Lorenzo Bonadè è nato a Codogno, in provincia di Lodi, nel 1980. Vive a Piacenza. Ha pubblicato le raccolte di poesia:  Vicolo del tarocco (in proprio, 2005), Contrappunti e Fughe  (Blu di Prussia, 2007), Mattatoio (pezzi facili) (Blu di Prussia, 2007), Handjob (Blu di Prussia, 2010), Polaroids #1 (Blu di Prussia, 2010), Seme nel fuoco (Blu di Prussia, 2011), Polaroids #2 (Zona, 2012), Domus Dei (Arduino Sacco, 2013), Sfrecciante verso lo schianto dell’immortalità (Arduino Sacco, 2013). Musicista classico, si occupa anche di performance e arte visiva.

lorenzo.bonade@libero.it

English

POESIE

Maestro
Maestro siete molto malato ora, ve ne prego riposate, lasciate ad altri il vostro fardello.
La nostra guerra è vana, tutti sono deceduti o disertati, la causa persa.

“Figliolo, ascolta questo mio ultimo delirio di vecchio: per tanti inverni sei stato mio allievo. Ti raccolsi in una gelida nottata quando Pazzia era la tua amante e da allora imposi al tuo lato oscuro nuova consapevolezza, portandoti ad odiare l’umanità in quasi ogni sua miserabile manifestazione. Vedi, la bellezza di una stagione nascente che bacia i più graziosi fanciulli sugli occhi e sulle labbra, ancora oggi è di un coinvolgimento inarrestabile.
Comprenderai anche tu la ricomparsa di gesti ingenuamente immaturi, il ritorno ad infatuazioni prevedibili, e l’ispirazione proveniente da elementi naturali.
Sono talvolta bellissimi questi sciami di gioventù.
Possiamo contemplare indifferentemente il vigore nascente o la femminilità sgraziata, non ha più importanza.
E nel più piccolo abbandono che scorgo nei tuoi occhi-figliuolo- accrescere a fiotti la tua innegabile diversità. Non dovrai smarrirti, tornerà sempre l’inesauribile appetito, fino quasi ad annullare quei sorrisi così candidi.

Ricorda, per poter amare il prossimo, occorre non offendere se stessi; per esecrare in forma disinteressata l’umanità intera, bisogna divorare il proprio io senza riserve.

So che sarai tu a farti carico della mia eredità.
So che il tuo amore si manifesterà con ancora più odio nei giorni che verranno.
La tua bellezza è altrove, non carnale.
Non manifestabile qui, ora.
Ma è ovunque oramai.
Di nuova poesia rilucerà il tuo animo straziato
Fulgido e perverso
Come lo scoppio immondo
Di una disperata bomba.”

Tuoi sono i racconti della strada
Tuoi sono i racconti della strada, fin quando, giovane ed ingenuo, apri le vene ad ogni dolce veleno, quando d’essa ti nutri e fin quando i secoli si pasciano del tuo candore.
Essa pretende un pegno assai grande.
Le mura d’ogni quartiere abbisognano di giovani anime.

Bandito o esiliato per personale scelta,  attraversai i vicoli d’altri paesi,
Non consapevole del tutto, ma realmente amputato, e non una parola sarà proferita per essa, perché del pegno fu il riscatto, una consapevolezza.
Il mondo era troppo anziano per accoglierci nelle sue grazie.
Ovunque ciondolassi v’erano maniaci, pazzi e delinquenti della peggior razza.
Per quanto comprendessi il precipizio ch’era quella realtà, non potei mai escludermene del tutto. Anzi, più comprendevo l’ipocrisia della quotidianità e più mi annullavo nelle disordinate schiere di reietti, tossici, clandestini d’ogni punto del globo. Nessun angelo può condurre alla salvezza il sacrificio d’un altro angelo.
Ogni tempio, ogni vicolo, ha un proprio Dio che detta una propria legge.

Sono stato messo alla porta dalle peggiori puttane, sotto una brutale pioggia sporca,
senza un riparo dove poter aspirare un mozzicone di sigaretta rollata, con le mani tremanti, alla bene e meglio.
Nelle notti senza uscita, quand’anche la nebbia si riscopre fredda assassina, ho fuso l’essenza della mia giovinezza con esseri d’indicibile aspetto, dalla sessualità pazzesca, frutto forse della mia pazzia, nel confine incerto tra orrore, grottesco, gelida pietà, calore senza speranza, giù in fondo all’abisso.

Senza che il perdono fosse invocato, ho visto mani d’assassino redimersi senza più memoria sotto il peso degli anni.

Da svariati singoli soggetti d’inacidito bestiame, vecchi imbruttiti
Sono stato messo sul ciglio del suicidio

Sono stato messo sul ciglio del suicidio
Dall’eredità dei secoli
Da padri di padri
Randagio bastardo sacrificale

Vecchi ancora più grotteschi dal fardello dell’odio
È nel firmamento: i nostri occhi gentili
Devono osservare qualcuno sanguinare
E così sia, ma senza ne riscatto ne giustizia
È di passaggio, altrettanto senza senso nel giorno che nasce

Ma qualcosa protegge fanciulli dalla sorte prematura
Pallidi bambini senza pietà.

