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Davide Riccio


Turin, Italy

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Davide Riccio

Stars are dark lanterns
that hide Who takes them
and only keep me company

and other buzzing bugs
stupefied with light

that never shrewd
madly beat dull blows
in the incandescent table lamp.
The clock on the wall ceaseless
heels with grave steps.

Languid, I turn my mind
to my phantasms at midnight,

and of time I hear and feel
the chains.

Poems almost Zen


Davide Riccio

How many spiders
hanging by a thread
seem to fly!

They non-stop broadcast:
I yearn for monoscopes
and snow-effect.

To practise scales staccato tremolo and touch_
Why a man my age learn to play the violin?
Just because it will be no use!

and stink of insectifuge:
all things have connexion.

Never a balance,
but everlasting librating never pausing;
masks hung again are swinging.

Crackling of leaves in the wind;
I close my eyes, itís fire, itís rain,
itís paper crumpled up, ití applause_ What is it?

Silence of the tree:
in its deepness where are
branches and roots?

Fallen leaves,
ancient couch of the Earth
or as if it was.

On awaking
how the world is unreal
after having dreamt!

Whatís the use of grass burst out of a sidewalk?
Plot of clouds
we gaze at and forget.

I throw the newspaper at the ceiling:
the blue-bottle is stone dead
as in the court-yard miaows the venereal heat.

Big toasted peanuts:
could I too preferably be best before end
within the date up indicated!

36 square metres


Davide Riccio

I am 36 years old and I have a mini-flat:
an entry, a breakfast-room and a kitchenette
then a room with a divan-bed,
a blind bathroom and two balconies,
36 square metres to trample on
intolerable by now, thatís all;
one square metre
for each year of my life.

Itís not even said
that by the same mysterious law
100 square metres I am going to have
at the age of 100.
When I am 100
it will be suffice
two metres of length
and 90 centimetres in width.

Castles in Spain


Davide Riccio

Be mum on busy bee Mammon
Heís fishing for queer fishes alow
Heís really working like hell
And Heíll put down even
Every little help to you

Magic art magic words
Magic ward magic wounds
Foreign to the Law
God forfend Iím just a man
And I like it all
Though somethingís wrong
We can come to the top but for that

Jigsaw puzzle song
Working the oracle
A muppet laughs on friday
On the moquette aloud
And Iím dying to be on sunday
When she makes her eye (I) sore
With crocodile crying

The punster puns while Peter Pan
Pans out gold from our youth
Till we peter out
No, donít worry donít be sorry
You too will make a swell dad (dead)
Let not your sun (son)
rise upon your death

Here I sink growing stupid with films
But Iílle love me non the worse
If you donít love me anymore
Lifeís no pic-nic if I pick my brain
Ďbout old Nickís Tic Tac
Love me and love my dog

Iím well to the world in my cocoon
Sipping coffee and cardamom
Thereís nothing worth outdoors
I coil up in my sofa
Itís a stereodolbycolorcast
Let me live my castles in Spain

What a longsome (lonesome) matter
Sometimes to be alive to death!



Davide Riccio

(All the sons of Kerouac)
Davide Riccio - 1997

Nightís black mirror is broken by the wind
Concrete falls into dream tonight

Sky-blue fades out in a billion
Of bright-orange lightbulbs and stars
Jet-liners are starships to come

Lives cross lives as one man at spotlights
Like a long hair emotional dancing to the life

We can smell loving everywhere
And itís all taking place in One Mind
That never ends

Come and have enough of making love!
Come and have enough of making love"

A dancing to the life life fly fly_

On the Rodope Mount


Davide Riccio

Iím on the Rodope Mount
eating my heart out
by the twisted trunk of a rhododendron
on the Ebroís banks
inebriated with alcohol,

on the black long eyelash of a glance
throwing me headlong down.

I listen to the crow
white no more
to prophecy decaying time to come
and the inflated washing hanging
shake to the sudden gale
in flying squaresails.

And the move of this sailing-ship
is mine, motionless
run aground after boarding.

Orpheus and Morpheus
amalgamate themselves more and more
in afternoon languor
and I sleep the Grace of this oblivion.

May die anytime, who remembers you.

The art of shrienking heads (To William Burroughs)


Davide Riccio

You re-die(s)
You revive
Wish you well (wish me well)
Wish you ill (wish me ill)

Why donít you go
Once for all
Far away?
Far away!

