Naturally— Aldo Quagliotti
You built a house over the river
and steel came out of your sinks
windows were leaning
over urban deserts and shady newspaper
you drafted a skyscraper
that could tickle the sky
but rain didn’t stop coming
and discolored your arrogance
resized all your hybris.
I was drinking coffee one day
and found three screws under my tongue
I got cemented to my house
became wallpaper, tile of my roof
the world kept uprooting and burning
I drew a map of a world I remembered
made of water and bubbling surfaces
some kids engraved tablets over my skin
and sketched all they knew from the web
flashy lights and snaps without a context
and my poetry got dusted out
and my spirit was naturally gone.
Aldo Quagliotti is an Italian poet living in London, UK. He’s the author of Japanese Tosa (London Poetry Books), Confessions Of A Pregnant Man (AllienBuddha Press) and Incubi&Succubi (Dumpster Fire Press)
His poems have been rewarded in Italy, Brazil, USA, Canada, Ireland and in the United Kingdom. He has been selected for important anthologies such as Paper therapy, Yawp!, The Essential anthology, Murmurations, Poetical Word, Poetry in the Time of Coronavirus. Several webzines and magazines have published his work, such as INNSÆI, U-rights, Credo espoir, Parouisia , Poetica Review and many more.He has been chosen to represent the Poetry Corner at the London Chelsea + Kesington Art Week. 2020,2021 and 2022 editions
A Strange Life—Louis Faber
The sun rose this morning,
as if the day were not in any
way out of the ordinary, day
number far too large to count
for those with finite capacity.
The birds begin, their harmonious
cacophony, though they think
it their lauds, matins of reflection
burned off with the dew under
the gentle glare of a late spring sun.
They watch us begin to stir,
imagine how it must be to live
cocooned in oddly symmetrical
boxes, venturing out but retreating
as though the sky was to be feared.
They do not ask how we could
so easily, remorselessly, lay waste
to our shared home, for they
have moved past mourning,
as we remain mired still in denial.
Louis Faber is a poet living in Florida. His work has appeared widely in the U.S., Europe and Asia, including in Glimpse, South Carolina Review, Rattle, Pearl, Dreich (Scotland), Alchemy Stone (U.K.), Flora Fiction, Defenestration, Constellations, Jimson Weed and Atlanta Review, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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