Untitled

The bells of Santa Maria Novella
are ringing.
Roaring savagely.
Prowling close.
Seeming to be
hunting the devils,
on each and every street of Italy.

Such a damning sound.
I feel my soul burning.
Bleeding.
In unison with my ears.

What infernal sounds to make,
for something claiming to be so holy.

Bells ringing again.
Each morning. Each afternoon.
Disturbing my sleep. My thinking.
The mind rebels against them.
Twisting.
Like a worm in the fire.

Inside the house,
a voice murmurs.
Always wanting to talk.
The radio wants to talk.
The phone wants to talk.
The Tv wants to talk as well.
I just want music
to fill these echoing chambers.
Instruments of silence. Of peace.
But Violins whisper of Violence
while pianos paint veils of intricate madness.

I am barefoot and half naked
roaming the halls of this 3 chambered apartment
like a ghost of semi-luxury.
I am Alone,
roasted by a sun I don't wish to see today.
Oh dark jazz how you soothe me!
I seem to forget my body
when we both dance,
eyes closed,
away from the curious eyes of the city.
You dance with my body
and I with what is left of me.

And then the bells again,
howling accusingly:
Oh Christian, your inferno is the memory!