Iíve had enough
Of this peekaboo
Iíve had enough of you

Of you and you no more
Of you and you no more_

You took my head
To possess the victimís soul
You knew well
The art of shrinking heads

Iím a stupid all around now
My head is about a fourth
Its original size

Iím a Tsantsa
You took my Tsaturama
Iím a shrunken head
You took my magical power

Iím a Tsantsa
You took my Tsaturama
Iím a shrunken head
You took my magical power

Spoken ŗ la William Burroughs

Alongside a river the head shrinking process begins
A slit is made in the neck
And up the back of the head
The skin and hair peeled from the skull
The skull is discarded into the river
As a gift to the anaconda

Carefully the eyes are sewn shut
With fine fibre
Lips are closed and skewered
With little wooden pegs later removed
The head now goes on to the sacred boiling pots
Or cooking jars
On removal from the pots
The skin is dark and rubbery
About a quarter its orinal size
The skin is turned out
And all the flesh is scraped off with a knife
Then turned right side out
What remains is similar
To an empty rubber glove

The final shrinking is done
With hot stones and sand
Rotated inside to prevent scorching
Hot stones are later applied to the exterior of the face
To seal and shape the features
With utmost care in order to maintain
The original likeness of the slain beheaded victimís face

After a week and celebrations
The head as a trophy is ready to be worn
Around the neck of the warrior JIVARO



Davide Riccio

Day after day
The Maeneds of the world
Are piercing through Orpheus

All the day and all of the night
The remainder of his life
He keeps wondering
He keeps wandering

The solitudes of Thrace
To trace back his pain
To the times of the last Eurydice lost
When Eury died once more
In reality

Eury dies once again

He knows how things can get
Always leaving half-done
Falling and going to pieces

Maeneds tear his limb from limb
They fling his head and his guitar
In the river to limbo so longed for!
He keeps wondering
He keeps wandering

The solitudes of Thrace
To trace back his pain
To the times of the last Eurydice lost
When Eury died once more
In reality

Eury dies once again

Peace please Peace please Peace please Peace at last!



Davide Riccio

Orpheus, stop crying or else_
You refuse to give up your obsession
Why donít you alley cat?
Millions of Maeneds are willing!

Youíre looking for the Song
To ride you back home to her
to Hell

Sitting by your grave
Itís a cenotaph: thatís art!

Life has so many sweets
Lovely women are everywhere
Give free course to their consolations
A curse on the day you met her or else_

Your absolute heart of poem
To be somebody to pieces broken wildly
by the world

Butchered out good to eat
For thousand years or more will be

Come to the point
Out of your madhouse!

Where the sea recedes
Is dereliction
Where the waters recede
Earth is dereliction

Where the sea receives
Is benediction
Where the waters receive
Is benediction

Youíre still looking for the Song
To ride you back home to her
to Hell

Sitting by your grave
Itís a cenotaph: thatís art

(Conform yourself and be happy David Rizzio - Donít ritz the Maeneds_).

Never catharsis


Davide Riccio

The ended Orpheus
the more he sings, still he does not free himself:
in rage or sweetness, in tragedy or levity,
each and avery art sinks greedy into the spirit;
arts do not purify,
they do not sublimate,
they eat deeply and persevere never replete
in larger emptiness,
inexhaustible dry wood.

The ended Orpheus the more he reasons,
still he does not burst forth,
he understands the Aristotelian use of reason
that is hidden in all events
and yet indifference is not
at the sounding of his feelings;
he knows
and knowledge cannot down quiten him,
he drinks salt-waters from the stormy sea
of his deeper trouble, thirsting more
adrift, shipwrecked.

The ended Orpheus the more reasons falsely,
still over he does not hover:
pain drives him mad,
Alonso Chiscianoís wandering knight
with his broken off distorted exploits;
he canít change,
never more he returns,
like prayer to the Dead, better time, Life,
causal connection and marginalia.

The ended Orpheus the more he remembers,
still he canít get things out of his head,
memory survives itself,
to any part connecting
and even God to him is poisoned;
itís no use for the forgetting,
it cannot discharge,
the liqueur of any nepenthe ceases,
no more he got the unconscious nerve
of the hydra and of the coral.

The ended Orpheus the more he laughs,
still away it doesnít pass:
bitter taste of clownerie,
learned derisive court jester,
he turns inside out and deride his own
for winning and convince himself;
he does not correspond his mask,
nothing looks like laughter as the bursting into tears,
the sneer as a wince of pain or sadness.

