The white calf sleep*

some rabbit’s iambic leg
back bent in its tight articulation
keeps hanging few inches on the jamb,
right on the doorstep and a crown of seeds
is there, the spade thrust deep into frozen mud;
the roods collect the moan of prayers,
guttural lamentation on the water ponds,
white relics of boughs, plumes of birds

a white calf uproots the leaves of grass
with sharp strokes of tongue, moistens
the cold panes before its snout, hides
milky bones and sleeps in bare straw

 

* First published in Raum, vol.1 issue 4, Glasgow, 2017.

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Fear of the empty closets

stars
turn the dark to milk

blank planets, holes
blankets on my pillows

the cosmic egg
a crumb in my bed

pulsars, black holes
pricks, throbbing bruises

a bee the size of
the whole space hums

bodies stain the light
souls are lightning bugs

the poised word
the paused hour

till the grace
of not understanding

Asemic phenomenology

Full pdf download (Eng-It)
by Federico Federici

«bababadalgharaghtakammin
arronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntr
ovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!»
James Joyce, Finnegans Wake

Asemic writing points to a gradual weakening of the correlation between sign and meaning or, within the language of Biology, to contradict the «form follows function» statement. Any textual hermeneutics based on an archaeological approach (restoration of a minimum set of alphabet signs from fragmented subsets, recovery of the original syntax from noisy communication channels etc.) would hopelessly fail. The reason for this failure is programmatic. The flux of symbols does not tend to intercept and duplicate encrypted information. It works around the uniqueness of each code by blending familiar patterns out of context, devising new ones or introducing modifications. This is one of the most subversive traits, legitimizing the paradox of asemic communication. There is no recognisable genome, nor any implicit one accepted by the community. Each text, regardless of its extent, embodies the highest expression of a unique and obscure language, which constitutes its stimulus and essence. This powerful, iconic synthesis absorbs all the traditional phonic elements, turning the act of reading into a pure visual experience, contemplative, even where the persuasive sequence of figures on the page seems to encourage the recovery of possible narrative dynamics, such as in The Giant’s Fence [1] or Action Figures [2] by Michael Jacobson.
Each asemic form is not a statement in itself. It’s rather an unaussprechbare Aussage, triggering the interpretive schemes of the subconscious, making the idea of an a priori meaning redundant. Reading no longer consists of two contiguous but distinct phases, namely decoding and interpreting; it becomes a unique and creative activity, acted upon the free surface the text, drawing from unknown resources. The psychological effects of brief asemic activities, stimulated in individuals with schizophrenia and alexithymia, have recently been investigated [3]. The comparative analysis of the writings, Continue reading “Asemic phenomenology”

Breakfast tea

To begin the day with
some tea in a cup
and a wee bit of milk
as a cake slice sinks
in tiny puffs of heat,
halved, unhindered
to the lower side of it
the ground state.

Hot sugar dissolves
atoms gravitate a bit
more around outlines
of raisins, the crumbs
collide, balance the chaos
the sheer butter effect.

Weep with me then
droop over your breakfast tea
and make the sign of the cross
on the under-milk face of god
or voracious cups will swallow
biscuits and cakes up, the sweet-
natured world to begin with.

 

In Conversation Poetry Quarterly, n.6, 2009.

The pause of the wake

sometimes I tend to speak
to that half self leaning
to myself, as seeming
as the skin on my bones,
hanging to the sleepless
body by the thinnest nerves
and always in my reach
as the glance in my eyes

that half staring through
my darkness into the empty
corner of the mirror,
restlessly emerging
from the other side of the self,
like an inward waning moon
of which I am neither one
quarter, nor the full

for I cannot say how deep it will
fade under-skin or beyond
when it catches my last breath
in struggle with the air
and whether that is what
some call soul, whose sleep
is the pause of the wake

 

In Sand, Berlin’s English Literary Journal (n.10, 2014).