Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose

La Desolazione dell’Io e l’Essere svelato – Italian Version – Feat. John Currin

Esibizionismo: corpi e menti, insieme, nella totalita’ dell’indifferenza cosciente. Nello specchio si guarda l’angoscia.

Molte parole, conversazioni e sguardi senza connessioni – perso dentro se stesso, lui stesso, lei. ({}{})
Tra la massa – solitudine. ({}{}) è solo.

Coc mostra quello che ({}{}) possiede, pensa che sia unico – Illusione.
Parole come mammelle, fianchi come vocali parlate e glutei come consonanti. Le frasi di ({}{}), i successi di ({}{}) nelle stesse parole di ({}{}) – Illusione.

({}{}) prova davvero piacere mostrandosi? Il corpo corrisponde alle sue ({}{}) parole? Sta cercando una ricompensa, globale?

Resta (il {}{}) migliore. A Nessuno importa.


L*Amore Solitario
Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose, Psicologia, Psychology

II. Panicnoia – Italian Version

Il sole riscalda la mia carne, la vertigine mi sbaraglia.

Voglio che la luna si scontri contro l’oscuro sfondo dei miei incubi; Nessuna stella, solo la luna, nel cielo, sola, desolata.

Provo a muovermi, i piedi sono incollati al suolo. Non mi muovo. Dentro?

Sangue, percosse, pensieri. Parestesia, xerostomia, idrocefalo.

Sento zone del mio corpo pulsare come vulcani pronti a esplodere:

D e S O L a z i o N e

Nessuno dentro di me, la mia anima non mi parla…chi sono?

Mi guardo, adesso. Si.

Tocco le mie mani, le mie braccia…parestesia.

Alzo le braccia, che sforzo! Ma le mie mani sono vuote…


Ogni passo avanti, un ricordo.
Voglio tornare bambino, spensierato, e mi guardo riflesso dentro ogni cosa mentre tutti guardano me. Arranco senza meta.
Dove sono?

Tutte quelle facce, quegli occhi mi guardano…sono un insetto paralizzato sul pavimento di colla.

Questo è ridicolo. È la fine.


Art, Filosofia, prose, Psicologia

I. Panicnoia – Italian Version

Le mie gambe invisibili mentre vago tra le nuvole. Il passo incerto fatalmente verso la rovina. Bagnato di sudore, la vista annebbiata, tante facce, amici mai.

Barcollo, un’altra strana sensazione di morte; l’assaporo. L’aria è satura di angoscia. Stordito titillo le mie estremità, posso sentirlo nelle mie ossa; è il momento.

Il rumore che mi avvolge è solo mio.
Quelle risate, quelle facce, non sono consapevoli della verità, vero?
La loro?

Un altro passo, l’ultimo pensiero


Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose, Psicologia, Psychology

EroAnGst – Feat. G. F. Watts

He was concentrating on his breathing 
While the last beat of his heart was fading away

He was still there dived into his desire.
A breath, a memory of her smell.

Powerful sensation straight into his senses
where the little details of his life were exploding in a myriad of regrets

She was crying on her knees right after another disappointment,
Ruminating on her solitude

She wasn’t there, standing under the storm, alone.
Seated on the sidewalk along the road to her desparation

Weak sensations straight into her senses
Where the regrets of her dying desires were imploding into her delusion

Forever apart
Nowhere together


Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose, Psicologia, Psychology

II. Panicnoia – Feat. A. Bloch

The sun warms my flesh, my lighted head spins fast.
I want the moon against the dark background of my nightmares.
No stars, just the moon, up in the sky, alone, desolated.

I try to walk but my feet are glued to the spot. I do not move. Inside, am I moving? 
Blood, beats, thoughts. My tongue is tingling, my mouth is dry, my head is exploding.

I feel places in my body pumping out like Vulcans covered up ready to erupt.

D E S O L A T I O N 

Nobody inside me, my soul is not talking to me. Who am I?
I am looking at me, yes… Right now. I am touching these hands, arms but I don’t feel myself.
I move my arms up, great boulders, but my hands are empty.


Every Step forward, one thought backwards towards the origin.
I want to be little, thoughtless, careless of myself and the world around me.
I see myself into everything, everyone is watching me while I stumble aimlessly.

Where am I?

All those faces, all those eyes staring at me… I am an insect paralyzed on a glue-covered floor.

That’s funny, it is the end.


Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose, Psicologia, Psychology

I. Panicnoia – Feat. P. Klee

I. Prelude

My legs are invisible while I walk on the clouds.
The next step is uncertain, slowly towards the next falling one.
Wet with sweat, my sight is blurred, many faces, enemies in disguise.

I stagger to my feet, another weird feeling of death. I can taste it, the air is saturated with anguish. Numbness, tingling in extremities – I can feel it into my bones. This is the time.

The noise around is the only mine; that laughter, happy faces unaware of the truth: theirs?

Another step, last thought.

Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose, Psychology

The desolate consciousness and the being unveiled – Feat. Egon Schiele

Exhibitionism: bodies and minds together, linked by the dull instability of the self. Reflected into the mirror, the face covered with delusion. A lot of words, written off, sentences spoken and sights without connections – lost into h(s)h(i)e(m) self. “§”

Within the multitude – solitude. § is alone.

And § shows what §s got – § thinks it is unique – delusional. Words like breasts, hips like vocals and gluteus like consonants. §s sentences, §s successes in §s own words – delusional

Does § really get pleasure by showing §self? Does §s body match §s words? Is § looking for global recognition

Keep it (the best-§) with §self. Nobody cares.


Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose, Psychology

The Blissfull Song of Solitude – feat. E.L. Kirchner

Sometimes you just need space, a blank thought in an empty mind, without connections, no sounds nor touches, only feelings

You and yourself with the world within yourself, nobody else. Do you need anybody? Are you somebody?

You realize that life is an empty box filled with emotions and events, where nobody may say how to fill your experience out. Just your instinct, guided by peace and love; this love is not what you think, it is much more.

Art, Filosofia, Philosophy, poetry, prose

She’s home

Surrounded by screams, tears and vomit; altogether, thrown against her face “she can smell death and pleasure

The more the less – anger and life, sorrow and pleasure. All together, nobody.

She chooses to be all, forgetting the one that counts. Slowly she’s losing herself, disappearing, mingling with the thick fog, blended with despair.

As the body vanishes the soul rises against the multitude gathered all around.

She’s the only one wrapped up by disturbed voices like arrows shot right through her nightmare.

Too soon
Too Late
Now she is at home