Luca BEVACQUA
 ONE poem
 & THREE sonnets

(FAIL FOLIAGE)

FAIL FOLIAGE

For whomst doth the zinnias surge

in their HDR blush amidst the dead                

compatriots from Mexico to Wuxi

to Voss / nature parching in scrutiny

There’s blood beneath every layer of skin

And it’s all about beauty / ostrich feathers

microscope slides and platelets forming

a foliage print behind my crackèd screen

stand still: / in the I of the catastrophe

THREE SONNETS

    (in CHRONOLOGICAL order)

        I

I wrote graces to asthenia and          

then deleted all from my life studies.

Tomorrow I will shave my hair to 4

mm and dye them blue paying homage        

to Chris Wylie. Show more. Answer. Rebrand          

me for ‘life-threatening circumstances,’

introversion’s my personal hymn for

war, exacerbated thru that eight-page

leaflet, market risks of a Wall-Street-grand

SSRI. That kind of brilliance is

clear, but not penetrated anymore,

it’s not a requisite for me to wage. 

        Hide answers. Do not manipulate me 

        unless my happiness is the result

        

        II

By sitting in the middle seat, always                         
flying nobound, music intermittence,                                   
white noise from the white engine, the window      
covered by his head, the land by serial                                 
clouds expunging, sleep is wave transference                      
between fragments and remnant. All limbo             
keeps displacing all, layover’s dial                             
to acquire afresh some break for me, waylays                     
awareness ‘til the second—crescendo                                 
gashing every feel—there’s no denial,                                  
the slumbers soften this breakdown, essays            
so scientific, words with no defiance.                       
            You move to top-five livability                                  
            I wait my turn, hone my emocracy

        III

The light is so good, the leaves,
this warm for some 10 minutes. This song is
about the erosion of the detailed
memory of a person, how permanent
the impression is that they leave in you, haled,
constant gnawing of audio segments as
post-processing in no man’s plan. Survey
black arteries from above, from the third's point
of view, globules run thru them, unbridled.
I miss you like my solutions, abris,
but the keygens’ age is over honey
throw readability to the she-wolves.
            Downplay communication, nature’s tint,
            paint your eyes over, mine, thus live with me