if u want visit my space page about me
www.myspace.com/auroredelanuit
or

www.auroredelanuit.it

WE WAIT YOU IN ITALY

i'm so happy to see you on stage
viva la musica!

i love you

DIAMONDS OF THE TIME

Diamond pink, diamond grey
in the end of the door
in the black hole of illusion.
In the heart our colours shatter
faded.
Wall...
acid stars.



________________________________________




SELVAGGIO
Vi è forse,
nel vostro paradiso
un bambino degenere
che gioca con impertinenza
in ricchi salotti
elitari?

Ho sognato cortei
di ballerine agitarsi
per un Adone spettrale:
e allora dove è la poesia?

Nel verbo,
nel coinvolgimento?
Nell'azione?

Nelle notti d'estate
il servo ubriaco
vi derideva da secoli
schernendo il vostro
squallido divertimento
ma incoraggiando
l'esultanza della gioia
e l'adrenalina dell'attesa.


Incoronandole per sempre sorelle devote
di quei sogni vaghi
dimenticati fra foglie
di alberi ombrosi.

Consacrate la vostra vita
al ballo della vostra
immaginazione,
realizzate
un nuovo universo
antico.

____________________________________




Una volta gli scrittori verso la fine dell’800, usavano entrare in mondi “coscienti” con l’ausilio di droghe quali l’oppio o restando ebbri d’assenzio (bevanda alcolica molto in voga in quei tempi). Nelle bettole, ai margini della società, nel sudiciume attraverso la purezza della grammatica urlavano nelle loro “incoscienze”, la grandiosità del loro viaggio verso l’irrealtà, reale della loro coscienza. Raggiungimento di una saggezza umana al limite dello sragionamento. Solo dopo lo stravolgimento dei sensi loro appagavano la loro missione; quale varcare la soglia della conoscenza tangibile e percettibile per entrare in un mondo visionario ricolmo di verità per il raggiungimento dell’estrema presa di coscienza. Ci sono poeti e poeti, il ribelle è colui che si vuole mettere in gioco e gli sta a cuore una cosa: essere una persona vera e pisciare sull’ipocrisia, l’ignoranza e la non presa di coscienza. Il ribelle è un amante attento e furbo,ama l’amore come primo principio che scorre nel suo sangue. Il ribelle non riesce a stare fermo, il suo pensiero è in continuo movimento, la sua anima vuole un nutrimento eterno di scoperta e di sapere. Carità e silenzio, sorriso di ghiaccio, beffardo occhio vigile per proteggere chi soffre. Discendere nell’inferno del proprio animo, per entrare in paradiso. C’è la vita di strada e la noia e la rabbia non possono essere urlate in città, perché è nel silenzio dei vicoli, all’interno di auto parcheggiate nelle strade alle tre di una mattina d’inverno, che si pensa,nelle proprie camere si cerca una via di fuga dall’alienazione. Raggiungimento della felicità: esistono molti metodi, il primo forse è capirsi. Il secondo: essere se stessi.


_____________________________________________

Arthur Rimbaud

by Une Saison en enfer


Délires
Vierge folle
L'époux infernal

Écoutons la confession d'un compagnon d'enfer :

"O divin Époux, mon Seigneur, ne refusez pas la confession de la plus triste de vos servantes. Je suis perdue. Je suis saoûle. Je suis impure. Quelle vie !

"Pardon, divin Seigneur, pardon ! Ah ! pardon ! Que de larmes ! Et que de larmes encore plus tard, j'espère !

"Plus tard, je connaîtrai le divin Époux ! Je suis née soumise à Lui. - L'autre peut me battre maintenant !

"À présent, je suis au fond du monde ! O mes amies !... non, pas mes amies... Jamais délires ni tortures semblables... Est-ce bête !

"Ah ! je souffre, je crie. Je souffre vraiment. Tout pourtant m'est permis, chargée du mépris des plus méprisables coeurs.

"Enfin, faisons cette confidence, quitte à la répéter vingt autres fois, - aussi morne, aussi insignifiante !

"Je suis esclave de l'Époux infernal, celui qui a perdu les vierges folles. C'est bien ce démon-là. Ce n'est pas un spectre, ce n'est pas un fantôme. Mais moi qui ai perdu la sagesse, qui suis damnée et morte au monde, - on ne me tuera pas ! - Comment vous le décrire ! Je ne sais même plus parler. Je suis en deuil, je pleure, j'ai peur. Un peu de fraîcheur, Seigneur, si vous voulez, si vous voulez bien !