The ended Orpheus the more tears to pieces
and devour, he still cannot appease his hunger;
atheistic injured Job still he does not expiate himself;
as lover he loves no more;
the more he lives subdivided the heap of his story
and still he canít be primary satisfied
- coincidentia oppositorum -,
he misses her, missing she reappears
and here always brings him again
to the water where Salmakis no longer can embrace him.

Excipient words
facilitate the giving
of some poetical placebo
without any real substance,
curative or lenitive, active anyhow.



Davide Riccio

For taking again his love lost
when she was sighing deliquescence,
every moment he descends
down to the hell of his own, Orpheus,
and to his vain science.
Once more up to his mind rise his shadows,
evanescence dead in his memory.

In the heart of the World
Squalid Charon is deaf to him
in her
and keeps pumping the Acherontean blood.

And this will be until peace of burial
or one hundred years after unwept
posthumous among the Unlamented wandering
to a redemptive return
if, by the grace of Dyonisus and Persephone,
from the Wheel he will be free.

Orpheus search for the chords and the chant
able again to penetrate
the squalid Charon in the heart of the World
in her
and keeps pumping the Acherontean blood.

Orpheus pulls the strings
on the empty shell:
down there, further on, later on,
tuning to the permanent source
"A" of ineffable pitch,
at any extremity free of vibrating,
pure Nietzsche,
music by Haendel
for a diaphanous diabatic God
against the dyad to the devil!
Then to go back to superior harmonics
with David,
with Orpheus_

Squalid Charon is in the heart of the World
in her
and keeps pumping the Acherontean blood.



Davide Riccio

His wife for a day at midnight,
Aristeo was whoever Beauty ogled
and from the primeval simple nervous axis
the Evolution already began to beat blows.

Urticant Cnidares and metameres of Annelida,
the living visceral sac of Molluses,
and sumeric ME*, on slimy shores
the wriggle of the Vertebrata and of fishes rough,

in dry land the amphibious locomotion
to the superspecific necessities of reptiles,
to the Jurassic fly, to the emotion of the amigdala,
from the mammiferous of Triasic to the Primates erect
of Pleistocene and all the mortiferous competition

and the selective sowing, surviving
all an eating each other and the learning reaping
of the Macroanthropus through the horror of the loser.

Out of the Archimedean buoyancy
to the force of gravity the Other One forward and catching
and the angizia goddess of womanly art Medea
who brings into subjection an Aristeo after another and cubs

at the enchantment of the snakes and the violence
to Eurydice that in truth did not run away
from snakes with her teeth
still sunk into new bites of knowledge.

On the contrary, it was Orpheus the poisoned and dead,
gone down to Hell to take the memory of her everyday,
the Shadow, she no more, but his own Double itself, the Fault,
and so to lose her again in the world of the Living on his return.

ME, supernatural forces influencing all actions of Gods and men according to the sumeric ancient culture.



Davide Riccio

I havenít got a lira (a penny)
Iím not worth a lira (two pence)
Will I break my lyre?

The Depression of Orpeus


Davide Riccio

To feel oneself empty
of an emptiness where
no more migrate
heat and particles
by the field of living forces
- therefore mortal -
of electric nature.

No more conductors
of watery electolytic flesh
and blood,
to feel oneself dried up.

And neither machine
or metal of automaton,
but a becoming nothing
for the peaceful sake of nothing.

No more conducting
speeches and Logos
from end to end,
nor of gaseous aeriform
in which we breathe and agitate
words and ways through
having wish again
and a sense.

Neither the freezing
of superconductors
for the revealing once again
of machiavellian bastards
as cause and substance of the world
of the Richards from Gloucester.

To feel oneself, to create an under-emptiness
for courses of tension no more
at the extremes of the ego and the Other
and the resistances
according to the first and the second law of Ohm.

Aum mani pad me hum

Grey poverty of the wage-earner


Davide Riccio


Eurydice with another name, as La Belle Sans Merci, seemed to return back to a love feeling for Orpheus, he more conscious now of his rebirth with no such a mistake of losing her again. Orpheus began to re-ascend, getting himself and his beloved out of the shadows of Hell enclosed in his Turris Eburnea, indeed a descending from it, without doubting in the wake of the past, of which by now he should have been aknowledged. It was not so as it is told, that he lost her turning round for the silent footsteps, but only he turned to see her when she prosaically unwilling said to him she had been wrong for just a back-fire. And yet, about this all of personal of the Author, it means here nothing in general terms, so that - for doing some universal verse and thinking of love or no more, if it was - to the other cantos pay attention and understanding.

