In the shadows of those streets #short prose #flash fiction

I lurked in the shadows of those streets the entire night: solitaries, madmen, prostitutes, somnambulists. After a while I couldn’t distinguish among them.

My steps were meaningless. My senses were tranquilized by that vision of him scribbling his last letter to me under a pale winter moon. The child was probably happy, playing at his feet. It wasn’t his child, but…

The beat of the streets became one with the unstoppable movements of his heart in my own chest. He left his love to me like some kind of inheritance.

Why retreat alone with the child on a remote island?

Afterall the city did not do more than compromise the least part of him: his ego.

Blood is dateless. The ego is not. Which part did he not understand?

 

Excerpt from the manuscript Glass Lovers

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M)

image:  Dmytro Vietrov; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Andalusian Resurrection #poem #poetry

 

In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico García Lorca

open your veins Andalusia
let him drink from your lynx blood
inject the rhythms of the flamenco
under the coldness of his eyes
tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite
pour the sounds of castanets
into his arms
my fingers swirl
the flesh of ripened olives
covers the old shroud
the flow of blood from the white shirt
has stopped
I hear his voice
there is one cross
and you’re my only love
my body arches
oils flame in my hair
a Moorish verse falls from a wall
covering my cries

Andalusia
I kneel among your cacti fed by salt
your wounded lashes
resurrected him
for yet
another night

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image: Fernando Cortes; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Incautious Clearing – a stunning poem written by Flavio Almerighi #guest post #poetry

My Dear Readers,

Incautious Clearing, a stunning poem written by the Italian poet Flavio Almerighi [blog]

Flavio Almerighi was born in Faenza, Italy, in 1959. As a boy he began writing poetry and got involved in radio and the theater. The best year of his life was 1976, when he read The Odyssey over the summer. Among the poets he considers his most important influences are Guillaume Apollinaire, Pedro Pietri, Peter Sinfield, Pasquale Panella, Dario Bellezza and Amelia Rosselli. His poetry collections are: Allegro Improvviso / Sudden Allegro (Ibiskos, 1999), Vie di Fuga / Escape Routes (Aletti, 2002), Amori al tempo del Nasdaq / Love in the Time of Nasdaq (Aletti, 2003), Coscienze di mulini a vento / Consciousnesses of Windmills (Gabrieli, 2007), durante il dopocristo / during the afterchrist (Tempo al Libro, 2008), qui è lontan / here it’s far away (Tempo al Libro, 2010), Voce dei miei occhi / Voice of my eyes (Fermenti, 2011), Procellaria / Storm Petrel (Fermenti, 2013), Caleranno i Vandali / Drop the Vandals (Samuel, 2016). He is a regular contributor to the virtual magazines Versante ripido (Steep Slope) and L’ombra delle parole (The Shadow of Words).

 

Incautious Clearing was selected from Flavio’s book Storm Petrel.

 

 

 

Amazon link

@short-prose-fiction

 

I open my veins #poem #poetry

I open my veins in warm waters
each time when you like what I write
the sound of the sands in the darkness
the eyes of the desert are dried
the midnight windows are opened
I jump like a lynx from a cage
dressed in cold winds and in black
barefoot
I land on the yolk of young times

I paid all the bills do not worry
I buried my bracelets by the green wall
white shirts are lined in the closet
this sand tastes like canvas and paint
I sharpen my eyes
my fingers are stretched
from the cosmic tomorrow
I enter tonight

I’ll return do not worry
disheveled, loves cry between us
remember the words of Persian Sibyl
who sold you my soul for three coins?
the time is fluid like rivers
waterlilies can bloom in the sand

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image:  Anna Ismagilova; Shutterstock; [link]

 

Identity #short prose #flash fiction

“We are the children of our landscape; it dictates behaviour and even thought in the measure to which we are responsive to it. I can think of no better identification.”

Lawrence Durrell,  Justine

_

Anything can be said about that city, but one can never say that it does not have a distinct identity.

During the humid autumn evenings the city looks like a wounded being, nursing her own lacerations. On the sidewalks the smell of dust overpowers the stench of cigarettes, and alcohol coming from her tiny, obscure pubs.

Clandestine risings to power, luxury cars zipping by, casinos filled with shady characters, rats zig-zagging in the basements of old buildings. Plenty of frustrations running through the city’s blood like thousands of white blood cells through the veins of an infected patient.

A sea of beggars at every street corner: amputated hands, deep lesions, winkled faces painted in the colors of dirt. Pain exposed in plain view like art objects in museums: the only difference being that pain is free; the entry in most museums is not.

In that city our story began: a story in which we created and destroyed loves, trusted and betrayed friendships, invented beauty only to eradicate it at the first sign of dawn.

We tried to satisfy our egos.  We ended up satisfying the city’s need to devour us.

Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers” (draft)

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

 

those roses which die in the winter #poem #poetry

those roses which die in the winter
played the piano last night
a whirlpool of notes and of poems
inscribed on a wall painted in blue
caged in your dreams I still struggle
like birds drowned in water and mud
I cover the world with my fingers
I haunt the unspoken in dark
those roses which died before blooming
this love which will end in a tomb

@short-prose-fiction (Gabriela M.)

image:  Vasyl Rohan; Shutterstock; [link]

 

at the edge of winter #poem #poetry

at the edge of winter
bridal chambers cry
roasted chestnuts crack
in the frigid streets
days inside my soul
come and go like ships
broken hearts lament
right at my front door
did I leave you there?

see,
I can’t remember
what I’ve done with you
at the edge of winter
a tree is sick with flu

@short-prose-fiction

image: Nelson garrido Silva/Shutterstock