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The Author Is Dead

Juliano Zaffino - The Author Is Dead - Blog

"There are Sunday nights"

Juliano Zaffino

 'to be alive is to be constantly fishing'

'to be alive is to be constantly fishing'

There are Sunday nights
I feel so lethargic
To be alive is to be so lethargic
I look for sympathy in corners
I run from weekdays by candlelight
What does it mean to have meaning
And to go to bed not knowing
That you have wasted your life today
And tomorrow isn’t looking good either
To be alive is to be constantly fishing
For feeling in conversations
You have no investment in
And singing songs in your head
To visions of holy clashing bloodshed war
Wonder why, wonder when the day will come
To be alive is to be, constantly,
And to be aware of that in acute ways
Road-rage screaming your voice away
Wishing you’d starved yourself again today
So at least you could feel accomplished
With a headache and a justified emptiness
Instead of this engorged parasite
Detached from its host, crumpling
To be alive is to sleep a third of all time
And break the rest beneath a fist

Is There So Much

Juliano Zaffino

 'Singing hymns together forever, / I love the sound of us together'

'Singing hymns together forever, / I love the sound of us together'

Chaos and the summer soul deliver us
In the sunlight under blue skies
I can feel the joy radiating from you,
Reverberating body as you cry here,
Heaving, a living goddess looking
Dead in the eye and you,
Singing hymns together forever,
I love the sound of us together
And the sight
And the spirit
And the triumph

Chaos from our human hurting hearts
Propel us like atoms we are jostling still
Fury, euphoric cattle herded godwards
Dancing our feet into the ground planted
Like the thunder we are summoning
So keep going limbs languoring skyways
Digging roots they will not be torn asunder
Under the blueskysunsetduskendmoon
In the company of several thousand strangers
And a friend
And a spectre
And a goddess

Chaos as a scream in motion
To carry on with all that dancing, atoms,
Until the last left living among us
Collide a final time, break apart entirely
To become sub-atomic nothings,
The air and the sound and the sweat,
Music divorced of silent bodies,
Forgotten grief and funerals,
Stormbringer washing clean the chaos, god,
And the roads
And the hills
And the buildings
And the places, you

The Son You Wanted

Juliano Zaffino

 'To be your one and only / Your white and silent holy / Home-and-native son'

'To be your one and only / Your white and silent holy / Home-and-native son'

If I had been the son you wanted
I would write this in a way you could enjoy,
Excavate my heart for the artwork saying
“I long to be the country’s sun you vaunted”,
And to laugh with you facelessly
As the crowd shifts violently
When the support act says
And to laugh at imitative accents
And the jokes that aren’t jokes
That draw an arrow ever backwards
With ethnic man and ethnic life in aim,
Hatred just as great as I could hold
For anyone unfortunately born
With a skin-tone greater than zero.

Do not underestimate the love
I hold for you and for our single land
I would cheer us on in all the races
Out of fear for other races if I could,
Would sign my life on the line
To be your one and only,
Your white and silent holy
Home-and-native son, a smoking gun,
But there is something or
Other of the foreigner
That is as on me as in me
And it speaks out
– in accents unrecognisable –
To tell me there is a language
With words enough to express
The things that I am feeling,
A language that you nor I nor island
Could ever hope to speak.

I long to be the one
Oh mother oh father
Oh country oh sun
I long to be your one and only
Bullshit toting hellfire floating
Never noting local gloating
Brietbart quoting self serve voting
Duty doting son.

"You Feel Things Too Deeply"

Juliano Zaffino

 'supreme joy darkly inherited / dowry given in effervescent cynicism'

'supreme joy darkly inherited / dowry given in effervescent cynicism'

“You feel things too deeply”
You say.

“I am the weight of all things”
I laugh.

White-knuckled vomiting
TV-watching mental breakdowns.

Swallowing spittle ripped receipts
Saltwater eye leak seasoned to taste.

Blue sky battleground symphonies
Waltzing self evermore deathwards,

Sheared hair in fists, free, filched
Foreboding, follicles in mourning.

Yellow-faced mother grey hair,
Cardigan coming, going, exile.

Self-sabotage succeeded by suicide
On tiny screens, dead of night.

Rainfall suppressing fire,
Interminable grey, terminal,

Greek chorus desecrating hearts:
Pages flammable, pages porous,

Supreme joy darkly inherited
Dowry given effervescent cynicism.

Sudden sunshine trumpets exaltation
Maybe God, maybe-god.

“You feel things too deeply”
You cry.

I live beneath atomic weight
I say nothing.


Juliano Zaffino

 'drowning man writes sad poems / to make contact with unseen life forms'

'drowning man writes sad poems / to make contact with unseen life forms'

The drowning man is making peace
With the life he leaves behind
And the unknown that stretches out
Wave-like before him, lapping.
Out in space weightlessly waiting
For re-entry, for the impact,
In the silky blackness between stars
Moving between the planetary bodies
In search of some land inhabitable,
A body of water to sustain him.

The drowning man writes sad poems
To make contact with unseen life forms.

The drowning man is a hopeful one –
He has a lot to say, his words
Rising up out of him like bubbles
Breaking deaf on the surface.
He has a lot to say and you
Are going to listen, this dying wish.

The drowning man’s missive
Is a message in a bottle in the ocean.
Impossible to know, but it says:
“I have lived a life you wouldn’t notice
If it was played out a thousand times
In front of you, before your vacant
Stare, in a soap-opera, on the train
You take every morning to work,
In your own kitchen, because I am
An alien assuming a form just like yours,
Blending into the furniture, wallflower
Still drowning in my private life.
I am a hurricane ripping through
But I will die as soon as I stop going
And so I do not stop going, ever.
I tell you: do not stop going. Never.”

The drowning man writes sad poems
And buries hope in all that dead.

The drowning man lives until he doesn’t.

The drowning man wants to be a beacon,
Lighthouse-like for wayward sailors
Lost in coastal dark in perpetuity.
The beam rises from his throat like a scream
And breaches the body, the water,
Electric storm in some smaller pocket.

The drowning man sees a light
Seeping through the cracks
In the riverbed’s depths,
And turning sees flowers
Blooming in the distant sky.