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Massimo Fantuzzi

Cocoon N.7

(And shed.)

This winter pansy will yield its velvet casing

over tirelessly missed awakening chances

clung compunction of eremite’s sandal.

Corseted life hanging fancifully, leather strips

on land on waves, palms parade tumbling pylons greeting us

a distilled consonance petals on sleepy shoulders.

Cosmonauts spun off a lumen we throw arms

set to harbour dare and desire orbit of cut sprayed tongues

trickle of vowels dribbling over love’s bare atolls.

I fumble swollen. Hop.

So to speak of you? Tissue gondola

a gloss, to rhyme blue cat with your grey hat toss

still high fleecy collar about an end of days date.

Any evanescent thought left runs

over your vaporous auburn

dressed in liturgical linens

little we still know of it all.


(Barkers and newsboys on their way to the docks with a sole interest, liver fried in onions and butter all soaked in ale. Crumbs to throw at the fishy salty slamming waves I do not have.)

Mid-evening card calls, as pewter glistens off the two shadows, walking from their restaurant.

- Stony air, says I. Reconnoitring it does.
- It’s all in my jowl and joints, says she. The shivers it gives.

Like pulse, their spines bouncing abreast in tune between fog and coat and cold as grand December’s smoke cables perception, a flushed flutter acquitting itself to the eventide.

Through a grapple of spells and a turn of streetlights, their stage runs without acts, intervals or prompter. Concentric illumination reaches and skirts irresolute cue.

- Line does rhyme with itch, says she.
- Hold on, says I. I’ll grab some.

Of a dense chugging parade, another rice gin bar lengthens its glare eastward; by a red lantern, another paper orchestra glissades like kelp, the sky roof of conscience melts.

Aching close to misfortune, sound, nouns under a cry for recognition, clerics, thoughts, they drive wide palms over a scar resembling a paved descent, wet is the air.

- Fumes from the West, says I. The book of the East opened on the acknowledgements.
- Sure, says she, in purple berry taste. North and South are no more!

Gesture of round grace swinging precious, the podgy naked cupid slogging his climb onto Giant’s shoulders, sniffling cute back and forth on his shortbread fingers.

Here to spoil, jolt antler’s seer chartered in supple rustle, to infer them alive and fugitive about the reed marshes is this confusion of balm
palliation of liquorice root reddened skins and numb palates.

- White tie, says I. The stains on it.
- This calls for a white tie, says she under eyelashes of waxing crescent moon. Which started us both tittering.

➥ Bio