Nell’angiporto
Dolcemente si accarezzano i marinai nella bruma
mira il firmamento è limpido e corrotto
i bimbi sfidano Dio al chiaro di luna

I baci del traditore risplendono nella galassia iridescente
Giuda Iscariota sussurrò all’amante inconfessato
eterna fedeltà nel paradiso dei perdenti

Quando eterno amore suggellano gli innamorati
sfioriscono le bianche rose al gelido vento
perché in catene d’oro le verità ci hanno incriminati

La vermiglia fanciulla è la figlia di ognuno
l’assassino intona una melodia soave e vieta
lacrima solo l’Angelo del Perdono.

Alla fine del mondo
Indifesi, privi di memoria nell’infuocata polvere
ci rincontreremo.
In primitive lande, lungo il trascorrere di stagioni sconvolte
estintasi, l’umanità intera si deportò
con metodo totale.
In sterile unione, per una sola volta
l’uno all’altra ci stringeremo
là dove il nuovo giorno non udrà soffi vitali
allorché il Sole si spegnerà

alla fine del Mondo.

TRADUZIONI

Master
Master you are very sick now, I pray rest, leave your burden to others.
Our war is vain, all died or deserted, the cause lost.

– “Son, listen to this my last old age delirium : for many winters have you been my student. I picked you up on a cold night when Madness was your lover and since then I imposed a new awareness to your dark side, bringing you to hate humanity in almost all its miserable aspects. See, the beauty of a new-born season that kisses the prettiest children on the eyes and lips, is still today an unstoppable involvement.

You will also understand the reappearance of naively immature gestures, the return to predictable infatuations and the inspiration from natural elements.

These swarms of youth are sometimes so beautiful.

We can indifferently contemplate either the rising force or the disgraced femininity, it does not matter anymore.

And in the smaller abandonment that I see in your eyes, son, your undeniable diversity increases in spurts. You must not lose yourself, the inexhaustible appetite will always return, almost to cancel those so candid smiles.

Remember, in order to love your neighbor, you should not offend yourself; to execrate humanity in a selfless way, we must devour your own Ego unconditionally.

I know it will be you who will take charge of my heritage.
I know your love will manifest itself with more hatred in the days ahead.
Your beauty is elsewhere, not carnal.
Not expressible here, now.
But it is everywhere now.
Your devastated soul will shine with a new poetry.
Brilliant and perverse
Like the filthy explosion
Of a desperate bomb.”

Yours are the road tales
Yours are the road tales, until when, young and ingenuous, you open your veins at every sweet poison, when you use it as food and until centuries will have foraged on your candor.

It demands a rather heavy pledge.
The walls of every district need young souls.
Banished or exiled for personal choice, I went through other countries’ alleys,
Not fully conscious but in reality amputated, and not a word will be for it proffered, because from the pledge came the redemption; an awareness.

The world was too old for it to welcome us in its grace.
Wherever I hang about there were maniacs, lunatics and delinquents of the worst kind.

As far as I understood the precipice that was then reality, I could not debar myself from it completely. On the contrary, the more I understood daily hypocrisy the more I annulled myself in the disorderly ranks of outcasts, addicts and coverts from every corner of the globe. There is no angel that can lead the sacrifice of another angel to salvation.

Every temple, every alley, has its own God who dictates its own law.

I have been put to the door by the worst prostitutes, under a brutal dirty rain, without a refuge where I could inhale in a hand-rolled smoke, with trembling hands, for better or worse.

In the nights with no exit, when even the fog reveals itself cold and assassin, I fused the essence of my youth with beings of unspeakable aspect, crazy sexuality, perhaps produce of my madness, in the vague boundary between horror, grotesque, gelid pity, warmth without hope, way down into the abyss.

Without that forgiveness was invoked, I saw murderous hands being redeemed with no more memory under the weight of years.

By various single subjects of soured cattle, old disfigured
I was put on the brink of suicide
I was put on the brink of suicide
From the legacy of centuries
From fathers to fathers
Stray sacrificial bastard
Aged even more grotesque from the burden of hatred
It is in the firmament: our gentle eyes
Must observe someone bleed
And so be it, but without redemption nor justice
He just passes by, equally meaningless on the day he is born
But something protects kids from premature fate
Pale children without mercy.

