I hold an MA in Arts and I’m currently a Phd candidate in Linguistic and Literary Sciences through the University of Udine (Italy) and UNISA. My studies focus on migrant writers in Italy and South African literature, and I’m completing my PhD thesis on South African spoken word art. I’ve published articles, essays, translations, interviews, short stories and poems in several volumes and journals, and I’ve edited I nostri semi/Peo tsa rona, an anthology of South African spoken word poetry.As an editor, I seat on the board of literary journals Le Simplegadi (online) and Oltreoceano and collaborate with Sagarana (online). As a cultural activist, I was the co-founder of the International Music and Literature Festival on Migrant Cultures Udine Solidale, and have organized literary events within the Rototom Sunsplash European Reggae Festival.
I am a vegetarian, father of lovely Atisa and husband of inspiring Natalia, I don’t have (and don’t want) a TV and my hero is Prince.
why should our true self be concealed?
(inspired by king senzangakhona, bill hicks, thomas hardy, krs one and some few other guys I am too lazy to mention here)
why should our true self be concealed?
is it because we regret we conceded to impulse
or is it because we are frightened by the dormant mob’s impulsive reaction?
why should our shame be concealed?
is it because tomorrow would be
a different today
reflecting the shades
of the rendition of
our guiltless nakedness?
while trapped in barless cages in slowly
vibrating penitentiaries
we have patiently fabricated
for ourselves
we let embarrassment and grudge be
our bully fellow inmates
instead of happily jumping on the giant
parrot’s open wings and let them carry us away
towards heaven
in the gliding and noiseless stream of our existence
we lay back and watch
behaving like intuitionless white sheeps barked at
by foaming german shepards
covered in gold, blood and holy shit
dominating the valley of hate from
the bloodstained top of cursed stones
and while rabid dogs spit thick terror
driving the herd towards a nearby gulch
we bow our heads and wear outfashioned sins
(with a certain unconfessed pride, indeed)
instead of getting dressed in unconditional
unconditioned love
and hence feeling as a snake must feel
who has sloughed off its winter skin
and indulges in the ecstasy of the sensitiveness of its
new one
we fear
we let our true self be concealed
slam doors in angels’ faces
and allow empty demons be the emcees of
the only poetry event
we have ever been officially invited to
an open mic session
called life
– end –
roadblock (unawareness)
the street to get to the grand hotel was blocked
the block hijacked by a bunch of fat bankers and
stinkin world businessmen
“wassup?”
i ask the lady cop
“top secret, top secret”
she mumbles
her eyes spearing through me
glaring at distant sights
despite her icing gaze
she’s kinda
yummy
her lips caressed by stardust brushstrokes
her eyelids varnished in brown wash
her hair laced in ochre ribbons
her nails caressed by amaranths delicacy
her gold-plated earrings lulled by spring breeze
she radiates the glowing beams of twilight rainbows
her blistering gun
giving off the familiar aromas
of choicelessness
one sniffs in lotto queues
where comforting unevenness
mesmerizes people into a state
of complacent inertia
her kids at home are playing hide-n-seek
while mummy’s body
is shielding
unknowingly
to protect and serve
those who are plotting
to make them grow up
in a global dictatorship
– end –
