The seaside resorts, especially those of Liguria, especially those of the West. There would be put down to scrutinize, study, discover the dynamics, nonsense. But I put me there as a stranger, with two friends.
Expectations: Great.
The result: huge.
The public beach is fantastic, a slice of entropy and gravel winning. M'infilo hand in my pocket and pull out a two-euro coin: The Dante incisovi above gave me a look reprimand. He chuckled and launch the bartender, which lengthens us shortly after our coffee. Hot. As the heat outside. Most of the heat outside. But is thrown down. Well, this sucks the coffee bar. Perhaps the entire waterfront.
We head towards a minute space of open beach, extending to Benemeglio our towels (mine is short, very short, mid shin comes out on the gravel and black grid) away from every female with a small semblance of Piacenza .
I take off my shirt nerd who portrays a fantastic battle between ninjas and pirates, rolled it and put it in the bag. My flaccidume pale and laddered is on display now. He put the ray-ban, and I slumped onto the sheet (short). I read somewhere dell'Auerbach page, maybe thirty. Maybe I fall asleep.
Skin burns, then s'impatina moods. Maybe I put the cream. Protection to-ta-lis-si-ma. I'll stay pale, that's for sure, but better pale ruddy.
With two partners, we talk about many things, all related to sexual and all about women and about all the dirty parts of women. We complain, we are far from each female affordable. Affordable, then ... That "we" affordable. Well, one of us is cool. The other is normal. The other is me. You end up laughing and talking about John Lindo Ferretti, Neruda, Umberto Smaila, Scatman, Moltheni, Cristiano Godano, Guido Gozzano. He rummaged in the cerebellum, I do not remember the beginning of "the outset" of Montale. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
discover then, as my partners of devouring / Fugassin of (strange things, good, sweet, fried) and I console myself with my low-fat yogurt (I hope that perhaps retaliation makes me fat, eating), which in the coming days "LA POETRY BACK IN FASHION. " Widened his eyes. Women will be at our feet. How the heck does "at the outset "...?! Today I will, if the poem back in fashion. Women love fashion. We are poets. The poem is in fashion. Women love poets. Women love us.
Yes, ok, Aristotle is a reality check. Yet
Montale, fuck. There was something about "Gazza", something about "orchard." I we recall the lessons rambling and formidable prof. Ficara on Montale, the "cuttlebone" in limine ". But not the incipit, devils blacks.
I scratch his head encrusted with salt, as I listen to them. I agree with them, poetry can work. I always felt I've got. I mean, I tried once and it worked. 100%. Sure shot.
And then we throw in the streets of Pietra Ligure and loudly recited the lyrics of the CIS and Marlene Kuntz. After several meters there slumped disconsolately on a bench and bent over with laughter. We fall in love with a seller. We go to a fountain to rinse and then to change. OBSCENE eat a pizza and three beers to take away from 66 cl. There
bench again and talk about Fini, Berlusconi, Berlinguer, Fanfani, Peppone, Gramsci, Ratzinger, Calvin, Calvin other things, the Quakers, Clinton, talking about me and my disregard for the common good and for the res publica, that the public has only the grains.
Ends beer, maybe you go to the pub. Old friends of my partner, my good friends and enjoyable, a couple of new faces. The pub is called something like "lizard" or "geko" or slimy stuff that way, however. Around fifteen haggard and horrible tamarri. Then there's this type, at our table. The mustache, his eyes deep and lost, his voice thin and infinite. Start talking about weird things, Egyptians, brewing of beer, metempsychosis, underground tunnels of Turin, cigars. I listen to him admired and lost, while the little blonde does not reach my beer. Then
un'improponibile proposal to end the evening on impossible un'improponibile preposterous beach smoking pipes and singing songs by Ligabue preposterous. We reject and we head to the car. You go to Alassio.
That shit.
There is none.
The few that are suck.
Women do not like poetry even here.
Of course, if you recite them in "at the outset" (... wind, orchard, magpies ...). But the head does not come. Just a boy perhaps
Slavic asking us where to buy condoms in English here at two in the morning. And if it makes a beautiful Slavic and blackberry. Bravo! Maximum estimate. Tomorrow will be in Amsterdam, he said. We
in Pietra Ligure. The evening ends
con noi sul moletto, piedi verso l'acqua, patetici, poetici, poietici. Ascoltiamo le pisciate del mare e dei ragazzini ubriachi. Ci dondoliamo un po' sul sottile filo che divide l'essere patetici dall'essere Eletti.