Diamond Dust
Perfection of lines devoted to the coarsening of the act
Shimmer of spirit in the splendor of open meat
Veneration of forms sacrificed to an instinct
Sacrificed to the libido of the moment
Loss of any credentials
Unseen or deliberately shown
Caressed is ecstasy
Belonging to which side is still to be debated
It is this unblemished beauty
At the end there will not be cripples
Tears without end
After all how many die of something
Ceremonious and sterile couplings
Mangled bodies and excited
The anus is its sublimation
Dewy Black Orchid of great value
Sweet Poison along the sinuous body
On your shiny roundness to find refuge in oblivion
We are in a Baroque Hell, My Concubine
Come on, inhale, ingest, we aspire cocaine
About tapestries, magnificent drapes sumptuous fabrics.
Lighting at the same time discrete and elegant
Fine inlays of precious woods, dazzling frames
Aromas of distant spices awakening dormant senses.My look is disclosed through the windows of the superhuman Palace
Erected in the apogee of ancient splendor of magnificent tyrants of high rank.
Look at me. I am the Infidel accommodated on a papal throne
He who also repudiated Death
The slave insurgent peering at the horizon
On the highest bastion of the royal castle
There is nothing to fear
It is just art my concubine, nothing to fear
Coitus unattainable, touched infinity
Anuses as precious souls, they wander, they are revealed
The orgasm is the flow of the Universe
Eldest child of eternity, Death
Kissed the youngest that bowed before it.
Organs more or less erect
Also calling for the withdrawal of the pilgrimage
Or the comfortable asylum in other asses
Caressed is ecstasy
And one step atonement voluptuousness
But never will the threshold be crossed
Until the day of the consecration
The shocking organs will have to be intact:
Insubordinate overexcited and under the glacial gaze
Until the rape of the hidden flower will not be fulfilled
If ever we define art: Pornography
The only higher expression granted to man.
We are in a Baroque Hell, My Concubine
Come on, let us inhale, ingest, aspire cocaine.

Fuck the world
Frames succeed one another
In flames
Decide with which lenses to look at one’s refuse
Endless flashes to dazzle you for eternity
Silhouettes in constant backlight
Challenging the death of an old sports car
Perhaps the only thing that still makes sense
Walkways planted in fulcrums of the largest capitals
I trod them all
Glamour and more glamour
The rest of us will become more beautiful
The rich will become richer
The middle classes always more middle
Women of infinite beauty everywhere
In the absence of a gym
Some of them are used as punching bags
Others quickly loved between champagne and cocaine
Prêt a porter, bored with makeup sessions
Or be exhausted for the umpteenth series of abdominal
Men and women of every color
Physically sculpted in both cases
To give some pleasure, others to give pain
Return to the square because something is wrong
White bloody bands
Loving women of every race and customs
And break down in the same splitting-mountain way of every color
It makes no difference
Entangling everything in alcohol and crack
Begin to lose breath
It was a charming post that put me out of play
I remember the moment, and cries undefined
Flash still flash
Silhouettes in constant backlight
At the end of each match the bastards with their sluts
Throwing coins into the ring
Dazzling parades like a Las Vegas meeting
Something mounts inside, nothing of any good anyway
Party and still unbridled worldliness
I’m gaining all the covers
Major fashion magazines
No hole is filled
The billions come and go
It is not enough
Scalpel to readjust the punches
Unrecognizable face
A hint of misery has always accompanied me in my success
Darting toward the crash of immortality
Someone once said:
“He cannot see me, they cannot see us”
Frames succeed one another
In flames.

The bomber
A young woman is embraced by a bomb explosion
The Child now kisses something forbidden
Too intense for his weak heart
Oh, how much more would be left to kiss
Terrible evil, given birth from the same fresh meat
What carries it away is cool intense and deadly
Cancers and bombs are the pride of the millennium
Bombing of a piece of history
Grafting a protracted smile
Creatures disintegrated
From an attack on nothing to reach nowhere
Here is the consecration
No trace
The memory is the liar in any case
Clinging to the fact that something will still flourish
Symbol of youth and ambition
The promises have faded by time
Yellowed pages of yellowed pages
Every chapter is aborted
But to prevent the growth many are fertilized
Termination of the crazy act and infanticide of the newborn
There are as many jailers as there are Princesses
Behind bars a negro smiles
Look closer it is only a grin
Switch just as easily to the terrorist attack
A caress of ancient maddening sweetness
Acceptance of everything as a goal of great wisdom
At the end, leaving only the fading memory
Of an unknown man and a nameless woman
A union of bold experiences
Merchant of dreams, what do you still have in store for me?
And the last sigh what will you marry it with?
For a snapshot of a heartbreaking smile
Or of a fathomless combustion ?
Father.
It is what could be etched in the memory to strike terror.

Home District Blues
The guards said, chuckling:
“Put him in the cell with the Moroccan fag”
Lili Marlene files her nails
and smokes bad tobacco.
She dreams of being a butterfly.

A Turkish man, the other night
with unusual dexterity
hanged himself in a crevice of the toilet.

At the age of twenty I killed my father
With a sledgehammer, a miserable end.
There is something I must remember
out of here
but I recall nothing.

I have all the time
to redeem the world.