"Je suis veuve... - J'étais veuve... - mais oui, j'ai été bien sérieuse jadis, et je ne suis pas née pour devenir squelette !... - Lui était presque un enfant... Ses délicatesses mystérieuses m'avaient séduite. J'ai oublié tout mon devoir humain pour le suivre. Quelle vie ! La vraie vie est absente. Nous ne sommes pas au monde. Je sais où il va, il le faut. Et souvent il s'emporte contre moi, moi, la pauvre âme. Le Démon ! - c'est un Démon, vous savez, ce n'est pas un homme.

"Il dit : "Je n'aime pas les femmes. L'amour est à réinventer, on le sait. Elles ne peuvent plus que vouloir une position assurée. La position gagnée, coeur et beauté sont mis de côté : il ne reste que froid dédain, l'aliment du mariage aujourd'hui. Ou bien je vois des femmes, avec les signes du bonheur, dont, moi, j'aurai pu faire de bonnes camarades dévorées tout d'abord par des brutes sensibles comme des bûchers... "

"Je l'écoute faisant de l'infamie une gloire, de la cruauté un charme. "Je suis de race lointaine : mes pères étaient Scandinaves : ils se perçaient les côtes, buvaient leur sang. - Je me ferai des entailles partout le corps, je me tatouerai, je veux devenir hideux comme un Mongol : tu verras, je hurlerai dans les rues. Je veux devenir bien fou de rage. Ne me montre jamais de bijoux, je ramperais et me tordrais sur le tapis. Ma richesse, je la voudrais tachée de sang partout. Jamais je ne travaillerai... " Plusieurs nuits, son démon me saisissant, nous nous roulions, je luttais avec lui ! - Les nuits, souvent, ivre, il se poste dans des rues ou dans des maisons, pour m'épouvanter mortellement. - "On me coupera vraiment le cou ; ce sera dégoûtant." Oh ! ces jours où il veut marcher avec l'air du crime !

"Parfois il parle, en une façon de patois attendri, de la mort qui fait repentir, des malheureux qui existent certainement, des travaux pénibles, des départs qui déchirent les coeurs. Dans les bouges où nous nous enivrions, il pleurait en considérant ceux qui nous entouraient, bétail de la misère. Il relevait les ivrognes dans les rues noires. Il avait la pitié d'une mère méchante pour les petits enfants. - Il s'en allait avec des gentillesses de petite fille au catéchisme. - Il feignait d'être éclairé sur tout, commerce, art, médecine. - Je le suivais, il le faut !

"Je voyais tout le décor dont, en esprit, il s'entourait ; vêtements, draps, meubles : je lui prêtais des armes, une autre figure. Je voyais tout ce qui le touchait, comme il aurait voulu le créer pour lui. Quand il me semblait avoir l'esprit inerte, je le suivais, moi, dans des actions étranges et compliquées, loin, bonnes ou mauvaises : j'étais sûre de ne jamais entrer dans son monde. À côté de son cher corps endormi, que d'heures des nuits j'ai veillé, cherchant pourquoi il voulait tant s'évader de la réalité. Jamais homme n'eût pareil voeu. Je reconnaissais, - sans craindre pour lui, - qu'il pouvait être un sérieux danger dans société. - Il a peut-être des secrets pour changer la vie ? Non, il ne fait qu'en chercher, me répliquais-je. Enfin sa charité est ensorcelée, et j'en suis la prisonnière. Aucune autre âme n'aurait assez de force, - force de désespoir ! - pour la supporter, - pour être protégée et aimée par lui. D'ailleurs, je ne me le figurais pas avec une autre âme : on voit son Ange, jamais l'Ange d'un autre, - je crois. J'étais dans son âme comme dans un palais qu'on a vidé pour ne pas voir une personne si peu noble que vous : voilà tout. Hélas ! je dépendais bien de lui. Mais que voulait-il avec mon existence terne et lâche ? Il ne me rendait pas meilleure, s'il ne me faisait pas mourir ! Tristement dépitée, je lui dis quelquefois : "Je te comprends." Il haussait les épaules.