E ci rimettiamo in macchina, tediati, mentre ascoltiamo gruppi noise californiani.
Ci ferma la polizia.
Gentilissima e simpatica! L'agente ci chiede i documenti, facciamo due chiacchiere, ci consiglia di accelerare lungo la via perchè più avanti ha appena lasciato andare una macchina con quattro ragazze single (e non singles, come ormai dovreste sapere).
Ce la ridiamo un po' e ripartiamo, ma non acceleriamo. La macchina era rosa, le donne con la macchina rosa non amano la poesia, anche se è fashion, not like the poets, and perhaps even "at the outset."
We go into the hills. There infrattiamo with the car in a bend in the rocks. a place that I could use to bring a girl once. And now the three of us to complain because we are poets narrow and cold. We slept three hours. At 7
freewheel down to the village, we wash the fountain of the square, teeth, face. There is a shower on the beach with the foam bath taken in a hotel five or six years ago. You sleep much, on canvas, until the sun gets hot.
Then you can swim. The day before we did, I wonder why I have not said before. The water is warm and good and it's not as dirty in my nightmares Homes in Liguria to the west in Pietra Ligure.
Four chunks of girl sunbathing, even in a top-less. Laughter among us, we dream of us age style approach but very poetic. I wonder if they know that poetry is back in fashion. Ah, I forgot. "Poetry is back in fashion" is the name of a horrible event in which they are fashion shows with dresses Poetics, which should take place here in recent days. Yes
sucks.
But the idea was so beautiful.
We would have been irresistible.
I shook my head smiling, the skin dry and parched. I'll jump on the cloth looked up to heaven. Blue, great, he too pathetic. And refreshing.
Here it is. It 's you, finally. I remember.
Expectations: Great.
The result: huge.
The public beach is fantastic, a slice of entropy and gravel winning. M'infilo hand in my pocket and pull out a two-euro coin: The Dante incisovi above gave me a look reprimand. He chuckled and launch the bartender, which lengthens us shortly after our coffee. Hot. As the heat outside. Most of the heat outside. But is thrown down. Well, this sucks the coffee bar. Perhaps the entire waterfront.
We head towards a minute space of open beach, extending to Benemeglio our towels (mine is short, very short, mid shin comes out on the gravel and black grid) away from every female with a small semblance of Piacenza .
I take off my shirt nerd who portrays a fantastic battle between ninjas and pirates, rolled it and put it in the bag. My flaccidume pale and laddered is on display now. He put the ray-ban, and I slumped onto the sheet (short). I read somewhere dell'Auerbach page, maybe thirty. Maybe I fall asleep.
Skin burns, then s'impatina moods. Maybe I put the cream. Protection to-ta-lis-si-ma. I'll stay pale, that's for sure, but better pale ruddy.
With two partners, we talk about many things, all related to sexual and all about women and about all the dirty parts of women. We complain, we are far from each female affordable. Affordable, then ... That "we" affordable. Well, one of us is cool. The other is normal. The other is me. You end up laughing and talking about John Lindo Ferretti, Neruda, Umberto Smaila, Scatman, Moltheni, Cristiano Godano, Guido Gozzano. He rummaged in the cerebellum, I do not remember the beginning of "the outset" of Montale. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
discover then, as my partners of devouring / Fugassin of (strange things, good, sweet, fried) and I console myself with my low-fat yogurt (I hope that perhaps retaliation makes me fat, eating), which in the coming days "LA POETRY BACK IN FASHION. " Widened his eyes. Women will be at our feet. How the heck does "at the outset "...?! Today I will, if the poem back in fashion. Women love fashion. We are poets. The poem is in fashion. Women love poets. Women love us.
Yes, ok, Aristotle is a reality check. Yet
Montale, fuck. There was something about "Gazza", something about "orchard." I we recall the lessons rambling and formidable prof. Ficara on Montale, the "cuttlebone" in limine ". But not the incipit, devils blacks.
I scratch his head encrusted with salt, as I listen to them. I agree with them, poetry can work. I always felt I've got. I mean, I tried once and it worked. 100%. Sure shot.
