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Crevice Weeds Writings—«waifs of many a wreck»—motley and fragmentary writings—sketchy and faulty—failed, perhaps—unconfined—along the borders, upon the thresholds and into the chinks of literature, «as foam that the sea-winds fret»…

6 articles avec silent smiles

FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of Yore—Scrap the Fifth

Alessandro Zabini

No word for beauty—no word for stabbing wringing horror. Time flowing here at the hotel— swelling, mined from ye inside— Here, from stale, gone by concepts of time and so-called reality we brake loose for awhile— Only a dismal memory brings us back filling up our looming future— Wind in the sky over Bologna—dead bodies— Compelled forever to return to work— Pictures aired here at the hotel— Our minds bombed by time-worn concepts of time— We brake loose—Only memory brings us back to shit— Our looming future is not better: shit-flooded streets— Whispering wind. A time duration and a light wind resound—...

FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of Yore—Scrap the Fourth

Alessandro Zabini

A fleeting time for lovers—a fleeting chance of love—for a fleeting time, delight—Love— Here, hanging over an horror and beyond— A farewell—a life as unknown as ever— Hands whirling in the air—Against this bewitching delight a new life shattered itself—We drank, we talked— in this unbearable horror—a last sickle of silver moon— So that a man and a woman could meet each other— Splashing water—waiting bodies— I think— Bodies, and white blue tables—white kissing— All that happened—with mine own eyes—was foretold— A lake, a sky—bleak stillness and melting, blending, merging—a gift— A gift to everyone–a...

FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of Yore—Scrap the Third

Alessandro Zabini

… Tanks are crawling in ye medieval streets of ye ancient town– Unmoving, strained, alone, I sit—the sun of march, 1977, drills my skin— I had never lived—even playing shadows were no more— Murder did spread itself in a cool darkness of march, 1977— Everything in a lovely shade— I’m writing—No more room, now— I was there—I saw everything— Tropical heat—No more room, now— They talked to each other— They met each other— Kisses—embraced bodies, naked bodies— Desire, absence—of love—Reality, rough reality that grips all of us —Bologna. Blown up railway station—Ravaged dismembered bodies—searingsprings...

FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of Yore—Scrap the Second

Alessandro Zabini

Here only to rest— Here I spent everything—alone— mirroring for awhile—and smile. Illusion—Illusion— Skylines and lakes, and this same illusion— heard here in loneliness. At least a wish to cry—in a room— to cry for a woman to be here—lust, longing— Of all this running and bending, something ends. Sweet girl arow—sadly sitting alone, and in late afternoon, under the setting sun, coming— We walk, talking of wrecked loves, and a loneliness follows—a sad morning—a lively woman— A woman— And so they keep on talking to each other— Sitting, talking—into the shade—among friends— These few silent smiles—a...

FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of Yore—Scrap the First

Alessandro Zabini

Streams never wear away. Our memories are coming afloat in a stream of thought—here. That’s something you tend to forget. A young man, a young woman, walking one beside the other. An old ceiling cobweb —Horror—Unceasing wailing. «The first thing I saw, a beheaded one, and I ran away» Blood spurts in the sky over Bologna—children's corpses. Nothing— Nothing could fill up or destroy this hollowness —Awful is the way in which we live this horror. In a room, alone, to handle our dreams always blending something more than newspapers nothingness. Lost twinklings—a time of silences and a farewell. Bad...

Life Pieced Together Among the Ruins: A Fragment

Alessandro Zabini
Life Pieced Together Among the Ruins: A Fragment
Life Pieced Together Among the Ruins: A Fragment

Afar, in dark hotel rooms, alone, and fading sadness, fading shadows—a light sounding wind and no word for beauty, here, nor for hurting, stabbing horror heard here in loneliness, in dark hotel rooms, afar… A sweet girl arow sadly sitting alone, afar—lust longing to cry for blue and keen eyes unvealing illusion, and bad weather coming at evening, a keening lake stirred by a light wind, tents aroused by fading shadows—sitting and talking in shadow—a woman speaks in shadow—a fleeting chance by one's own eyes foretold—a sky, a lake—clouds of lead that cover the lake, and sorrow falling down… Time...