Shut in his bilocal flat
the forty years old failed Orpheus
stares at the cathode rays
the orgies of other people
in the latest fashion
of things and symbols.
They run lightly
like water-spiders*
upon tension surface
in new different springs
versus his mild
october some days at the most.

He feels the matter growing inert,
the Orpheus
outside no more as inside.
He does not lokk down
on orgiasts and priests of orgies
and all the Bacchanal of the world
striking blows of thyrsus
of new inebriations
that he has not or canít share anymore.
He regrets of it all, in case.
He demure repels it all because of his own dignity
or lacking as a matter of fact
any rite no more in accordance with him
and impossible or ridiculous anyhow,
but each of those Bacchantes
move forward and exceeds from his interior
desidered more than ever,
secretly received and loved,
and each of them is to him
a fatal assault of stick and blows
or stab,
for a slow
long lasting
breaking into pieces
from within.

* Argyroneta aquatica.

Into the river flowing...


Davide Riccio

Into the river flowing
always changing
and still always the same
away pass
head and lyre of Orpheus:
the former sings,
the latter still plays
the art in it left.

Flowed into the sea,
waves bring his works as well
to the ideal blessed island:
there, to Dyonisus and Apollo
together consacrated
and connatural eternal duality
and dark cave
not even God could exist without
or Nothingness.

What was dismembered
by the Bacchantes dull-minded
lied miserably
subjected to flesh slavery
was picked by late Muses
and buried at the foot
of the glorious classical Olympus
artful and fictitious
where as they say the mightingale
sings sweeter melody and pure
more than to the Living
life is wretched.

Prostitutes editors and publishers Bacchantes
of every Orpheus wanted
once more exculpate themselves
into the rivers of ink
of the Helicon of a new icon
more convenient now a posteriori
as it was before
their publications by self-payment
and other vain Maenads
boastful of mentioning their names.

Into the river flowing
always changing
and still always the same
away pass
head and lyre of Orpheus:
the former sings,
the latter still plays
the art maybe,
maybe left in it.



Davide Riccio

Impressions about the rustling noise
of an old magnetic tape unrecorded to the end
Listen to it!

Sitting and gazing upon the green river
on the shore sweet-smelling of elder-trees,
flowing water relax my mood.

Gushed out from summing Karma,
submissive and creeping water remove,
wash away deep dead and devils.

Rustling noise of flowing water
returning to the sea, to the sky,
from mother to father, rain fertility
is pelting down.

Dancing fountain, garden fountain,
grotesque mask and pissing putto,
circumfused sense of classic, greek thing.

A sea of acoustic waves
like an ocean motion
breaks and deadens in the meatus

of the ear, it animates
the winding cochlea
with voluptuousness

of feeling itself flooded.
Convoluted shell of Gasteropoda
pressed on auricular pavilion.

Contemplation of deserts and mountains,
the acumen of silence in which flows
blood and the acuphen rustles.

Sound of the afternoon nap
with ear caps of poliuretanic foam
while children scream in the yard.

Fall of white noise, superimposition
uncorrelated and casual of all the
more or the less heights and lengths,
uniqueness of every single given moment.

White noise of the peripheral nervous system
and from white to red arterovenous,
the pink noise from the encephalon.

Leaking of compressed air: to vent oneself!
Breeze and leafy branches, freshening air, winds
are the tangible effect of the Invisible.

Radio receivers and transmitters,
from station to station, presences
and syntonic tuning, ground noise,
tv snow effect, discordance and absence.

Rustles the microcosmos of insects
and rustles the spray of the insecticide,
permetrine and propellent gas.

Everything rustles_
As analogic sound
rustle even my analogies
by my writing hand
rubbing the paper.

Rustle sheets, clothes and nakedness.
Rustle caresses and pages of a book.
Rustle now blowing my bored snort.

Breathing is rustling_

Into the things of the Universe
we are ourselves a weak ground noise
already lost since ever for ever,

a melting of effervescent
tablet in the glass of water
of Creation for dissolution of the World.

Incrodato mountain climber on words,
here come
I canít climb up anymore
nor to come down again.

At the digital remastering
re-equalizing, silencing in ADD,
here will be
no life or not a word anymore.