"Ainsi, mon chagrin se renouvelant sans cesse, et me trouvant plus égarée à ses yeux, - comme à tous les yeux qui auraient voulu me fixer, si je n'eusse été condamnée pour jamais à l'oubli de tous ! - j'avais de plus en plus faim de sa bonté. Avec ses baisers et ses étreintes amies, c'était bien un ciel, un sombre ciel, où j'entrais, et où j'aurais voulu être laissée, pauvre, sourde, muette, aveugle. Déjà j'en prenais l'habitude. Je nous voyais comme deux bons enfants, libres de se promener dans le Paradis de tristesse. Nous nous accordions. Bien émus, nous travaillions ensemble. Mais, après une pénétrante caresse, il disait : "Comme ça te paraîtra drôle, quand je n'y serai plus, ce par quoi tu as passé. Quand tu n'auras plus mes bras sous ton cou, ni mon coeur pour t'y reposer, ni cette bouche sur tes yeux. Parce qu'il faudra que je m'en aille, très-loin, un jour. Puis il faut que j'en aide d'autres : c'est mon devoir. Quoique ce ne soit guère ragoûtant... , chère âme... " Tout de suite je me pressentais, lui parti, en proie au vertige, précipitée dans l'ombre la plus affreuse : la mort. Je lui faisais promettre qu'il ne me lâcherait pas. Il l'a faite vingt fois, cette promesse d'amant. C'était aussi frivole que moi lui disant : "Je te comprends."

"Ah ! je n'ai jamais été jalouse de lui. Il ne me quittera pas, je crois. Que devenir ? Il n'a pas une connaissance ; il ne travaillera jamais. Il veut vivre somnambule. Seules, sa bonté et sa charité lui donneraient-elles droit dans le monde réel ? Par instants, j'oublie la pitié où je suis tombée : lui me rendra forte, nous voyagerons, nous chasserons dans les déserts, nous dormirons sur les pavés des villes inconnues, sans soins, sans peines. Ou je me réveillerai, et les lois et les moeurs auront changé, - grâce à son pouvoir magique, - le monde, en restant le même, me laissera à mes désirs, joies, nonchalances. Oh ! la vie d'aventures qui existe dans les livres des enfants, pour me récompenser, j'ai tant souffert, me la donneras-tu ? Il ne peut pas. J'ignore son idéal. Il m'a dit avoir des regrets, des espoirs : cela ne doit pas me regarder. Parle-t-il à Dieu ? Peut-être devrais-je m'adresser à Dieu. Je suis au plus profond de l'abîme, et je ne sais plus prier.

"S'il m'expliquait ses tristesses, les comprendrai-je plus que ses railleries ? Il m'attaque, il passe des heures à me faire honte de tout ce qui m'a pu toucher au monde, et s'indigne si je pleure.

"- Tu vois cet élégant jeune homme, entrant dans la belle et calme maison : il s'appelle Duval, Dufour, Armand, Maurice, que sais-je ? Une femme s'est dévouée à aimer ce méchant idiot : elle est morte, c'est certes une sainte au ciel, à présent. Tu me feras mourir comme il a fait mourir cette femme. C'est notre sort à nous, coeurs charitables... " Hélas ! Il avait des jours où tous les hommes agissant lui paraissaient les jouets de délires grotesques : il riait affreusement, longtemps. - Puis, il reprenait ses manières de jeune mère, de soeur aimée. S'il était moins sauvage, nous serions sauvés ! Mais sa douceur aussi est mortelle. Je lui suis soumise. - Ah ! je suis folle !

"Un jour peut-être il disparaîtra merveilleusement ; mais il faut que je sache, s'il doit remonter à un ciel, que je voie un peu l'assomption de mon petit ami !"

Drôle de ménage !



________________________________________________________




Delirium
I


The Foolish Virgin


The Infernal Bridgegroom




Let us hear the confession of an old friend in Hell:

"O Lord, O Celestial Bridegroom, do not turn thy face from the confession of the most pitiful of thy handmaidens. I am lost. I'm drunk. I'm impure. What a life!

"Pardon, Lord in Heaven, pardon! Ah! pardon! All these tears! And all the tears to come later on, I hope!

"Later on, I will meet the Celestial Bridegroom! I was born to be His slave. - That other one can beat me now!

