Antonio Cuagliata's blog

There was nothing in the room that could keep his attention away from the mirrors. Neither the wall nor the epicenter of his images were good enough for his resurrection.

Apart from his dreams, and in spite of them, pain was endless, as in a never ending torture from which he could not escape. The dreams were too bright, and the limitations too powerful.

Powerful as they may have been, the inexplicable forces of life gave him a place where to find a core of happiness, where discourse would be stripped off all significance and fakeness.

One day I asked
“Grandpa where is God?”
One day I asked
“Grandpa where is God?”

My grandpa turned sad
And answered nothing
My grandpa died in the countryside
Without prayers or confession
And was buried by the Indians
Cane flute and tambourine
And was buried by the Indians
Cane flute and tambourine

Time later, I asked
“Dad, where is God?”
Time later, I asked
“Dad, where is God?”
My dad got serious
And answered nothing
My father died in the mine
Without doctor nor confession
Sweat of miner blood
Has the Master’s gold!
And was buried by the natives

don’t think differently
as the world won’t recognize
your dreams in an empty basket
we quote our soul through different
veins of thought

we are mourning, and
as we do so, we reluctantly play
with our instincts in a fashion
which would raise eyebrows
in the opposite gender

tear apart our memories and
we’ll be home again

the mechanics of talking
is certainly an inapt
attitude for a male dog!

survival is about playing freely
with your shadows under the moonlight

is the judge always right or
should we ask twice
for our reasons to be upheld?

notwithstanding your virginity
I kindly request the delivery
of your spirit

our shameless moments of love
were destroyed by decades
of scepticism

my love, our bodies interact
regardless of blame for
ourselves and for God

God doesn’t show us where the sun is
nor helps us through our journey

letters of wine were drawing our passages
of love and promiscuity

miniature souls appear through the windows
of our imagination

the Almighty creates a box
through which we could
apparently communicate

merciful shadows appear and repair

Human society is paralyzed by fear and thinks twice before opening its mouth.
Subversion is not thinking but acting in accordance to the law.
Can you transgress without thinking or do you need a pilot to steer your dreams?

Casualties of war showed us the misfortune of my compatriots.
The battlefield was set and our trench hardly enough to enervate my soul.
Brilliant metaphor for people who lack appetite and who do not share our valuable mindset.

My pride is vanishing, despite my endless struggle to keep it alive.

When I look at my dreams, I depict a communist.
When I touch my balls, I portray a humanist.
Aren’t we eager to reveal the truth?
No way, my friend, the truth is not our domain, nor none of our business!

Nothing should withhold our dreams from becoming reality, from becoming ours, from apprehending our lives!!!
Maybe, but that’s not how things should be done in life…
Why not?
Because we are driven by emotions!!!!
We are slaves of our feelings, don’t you see?

I create an atmosphere where I don’t eat my words.

The prose is not a metaphor nor a hidden hope but an expression of desires of a profound humanity. It is convenient for us to entertain reality in an attempt to reconstruct forgotten places.

We walk through hidden certainties with metaphysic rhythms and the sound of whisky. Capitulation is approaching but our soul and the soul of the Nation require a certain consent in order to refrain, to abstain from undeserved pictures.

If I look at this space with a technical eye I recognize love, hope and tenderness.

Criticism isn’t prior to our existence but posterior to anything which obstructs our feelings in another way.

Movements come from somewhere else, as if suddenly disappearing in the shadows of our memories which haunt us day and night, in a spiral of utter violence.

Stop right here and you’ll know that your face is trembling and your arms are mine.

Don’t shed no tears, they are too precious to be wasted in these times of crises, and we already have too many reasons to cry forever.

Printing our thoughts doesn’t bring us anywhere but running away from fear, hatred and mistaken principles. Alas, our mind creates our values while bringing us together in a world of harmonious asceticism.

Our upper thoughts display an array of dislike for tastes not belonging to our inner feelings. If we separate our mistakes we play without net, nor comfort, nor anything that can possibly reflect our most conspicuous lifestyle.

I carry the cross through deserts and wine, my soul isn’t mine.

Confusion was meant to be archaic but it nevertheless demarked the limits of our territory.

The dog doesn’t bark in vain, he smokes, crosses its legs and then smokes again. A slightly neurotic dog, I would say.

Heavily neurotic! Insensitive to anything outside its own domain, as if completely turned inwards.

Inward looks don’t flame our spirit, the flame comes from the outside, as we exchange ideas mediated by smoke and spirituality.

My control of reality hurts, as if I were controlled myself.

Water doesn’t create the nerves necessary to surf and I swallow my fears with the smoke of my cigarette.

There’s an issue with smoke that goes beyond the boundaries of my understanding and that’s the trap, the invisible hand of nicotine.

If I talked to my cigarette I would surely talk honestly.

There’s an issue with life that’s a matter of bravery and that’s not something to underestimate in the colorful waters where we usually play.

Cigarettes are the secure, comfortable enemies who sell us a feeling of joy in a futile attempt to avoid reality.

Institutions divide ourselves in spaces where we don’t recognize our individuality anymore for the sake of the whole. When all doors are shut nothing remains but ashes of a failed barbecue.

Ashes evaporate in the sky like our words do with the silhouette of a beautiful woman.

Don’t smoke my friend, talk instead, talk till you reach the limits of imagination and the words free yourself from pain and sorrow.

Loneliness and peace go hand in hand in a moment of undistracted passion where our creations stand still as like waiting for something which will not come.

uphold our arms by tasteless premium talking rights
the glamour of your lips don’t belong to the light
in your hand

I don’t think that the painting was wrong I merely
think that it didn’t say something I could not
comprehend

the painter appeared and touched us in a moment
of joy, love and faith aren’t meaningless but
careless bodies

don’t resemble our crystal ball

if I were you I would react instantly in a movement
of fashionless style neither style nor content nor
form would increase our meaningless joy

what’s the color of love?
it depends on the way we
hold hands in our mind

we are lost but the arks
of our passion aren’t really
meant to be explicitly shown
when you talk to my hand

when I talk to my hand
in a moment of pain
I desire that our lips
don’t touch each other
in vain

notwithstanding the fact
that your life was not mine
I captured your love in
an instance of creativity

apparently we overlooked
our reactions but nothing
went so far as to break
the never ending appetite
of our instincts

I am a phantom but not

When I look through the window
I ask myself why
and I see the plants,
the trees and the sky

When I look at the wall I ask, Master,
can I paint my pain in colors
as bright as your eyes?

And I find comfort in your eyes.

When you look into me,
you see my soul,
transparently deployed
in a myriad of feelings
uninterrupted by sorrow
and grief, and I tell myself
why is love the power of life?

My state of mind is determined
by this space, this room,
the powerful interplay of politics
and finally, the stone trespasses
its limits and touches your lips.