A Tale of the Ragged Copybooks & Eyes in black
To “translate” my collection of poems into a real book, I took part in a rave(n) party organized by the famous Edgar Allan Poe in some Grand Hotel’s vast basement.
I can remember a large open space, where lots of cawing black birds were frenziedly dancing to weird, delirious songs played by the renowned rook (pardon, rock) band “Lady Ligeia and The Hip Hop Frogs”. Nearby there was also a wide soundproof lounge, provided with curious furniture: I mean many busts of Minerva, entirely covered with perching crows which, having just smoked some opium, were obsessively croaking with a torpid rhythm: «No Baltimore… no Baltimore». I do still hear their cacophonous cries merging into an asynchronous boozy chorus.
Well, it was in such a “concert hall” that the great Bostonian, who looked rather drunk, suddenly rose from his armchair and shouted at me in a fit of rage: «You innovative authors are literally insufferable! I abhor your style and new work. I prefer New York!». In spite of the fact that the true sense of his arcane words is, even now, not completely clear to me, I immediately deduced from the wild way he tore up the copybooks containing my texts in verse, that he would never recommend me to any publisher and that I would thus remain what I already was and shall forever be: a well-unknown writer, an anonymous John “Poe”.
Eyes in black
To get ready in a proper way for each of his numerous siestas or nights in aeroplane seats, the commercial traveller would draw out from his shoulder bag a strongly dark-coloured object, at which he gazed gratefully. Then he used to think, as if praying: «You’re the only one I can wear in public even before and after carnival time, without making people laugh at me. Thank you very much indeed for giving me this further opportunity to safely show my soul to everybody! Or, at least, to the passenger nearby…». Oh yes, quite so: while resting on board some flight, as a rule he kept his eyes clothed in deep black. It was not owing to any attempt at preventing electric and natural light from troubling his sleep, but because –as a child– he continously dreamt of becoming Zorro.