in parentheses

Massimo Fantuzzi. British-Italian. Works in special education. Editorial board member at Triggerfish. Author of Marcia Gioie (Alkalea, 1999). Published in The North, Poetry Salzburg, Tears in the Fence, The Honest Ulsterman, Abridged, Orbis, Maintenant, The Dalhousie Review, BlazeVox, Berkeley Poetry, E·ratio, In Parentheses, Morphrog, Fiori del Caos, Multiperso, and elsewhere.

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Saddled Satellites

Culled, the anything smile
from a puny moon hoisted

on fuddled nylon
posts its swaying presence. Cue, line,
pined bulletin of dependence, witters
nothing more than rhythm to a moan,
tide to an abacus that won’t tally
nor sweep me under its beads.

THE BEADS
(In September’s sailors’ hue, choral misperception and silver filigree, not exactly holding their line in the rosary.)
To have someone squatting in your mind makes you weak and defenceless to their touch, for they can go anywhere and everywhere and grab both your heart and sex simultaneously.

The spires flutter a mist. Behind those
and down here, moths have made
their choice – applicants
around the cone light hazed
in gravid spume decant
to life dance, claimants
Martha and Steve throw themselves
into groundwork, arms to petition
goodwill of sandals on the prie-dieu
awaiting absolution – some neat fate
saddled satellites
Sagittarius Dwarf
and Andromeda had bound them to.

Street Door
Anonymous

Adjacencies have flown here between the serene and the struggle, the indorsed and the illicit. Formalities of clouds, sprouting, drown describe each a different distance, landscape on the matter. And do not ask which matter

(Caught inside a hide of stutter)

elaborations of you to coin, to pose and tremble, arpeggio on the vague notion of shoulder at my fingertip. Fell there, I, unhindered as burrowed, thinnest words of cost and reclamation spilt in lieu of your shifting whereabouts

(Mechanized weaving of spider)

where I may still dwell on a farewell of crumbs and berries for the roadside traumatized crow to call home, a non-future goodbye of painted caves staring right into our clay faces as birds’ eyes are said to be buttons of soulless glass.

(Ticklish around)

there, part: your a-piece, none of my understandings are mouthing but hit by spotlight blurred necklace and open shirt I tune at their flogging gust,

to hell with it, patron o’ youth.

(Squirms and shudders)

Orange

Put it on,
stakes, wonders,
another night.
Itch you rise,
loose rationale
of hand in hand
seared palms,
far and unfair
a few tassels
swap electric
half buzzing,
the flickering neon
bear balance
on solitude’s tuition.

Bottommost Flow

(Built out of milk boxes and yoghurt pots, studded with carrots’ shavings and dried beans, another stack hails and advertises itself baton for the next generation of explorers.)

Before these rugs crumpling tapestry
she will drop to confess dew,
oak varnished floor
for all the rough and grit
gemstone hands grazed bare
reminiscence of clotted blood,
salty textures, seized and spun belongings
pickled grieving to reanimate,
trade of twitches
wiped in mud and wept upon it
to have her cuts kissed.
Hitchhiked a stance to a post
to a soft chin
closing in, all too faintly fallen.

THE FAINTLY FALLEN
(In spindly linearity, drawing on you your outline of casts, gelatinous shades.)
I want to bed shards of seashell driving sanctuary the flesh,
thumb
pressing
inexorable substance.

Rodents

Morning, lacustrine holiday this season.
Parking spot, better view,
fastest connection, the choice
between 1 and 1⅓,
worlds will separate.
To splintered nails,
awakening, prime left,
prime seat, an ancient sacrifice.
Sirmione’s dark water, take me.
I fumble swollen. R.
Afternoon. Out of a core into a glass, locket,
pried, harpooned, the tide came
resting on smoked window,
belvedere of soaring drives.
Evening: watch for throbs and stains, malaises,
courteous company exempted of course.

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