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Gianni Zappala

of

Sydney, NSW, Australia

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Gianni.Zappala@dir.nsw.gov.au (Gianni Zappala)


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The Jazz cake

by

Gianni Zappala

Silence frenzied by ghost unknown
water surges forth, froths and curls
magnets through the window travel mega-fast
and guilt, away to the river forever is cast.
Fortune may smile but nought is won or lost
soon it will be winter, a time for collective frost.

I loved you last night
your body it did quiver
skin against skin
your mouth an open sliver.
The taste you gave I craved
like wolves howling at the moon
I ventured to your den
a crawl, a pace, no lightning reached
and slipped through the wetted glen, surrounded
but would though me impeach?

The footprints etched their way into snow
melted, solid, frozen, contemptuous, so slow.

Your sleep from rest it did awake
starved and cantankerous seething to create
I slid, I fell, I tumbled,
onto something historical and vast
whilst the outside sun mumbled and fumbled
onto the table bathing the mask.


Academic academe

by

Gianni Zappala

I read the publications of others
only to increase my sense of despair,
they write of the mind, politics and freedom
all so grand, all so learned
while I sit with thoughts of manual labour
a romantic nonsense in itself,
for if I were a carpenter
would the wood and hammer also gnaw at my mind
leading me to seek solace elsewhere
another place for which to pine.
Words follow words, theories hypothesise
French, American and all post-national,
post-structural and inclined,
but none answer the numbness
which envelopes my mind.
My future looks bleak
yet my very selfishness leads to guilt
a life of paper so easily blown
softly like a quilt.
I even turn to words
to ease my unease
staring blankly at the screen
scribbling idly on the page.
When will I learn
that nought which is written can endure
oh wretched muse,
so opaque so obscure.



Adolf the insane artist

by

Gianni Zappala

Noises - like swirls of silence invade my head
as lines of silver gelatin streak the sea
hiding schools of spermatazoa
swimming in loops and circles,
tiny monsters creatively parading
like fashion models on the catwalk.

My feelings become tattoos
scratched on cardboard with claws of steel
my eyes - peer like fireballs from hell
see red, unlike that of blood
but a pigment dye from an unripen plum
see green, unlike that of fresh grass
but a pigment of army fatigue.

People pass, the drawings of a child
limbs like stick insects
heads of gorgonzola cheese
only without the smell.

Christ's burials engage a web of conversations
trying to rescue my soul from eternal limbo
but dead saviours cannot combat live beezlebubs
with their volcanic passion creating fury
as lava flows silently to ethereal noise
and I enclose in terrified asphixia.


The swing on the peninsula

by

Gianni Zappala

Have you ever wondered what it's like
to be live paint on an artist's canvas
acrylic, bright, flat and resonant
pouting from stretched cloth
twirling, wheels of a bike?

I found myself there:
in a picture I mean
trapped in a painting - this very weekend;
at the collar of a peninsula
a fisherman's bend.

A day, a moment, a life, a millisecond
it all stood still
only the girl on a swing
her smile did beckon

The blue was a hue never the sky had seen
the grass all around a carpet so green
children and adults swirled into one
as they basked in the glory of the artist's sun.

I stood and gazed
into the windowless view
what divine genius could possibly construe?
the swing slowed its sway
as the brushstrokes eclipsed
art mimicked reality capturing bliss.


post modern

by

Gianni Zappala

The cornflakes whispered to me this morning
which person will you choose to be -
Fragrant, chaste, curious or anonymous?
(I)dentities are multiple in this post -
world
The voice on the radio vacillated between frequencies
no twisting of the antennae would keep it fixed
...woman executed in electric chair, small plume
of smoke but this time she did not burn¹.
The flakes continued their journey
shimmering on the sea of life
but now they did not whisper
they spoke with a horrid tone
...two prostitutes have been murdered
one while speaking on the phone¹.
Multiple are the (i)dentities in this post cornflakes
world
you can choose any ism as long as its black
wear it on your sleeve,
pin it on your jacket,
but Oh forbid, not in your heart,
for this is the era of relativism
and one cannot trust
a muscle, a pump so feeble
beating continuously in the dark.
The flakes were now silent
their fifteen minutes of glory had passed
and I had to make a decision
on who I would play a part
for in the evening
there would be the weather man
to divine for us the future.


Academic academe

by

Gianni Zappala

I read the publications of others
only to increase my sense of despair,
they write of the mind, politics and freedom
all so grand, all so learned
while I sit with thoughts of manual labour
a romantic nonsense in itself,
for if I were a carpenter
would the wood and hammer also gnaw at my mind
leading me to seek solace elsewhere
another place for which to pine.
Words follow words, theories hypothesise
French, American and all post-national,
post-structural and inclined,
but none answer the numbness
which envelopes my mind.
My future looks bleak
yet my very selfishness leads to guilt
a life of paper so easily blown
softly like a quilt.
I even turn to words
to ease my unease
staring blankly at the screen
scribbling idly on the page.
When will I learn
that nought which is written can endure
oh wretched muse,
so opaque so obscure.