick walls hold up each other
in a mutual wheeze,
delighted in their endless crumpling.
No one pays a visit handing over a posy,
the waiting lady is now a scented ghost.
Her dry lips only yearn for rain drops
from the sky with no roof above her head.
Ocher leaves shaping the undying carpet
underneath her feet.
Because a sumptuous abode it’s soulless
besides a tumbledown mansion.



And, to our bitter grief,
with a smile and in silence,
he died.

A gallant gentleman my dad.  
A never ending source of light, full white,
from his deep mediterranean eyes.

His silky hair had been waving
my last decades’ dreams
where I barely kept my boat straight,
descending his long nose
from the forehead plain.

This is the way I still deliver my caresses to him,
leaving foam wakes behind my row pass,  
just all around his giant body,
like the smoother spider net,
embracing him in my forsaken sleep.

Night rattles in day, I am awake.
Standing still I never think of him
because he thinks for me.  
Never talk about him,
because my voice is his.



From this height
the river looks like a black ribbon
with curls and curves
leant on the bright sand of the desert,
absorbed by the horizon.
The eye ball is warmly rolling
along the mountains’ edging
and the crystal beauty of the emptiness
is quietly revealing
the ancient planet’s birth.
With a graceful gesture
I virtually squeeze the all of it
in a little ivory jar,
leaving some holes on the cap
to let the earth breathe
and endlessly release invisible scent streams.
I lay my ear on it and I get lost
in a swallowing echo.
Pure joy enchants me,
finally feeling the life seed.