Visionnaire

Contributor: Alessandro Cusimano

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Dead, I keep walking around the city, I want to drink. My face is reflected on each thing and every time I have to see it again. My watch has stopped. Le Strange, my name means something in New Orleans. Le Strange, the prince of Serendip. Le Strange, the visionary. Le Strange, an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Robbed of Every wonder and enchantment, the city dies in the silence of a false dawn. The sigh of the wind takes me to places unknown to my imagination. There where life ends, starts an adventure that whispers words that only the heart can interpret. Towards infinite dreams. A magical place where The stories of the future write the poems of the past. New Orleans sinks into the hypocrisy of the best friends and the scorn of alligators. The best friends lie, the blend of the good intentions gets quickly lost. The untrue assertion spirits the clever arguments and predisposes to the prodigious. You must make friends with the lie, being ourselves hands over to the hypnosis and the paralysis, to the opposite of ability. The absolution returns a merciful grace, a sugar plum which satisfies the lame matter. Consciousness is rude, woos the stray canard who welcomes the travail of her woman friend. The falsehood is not satisfied with the peasant scuffle, with the resentment, the amusement. Pretends and hides every policy, opinion, pandemonium, without the deception of discernment, of the wrath.
Madness seizes the sorrow and becomes a flower, flatters happiness, living, for a moment, the emotion of a different life, meets the delirium and falls in love. Where the soul, that lives life with resentment, does not scare and bewilders the reason. Domino brings home her puppet boyfriend and plays with him. The tall convex space appears turquoise, draws a sinuous line, sensual on the perimeter, steeped in the events of others. Is the profile of a sea wave, villain of the most beautiful seawater, ensures the persistence of blue. The opposite of darkness is spreading slowly, the wave breaks regular, long, smooth. Has a changing effect, hands out colours. The night owns the future, forgives the guilt, multiplies the fixed and reflected light, surrounds the vaporous game, unties a curtain. After dark, you look and measure the content of mirrors, the anxiety of angels goes on stage, have memory, remind all. The vibrations are perpendicular, penetrate the skin, A mass of water rises and falls. Is female, able to overwhelm the spectator with the honesty of her sins, under a dim light, so as not to be seen, so you do not see the others. There's a glare, the vision is complex. A comely light, double. The volume of the music is consumed, a ruby-throated hummingbird flies free. Growing soft folds follow the trend, the long radius, the imagination to reach, the underside of the tables. Steel and water deposit the gray and blue in the depths of the deepest eyes. Wooden puppet head is sitting on himself, his face is opalescent, flattered, inspired by an happy melodrama built on the water. Hellish exile of the east peacocks, worship of the great flame, ray of the vain vampire. In the pagan temple a creole beauty crosses the pavilion with the half-mask and the rule of the despot queen, winning the pedestal. In the underworld of the ragged little girls, her serpentine allures each sharp talisman, every drunk javelin. In her room, bricks with a transparent bark, tapestries, mats, torn canvases, decorated shutters climb up from time to time, a cobalt coloured carpet draws Chinese ideograms. Oriental lamps similar to distant galaxies with a bright opacity commend the pale meeting of demons and witches, the pandemonium. The stubborn emptiness of chatters attracts the discontent and an intermittent fever in the meaningless space of a vacant abyss. Myriads, gaps, secrets, the profane grants the Sabbath, the small of the abuse, the crackable demonic. The officiants pass the sentence, the holocaust of pythonic. Her hair detains the instant century, with the favorite balsam, fruity. The loss is made elixir, Essence and flower. The guillotine runs through the hazel thinness with the rush of maltreatment. Disheveled, wrapped in a tipsy cloth, the lifeless body on the infamous slope, cold, in the shade of slaughter. Immortal embrace of a fragrant victress. Caressing, bodily shape mimosa, carnal scent of Louisiane, female equivalent of a tempting faun able to appear bronzed, statuesque. Rising hues verging on rosy, surrounded by a medieval ocean, immense sacred vestments, the courting of a majestic Moon, remembrance in love with a perpetual symphony. If the Judgment did not lay the blame on me, the defeat. If the Assassin asked for mercy. Under a priesthood of disgrace, the Whitish Light of the Icy God is in love with the beloved first blood in the morning. In the pale carnage, short bodies fall reddish on the Stone Earth. Half a shadow of the vermillion child glides along the blade-beast of a bluebottle-razor. In a rusty and purple garden, the amaranth sting whips the shot and the Martyrdom with the rope flame. If Endless Father shed his own blood, if Heaven had no more blood. If, Enemy of God, I were a butterfly. If, Demon of Devils, I accepted, on a whim, the agony and invoked, sweetly, the madness. If I upheld, I swear, the torment, if implored mercy. If, Beautiful Prince, I tore my teeth and my eyes. If small arms, rich in blood, waved flags painted like butterfly wings. I am the nervous wandering, the arabesque, the disorder. I am the restless story, the agony in cage, the excellent madman. Mementos, still in the light, cast into a bottomless pit, before a regret depicted by the frosty warmth of my pale smile.



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Son of a painter and a teacher, Alessandro Cusimano was born in Palermo, Sicily, Italy, on July 2, 1967. He lives in Rome, where he is writer, poet, translator, with a special focus on visual arts, from painting to cinema, from photography to theatre. Expressivist poet, he freely refers to the peripheral and irregular languages, drawing on the dialects, the slangs, the various sectorial and technical form of expressions, recreated with personal inventions and varying intensity, in every moment of his literary production.
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2 Responses to this post

  1. Anonymous on February 17, 2012 at 12:34 AM

    This story is BREATHTAKING. What a Gem. Brilliant. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Hits a home run. I've read this 7 times already, and it just gets better with each reading. If anyone hasn't read this, read it right now. It takes you to another world.

  2. Anonymous on February 20, 2012 at 5:32 AM

    Truly visionary, a little the style of David Lynch, I like it!

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