Antonio Cuagliata's blog

If you love, don´t betray,
If you hate, don´t obey,
If none of this is true, remember that my words are uttering in vain.
Why do we remember each other?
Because pain is like an incarcerated flower.
Why do we make love?
Because,
besides us,
and far away from our shadows,
in a world of lunatics that deeply impair the pictures entrenched in our brains,
madness is hunting,
our soul made of steel.

I had completely lost touch with reality, my own being was deprived of God and kindness.

I couldn´t cope with my phantoms, and as such, my sense of omnipotence was crumbling.

After my most sensitive, and beloved relationships were blocked, like a knife, my body and soul were recognized no more.

Paintings were killed, and Kings left down to nothing else but letters in an empty box.

My relationship with my phantoms had become more subtle and friendly.

Living without remembrances doesn’t let us appear under the shadows of our souls, nor dissolve our bodies in the left side of our ego.

Tearing apart ourselves in an underground dream combines the poetry of thinking with the mysteries of a brain colonized by worms and insects.

The phantoms that surround us eclipse the righteous and the wrong in a fashion which is not comparable nor resembles any other metaphysic soldier.

Our souls don’t bother us with their symbols but remind us that we still exist in times where dead is nowhere near the altitude of love.

Imprisoned by our dreams we recapitulate and adore the atmosphere created in advance by our inner devils.

Our enemies don’t lie to us and, as in a metamorphosis of happiness, don’t remember the line between flowers and the sun.

In an instant of madness we pretend we know each other, but in my mind there is no place for us, my love.

The spaces we transform are bound to mirror us completely.
The left side of our brain is red, and the right side talks to us in person.
Suffering eclipses our psychosis, but no words are written without bloodshed.

As if I were responding to your thoughts you asked me, why me?
Because our images are drawn in the same horizon, while the rest is wandering in circles.
Not the least to mention that the call for our souls has been repeatedly neglected.

Why would the candles respect us if they haven’t melted down with our faces?

There is nothing to be ashamed of
as we walk through this canals, my dear,
as we reconsider the space and reach each other
in an endless motion of lovemaking.

The world is ours, and we are going to act accordingly.

Madness is not art, nor does it pretend to be, but
when man reacts in an instant of madness,
art can eclipse our feelings and
the rhythm of our thoughts.

My love, we should appear mindless and empty
to frenetically exclaim on our knees
what we went through this life.

While I write on your chest the words I recall,

There was nothing in the room that could keep his attention away from the mirrors. Neither the wall nor the epicenter of his images were good enough for his resurrection.

Apart from his dreams, and in spite of them, pain was endless, as in a never ending torture from which he could not escape. The dreams were too bright, and the limitations too powerful.

Powerful as they may have been, the inexplicable forces of life gave him a place where to find a core of happiness, where discourse would be stripped off all significance and fakeness.

don’t think differently
as the world won’t recognize
your dreams in an empty basket
we quote our soul through different
veins of thought

we are mourning, and
as we do so, we reluctantly play
with our instincts in a fashion
which would raise eyebrows
in the opposite gender

tear apart our memories and
we’ll be home again

the mechanics of talking
is certainly an inapt
attitude for a male dog!

survival is about playing freely
with your shadows under the moonlight

is the judge always right or
should we ask twice
for our reasons to be upheld?

notwithstanding your virginity
I kindly request the delivery
of your spirit

our shameless moments of love
were destroyed by decades
of scepticism

my love, our bodies interact
regardless of blame for
ourselves and for God

God doesn’t show us where the sun is
nor helps us through our journey

letters of wine were drawing our passages
of love and promiscuity

miniature souls appear through the windows
of our imagination

the Almighty creates a box
through which we could
apparently communicate

merciful shadows appear and repair

Human society is paralyzed by fear and thinks twice before opening its mouth.
Subversion is not thinking but acting in accordance to the law.
Can you transgress without thinking or do you need a pilot to steer your dreams?

Casualties of war showed us the misfortune of my compatriots.
The battlefield was set and our trench hardly enough to enervate my soul.
Brilliant metaphor for people who lack appetite and who do not share our valuable mindset.

My pride is vanishing, despite my endless struggle to keep it alive.

When I look at my dreams, I depict a communist.
When I touch my balls, I portray a humanist.
Aren’t we eager to reveal the truth?
No way, my friend, the truth is not our domain, nor none of our business!

Nothing should withhold our dreams from becoming reality, from becoming ours, from apprehending our lives!!!
Maybe, but that’s not how things should be done in life…
Why not?
Because we are driven by emotions!!!!
We are slaves of our feelings, don’t you see?

I create an atmosphere where I don’t eat my words.

The prose is not a metaphor nor a hidden hope but an expression of desires of a profound humanity. It is convenient for us to entertain reality in an attempt to reconstruct forgotten places.

We walk through hidden certainties with metaphysic rhythms and the sound of whisky. Capitulation is approaching but our soul and the soul of the Nation require a certain consent in order to refrain, to abstain from undeserved pictures.

If I look at this space with a technical eye I recognize love, hope and tenderness.

Criticism isn’t prior to our existence but posterior to anything which obstructs our feelings in another way.

Movements come from somewhere else, as if suddenly disappearing in the shadows of our memories which haunt us day and night, in a spiral of utter violence.

Stop right here and you’ll know that your face is trembling and your arms are mine.

Don’t shed no tears, they are too precious to be wasted in these times of crises, and we already have too many reasons to cry forever.

Printing our thoughts doesn’t bring us anywhere but running away from fear, hatred and mistaken principles. Alas, our mind creates our values while bringing us together in a world of harmonious asceticism.

Our upper thoughts display an array of dislike for tastes not belonging to our inner feelings. If we separate our mistakes we play without net, nor comfort, nor anything that can possibly reflect our most conspicuous lifestyle.

I carry the cross through deserts and wine, my soul isn’t mine.

Confusion was meant to be archaic but it nevertheless demarked the limits of our territory.

The dog doesn’t bark in vain, he smokes, crosses its legs and then smokes again. A slightly neurotic dog, I would say.

Heavily neurotic! Insensitive to anything outside its own domain, as if completely turned inwards.

Inward looks don’t flame our spirit, the flame comes from the outside, as we exchange ideas mediated by smoke and spirituality.

My control of reality hurts, as if I were controlled myself.