And then we throw in the streets of Pietra Ligure and loudly recited the lyrics of the CIS and Marlene Kuntz. After several meters there slumped disconsolately on a bench and bent over with laughter. We fall in love with a seller. We go to a fountain to rinse and then to change. OBSCENE eat a pizza and three beers to take away from 66 cl. There
bench again and talk about Fini, Berlusconi, Berlinguer, Fanfani, Peppone, Gramsci, Ratzinger, Calvin, Calvin other things, the Quakers, Clinton, talking about me and my disregard for the common good and for the res publica, that the public has only the grains.
Ends beer, maybe you go to the pub. Old friends of my partner, my good friends and enjoyable, a couple of new faces. The pub is called something like "lizard" or "geko" or slimy stuff that way, however. Around fifteen haggard and horrible tamarri. Then there's this type, at our table. The mustache, his eyes deep and lost, his voice thin and infinite. Start talking about weird things, Egyptians, brewing of beer, metempsychosis, underground tunnels of Turin, cigars. I listen to him admired and lost, while the little blonde does not reach my beer. Then
un'improponibile proposal to end the evening on impossible un'improponibile preposterous beach smoking pipes and singing songs by Ligabue preposterous. We reject and we head to the car. You go to Alassio.
That shit.
There is none.
The few that are suck.
Women do not like poetry even here.
Of course, if you recite them in "at the outset" (... wind, orchard, magpies ...). But the head does not come. Just a boy perhaps
Slavic asking us where to buy condoms in English here at two in the morning. And if it makes a beautiful Slavic and blackberry. Bravo! Maximum estimate. Tomorrow will be in Amsterdam, he said. We
in Pietra Ligure. The evening ends
con noi sul moletto, piedi verso l'acqua, patetici, poetici, poietici. Ascoltiamo le pisciate del mare e dei ragazzini ubriachi. Ci dondoliamo un po' sul sottile filo che divide l'essere patetici dall'essere Eletti.
E ci rimettiamo in macchina, tediati, mentre ascoltiamo gruppi noise californiani.
Ci ferma la polizia.
Gentilissima e simpatica! L'agente ci chiede i documenti, facciamo due chiacchiere, ci consiglia di accelerare lungo la via perchè più avanti ha appena lasciato andare una macchina con quattro ragazze single (e non singles, come ormai dovreste sapere).
Ce la ridiamo un po' e ripartiamo, ma non acceleriamo. La macchina era rosa, le donne con la macchina rosa non amano la poesia, anche se è fashion, not like the poets, and perhaps even "at the outset."
We go into the hills. There infrattiamo with the car in a bend in the rocks. a place that I could use to bring a girl once. And now the three of us to complain because we are poets narrow and cold. We slept three hours. At 7
freewheel down to the village, we wash the fountain of the square, teeth, face. There is a shower on the beach with the foam bath taken in a hotel five or six years ago. You sleep much, on canvas, until the sun gets hot.
Then you can swim. The day before we did, I wonder why I have not said before. The water is warm and good and it's not as dirty in my nightmares Homes in Liguria to the west in Pietra Ligure.
Four chunks of girl sunbathing, even in a top-less. Laughter among us, we dream of us age style approach but very poetic. I wonder if they know that poetry is back in fashion. Ah, I forgot. "Poetry is back in fashion" is the name of a horrible event in which they are fashion shows with dresses Poetics, which should take place here in recent days. Yes
sucks.
But the idea was so beautiful.
We would have been irresistible.
I shook my head smiling, the skin dry and parched. I'll jump on the cloth looked up to heaven. Blue, great, he too pathetic. And refreshing.
Here it is. It 's you, finally. I remember.
Godi if the wind ch '
you enter the orchard brings back the' wave of life here where she sank a dead
tangle of memories,
garden was not, but reliquary.
The flutter you hear is not a flight, but moved
of 'eternal womb;
see that turns
this strip of land alone in a crucible.
A rage is here from 'steep wall. If you proceed
t '
you come across perhaps the ghost that saves you:
stories are made up here, the acts
be erased PEL game of the future. Search
which unites us, you jump out, run away!
Go, for you the 'I prayed, - the time the thirst
I will be slightly less pungent rust ...
(E. Montale - In Limine)
In two hours we are back home in the city alone, each for himself, more red, more fun, more disconsolate. I'm more scared. Poets.
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