"Right now, it's the end of the world! Oh, girls... my friends!... no, not my friends... I've never gone through anything like this, delerium, torments, anything... It's so silly

"Oh! I cry, I'm suffering. I really am suffering. And still I've got a right to do whatever I want, now that I am covered with contempt by the most contemptible hearts.

"Well, let me make my confession anyway, though I may have to repeat it twenty times again, - so dull, and so insignificant!

"I am a slave of the Infernal Bridegroom, the one who seduced the foolish virgins. That's exactly the devil he is. He's no phantom, he's no ghost. But I, who have lost my wits, damned and dead to the world, - no one will be able to kill me! - How can I describe him to you! I can't even talk anymore. I'm all dressed in mourning, I'm crying, I'm afraid. Please, dear Lord, a little fresh air, if you don't mind, please!

"I am a widow... - I used to be a widow... - oh, yes, I used to be very serious in those days, I wasn't born to become a skeleton!... He was a child or almost... His delicate, mysterious ways enchanted me. I forgot all my duties in order to follow him. What a life we lead! True life is lacking. We are exiles from this world, really - I go where he goes, I have to. And lots of times he gets mad at me, at me, poor sinner. That Devil! He really is a Devil, you know, and not a man.

"He says: "I don't love women. Love has to be reinvented, we know that. The only thing women can ultimately imagine is security. Once they get that, love, beauty, everything else goes out the window: all they have left is cold disdain, that's what marriages live on nowadays. Sometimes I see women who ought to be happy, with whom I could have found companionship, already swallowed up by brutes with as much feeling as an old log..."

"I listen to him turn infamy into glory, cruelty into charm. "I belong to an ancient race: my ancestors were Norsemen: they slashed their own bodies, drank their own blood. - I'll slash my body all over, I'll tattoo myself, I want to be as ugly as a Mongol: you'll see, I'll scream in the streets. I want to get really mad with anger. Don't show me jewels; I'll get down on all fours and writhe on the carpet. I want my wealth stained all over with blood. I will never do any work... "Several times, at night, his demon seized me, and we rolled about wrestling! - Sometimes at night when he's drunk he hangs around street corners or behind doors, to scare me to death. - I'll get my throat cut for sure; won't that be disgusting." And, oh! those days when he wants to go around pretending he's a criminal!

"Sometimes he talks, in his backcountry words, full of emotion, about death, and how it makes us repent, and how surely there are miserable people in the world, about exhausting work, and about saying goodbye and how it tears your heart. In the dives where we used to get drunk, he would cry when he looked at the people around us - cattle of the slums. He used to pick up drunks in the dark streets. He had the pity of a brutal mother for little children. - He went around with all the sweetness of a little girl on her way to Sunday school. He pretended to know all about everything, business, art, medicine. - And I always went along with him, I had to!

"I used to see clearly all the trappings that he hung up in his imagination; costumes, fabric, furniture... It was I who lent him weapons, and a change of face. I could visualize everything that affected him, exactly as he would have imagined it for himself. Whenever he seemed depressed, I would follow him into strange, complicated adventures, on and on, into good and evil: but I always knew I could never be a part of his world. Beside his dear body, as he slept, I lay awake hour after hour, night after night, trying to imagine why he wanted so much to escape from reality. No man before ever had such a desire. I was aware - without being afraid for him - that he could become a serious menace to society. Did he, perhaps, have secrets that would remake life? No, I told myself, he was only looking for them. But of course, his charity is under a spell, and I am its prisoner. No one else could have the strength - the strength of despair! - to stand it, to stand being cared for and loved by him. Besides, I could never imagine him with anybody else: we all have eyes for our own Dark Angel, never other people's Angels, - at least I think so. I lived in his soul as if it were a palace that had been cleared out so that the most unworthy person in it would be you: that's all. Ah! really I used to depend on him terribly. But what did he want with my dull, my cowardly existence? He couldn't improve me, though he never managed to kill me! I get so sad and disappointed; sometimes I say to him: "I understand you." He just shrugs his shoulders.

