TITLE TWO Of Carcasses & Music

By Luca Ceccato

"Welcome into my biochemistry. Have a nice trip!", writes the author as the starting point of, and the key to, this collection of 43 poems (all translated to Italian - testo a fronte in italiano) which has the sound – sounds - of thirteen years of words and life (2003-2015).
Inside, there are light, body, notes, the hallucinogens of fantasy, monkeys and dogs, mud, wax matches of relief mostly clubbed by a lump of evil (hence the "carcasses" of the title) with big lungs, nails, drops of woman, and the footsteps of her absence.
Inside there are tricks, and sincerity. And a Sound Diary.
In short, while reading these lines, one finds the voice of sensations, more than that of sense, and a relentless, yet almost subterranean, hunt for a crumb of beauty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781445798004

Book preview

Hi pal!

This is the author writing.

First of all, thanks a whole bunch for giving this ebook a try (especially if you’re paying for it)!

If you're reading it for free, though, well, that means the copyright thing didn't work quite as supposed to…

Now, I'm aware of the fact that you most probably wouldn't have considered these poems hadn't you found them somewhere for free. Nevertheless, once you're done with the reading, please consider what follows.

You can easily find this e-book on sale on many on-line platforms, mostly for about a couple of EUR/USD. Spending that change, for you, wouldn't - I sincerely hope so - change a bit, while for me, it'd mean to have the satisfaction of earning (even if it’s just some cents a copy) from a work of mine. And, who knows, in the long run, maybe to make enough money to pay a couple of bills.

Anyway. Enjoy!

LC

This collection of poems has the sound – sounds - of thirteen years of words and life (2003-2015).

Inside, there are light, body, notes, the hallucinogens of fantasy, monkeys and dogs, mud, wax matches of relief mostly clubbed by a lump of evil (hence carcasses) with big lungs, nails, drops of woman, and the footsteps of her absence.

Inside, there are tricks, and there is sincerity.

Above all, there is what I look for when I read poetry and write poetry: the voice of sensations, more than of sense, and the relentless, yet almost subterranean, hunt for a crumb of beauty.

***

The collection dies with a Sound Diary, 'cause it fits that the end credits of a portfolio of words (that is, a crowd of notes) be made of songs' titles.

Then silence gets back, and it kind of annoys me, when something's over. So I draw, a tail of three small groups of verses, and I say goodbye, with the calm of the smoke and the malice of the monkey, to the reader's ear, the chest, in other words, where the voices of brain and