“Civilization will not attain to
its perfection until the last stone from the last church falls on the last
priest” -Emile Zola
BETTER TO BE BORN AN ANIMAL
This black responsibility
As our dirty teeth
Monks cower
Behind the walls
The Gregorian chant
Tranquilizes our spirits
Quasimodo strains at the ropes
Of Big Marie
And Gabrielle
We are reminded of rodents
In a skinner box
As we scamper
For wafer and comfort
Clouds of incense
Rain blessed waters
On corrupted bodies
Covered in sores of sin
From the ramparts
Below the gorgons
In baritone gravitas and purple vestment
The shepherd counsels the immigrants
Give money to the poor
In St Francis’ behalf
He will intercede Before God
In the night the clergy
Skulk in the shadows
There is a clanking of keys
And furtive locking doors
From inside the churches
If we are very quiet
We can hear Francis
Giggling through the incense
We can smell marijuana
And hear women moan
Perhaps the English are right
True love is abuse
DAISY’S FINAL DIARY ENTRY, THEN LOST
A young girl
writes in her diary
He did everything to me
He did everything to me
Her name was Daisy
He told her she
had a pretty smile
He stared into her
eyes
Whispered
I have found
someone to love
Forever
Now she is gone
She is gone in
every breath
He watched her
final gasps
Become slower and
shorter
And stop
He doodles in her
diary
She had a pretty
smile
And her name was Daisy
In the remarkable aspect of time
Grotesque merges to familiar
Infiltrates the caress of phantoms
Pirouettes of lunacy
Straddle the boulevard
Overlords march in
Shrouds of patrician pink
To goose-step directives and
Pound a tempo of bureaucratic chic
I can hear them
Chanting in contentment
While they prey over me
I chirp my schedule
To the numbed associated entirety
And appreciate that
Zombies cannot explain my load
Or advise how to discretely carry it
As I continue to converse
With flattened stone
At the very brink of deluge
I am promised anesthesia
Temporary abatement
From the beatings and slander
A kindred spirit promises
That I am alright
And whispers
I will never be alone
DISCOVERING WE ARE EXTINCT
PERSONAL MARTYR
I see my rippled image
In the diluted lakes of your eyes
Where is the cleansing of salt
That intermingled between us?
It has occluded inside me
Where it preserves my vitals
Crystalline and dormant
I become the focusing
Through the fog
I remember whimpering promises
Before the bruises and bleeding
But my
congealed cadaver
Is displayed in
disarray
In a land absent of rainbows
There is no dispensation
In a state populated by the dead
Where the only legacy
Is that the obsolete
Cannot be damaged beyond extinction
We are the undiscovered fossils
Beneath the steps of the living
Dry bleached and lifeless
The memories of our bones
Loiter under the abiding mess
Obliged that no one examines
The failure of our remains
For Barbara
9/11/22
I do
not gaze in the mirror like I used to
But lately
I see Papa staring back
He seems
so tired
The
energy used 52 years ago has diminished
From buoyant
1970 love and anticipation
To a
drawn and befuddled image
Encircled
by disheveled grey corona
We have
taken steps of conscience
And
they are taken together
I
remember messy puddles
Occasional
unexpected holes
But we
find resolution not in glory
But
satisfied we are the imperfect answer
Of our
togetherness
Today
as the old man stares back from the mirror
I am
comforted because the shadow of the hawk
Still
flashes before our eyes
And
love without aging thrives
Barbara
you are eternity and govern the heavens
Where
you master your beloved moon and me
We
continue to marvel the celestial wonder of us
And
gaze at your magnificent construction
As
creator of an old man and the moon
Where
we continue to live as us
Through the surplus of days
The fatigue of my
body
Sighs through my
eyes
I am the zealous
recidivist
Guilty of every
offense
Semi-lucid and
bungling
Told that I am
born to do this
I scrutinize the
tenderness
Of your coconut
hair
The grit on its
shell
And slurp the sour
unknown milk
Hidden inside
I am consigned to
the
Shortened bus of
masculinity
I ride in rainy
muted silence
Drops on the
window fall and roll
As wet curtains
Weaving through my
vision
The riddle of your
company
Pursues me
Through your
public definitions
I am the sad
parade
Forced to proceed before
you
Trudging your
penance
Not unlike the
tedium of menstruation
You are hammered
To the cross of
men
Through me
You are deluged
with delight
In the sympathy
and compassion
Of your sex
While you take the
time
To pose for the
birdie
And thank all the
little people
Who have made our
coupling
An audience for
your chosen life choice
I scrutinize your
performance
Through laugh
tracks and screams
We have a winner!
We have a winner!
And you turn with
benevolent sweetness
In your puppy
voice
And preset smile
So coy and
delightful
And proclaim that
the husband character
Reminds you of me
and you
Laugh and laugh and laugh
Turning the Channel From Your Lovely Pose at Our Hate Picnic; Discovering We Are Extinct; and Better to Be Born an Animal appear in my book The Colour of Dirt
Giulio Magrini started writing
poetry in the early 1970’s, and takes most of his inspiration from the darker
sides of human nature. He has performed at the Three Rivers Arts Festival, and
many other venues in Pittsburgh. Giulio has conducted poetry workshops in
alternative high schools, prisons, drug and alcohol rehabilitation centers, and
hosted a radio show for local poets. His book The Colour of Dirt was
published September 2022 by Word Association Press. In the Afterward of his
book he states, “We have put our hands in the dirt, and sanctified each other.”
Magrini has always preferred the performance of his work over publishing, until
now.
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