"And so my heartaches kept growing and growing, and I saw myself going more and more to pieces - and everyone else would have seen it, too, if I hadn't been so miserable that no one even looked at me anymore! and still more and more I craved his affection... His kisses and his friendly arms around me were just like heaven-- a dark heaven, that I could go into, and where I wanted only to be left - poor, deaf, dumb, and blind. Already, I was getting to depend on it. And I used to imagine that we were two happy children free to wander in a Paradise of sadness. We were in absolute harmony. Deeply moved, we labored side by side. But then, after a piercing embrace, he would say : "How funny it will all seem, all you've gone through, when I'm not here anymore. When you no longer feel my arms around your shoulders, nor my heart beneath you, nor this mouth on your eyes. Because I will have to go away someday, far away. Besides, I've got to help out others too: that's what I'm here for. although I won't really like it... dear heart..." And in that instant I could feel myself, with him gone, dizzy with fear, sinking down into the most horrible blackness: into death. I made him promise that he would never leave me. And he promised, twenty times; promised like a lover. It was as meaningless as my saying to him: "I understand you."

"Oh, I've never been jealous of him. He'll never leave me, I'm sure of it. What will he do? He doesn't know a soul; he'll never work. He wants to live like a sleepwalker. Can his kindness and his charity by themselves give him his place in the real world? There are moments when I forget the wretched mess I've fallen into: he will give me strength, we'll travel, we'll go hunting in the desert, we'll sleep on the sidewalks of unknown cities, carefree and happy. Or else some day I'll wake up and - his magic power will have changed all laws and morals, - but the world will still be the same and leave me my desires and my joys and my lack of concern. Oh! that wonderful world of adventures that we found in children's books, - won't you give me that world? I've suffered so much, I deserve a reward. He can't. I don't know what he really wants. He says he has hopes and regrets: but they have nothing to do with me. Does he talk to God? Maybe I should talk to God myself. I am in the depths of an abyss, and I have forgotten how to pray.

"Suppose he did explain his sadness to me, would I understand it any better than his jokes and insults? He attacks me, he spends hours making me ashamed of everything in the world that has ever meant anything to me, and then he gets mad if I cry.

"- Do you see that lovely young man going into that beautiful, peaceful house? His name is Duval, Dufour, Armand, Maurice, whatever you please. There is a woman who has spent her life loving that evil creature: she died. I'm sure she's a saint in heaven right now. You are going to kill me the way he killed that woman. That's what's in store for all of us who have unselfish hearts..." Oh, dear! There were days when all men of action seemed to him like the toys of some grotesque raving: he would laugh, horribly, on and on. - Then he would go back to acting like a young mother, or an older sister. If he were not such a wild thing, we would be saved! But even his sweetness is mortal. I am his slave. - Oh, I've lost my mind!

"Some day maybe he'll just disappear miraculously, but I absolutely must be told about it, I mean if he's going to go back up into heaven or someplace, so that I can go and watch for just a minute the Assumption of my darling boy!"

One hell of a household!

Hi everybody!
I'm Aurora I'm from Rome, Italy.
I'm 20
I'm a poetess, I'de write a poetry's book in my language (italian).I'm a student in Roma 3 University.
I love so much rock music, i love sing and write songs too.this is my myspace page: www.myspace.com/auroredelanuit
or my website: www.auroredelanuit.it

questo è il mio credo

Avere l'ingegno felice di un intelletto brillante, abile e sensibile a rivelazioni peculiari di un certo tipo di sistema mentale.
Nel silenzio dello spazio rinasce un accordo dettato dal fato fra un umano e il suo compito di guida dell'umanità, come un eroe, un profeta un veggente dell'universo parallelo della sua anima.
Mostrare la strada, la via si diceva con Orazio "docere et delectare" e successivamente con Charles Dickens nella nascita del "novel".
Dagli alti pulpiti cercano d'indicare la via ma il vero sentiero è nel far libero l'uomo.
Free the man. Free to be everything he wants to be. FREE to play, to scream to love to be himself.
The hero is this.
Una compassionevole empatia filantropica ma allo stesso tempo misantropa.
Genio è l'ossimoro di se stesso.
Nasce, vola nell'oblio della conoscenza goethiana, sperimenta sulla propria pelle un mondo energico.
Con una parola l'artista è energia che tutto crea e tutto distrugge ed emoziona e sconvolge le vite.
Testimonia all'umanità per renderla migliore, più felice cosciente migliore.
The artist is energy and energy is the brain, the heart, the mind : rock!
the art to fly everywhere.
good night
Auroredelanuit