I'm very pleased to announce that 'Misconceptions of Love and Hate' is now available to be purchased as a book. For more information you can click on the following link:



http://www.xlibris.com.au/bookstore/bookdisplay.aspx?bookid=502648

somehow

somehow
when I talk to her
she likes to
let her hair down
like the curtain
of the night
and then I smile
and then she laughs
and in that moment
everything's alright.
somehow
when I talk to her
she seduces the living soul
out of me
yes, even when I talk
she does that
easily
she bites her lip
to dispute my concentration
and I lose the track of thoughts
after that manipulation.
somehow
when I talk to her
she dictates the notes
secretly creating
the memory
in this song
and I think she knows
all along, oh yes
I think she knows
that somehow
we're both guilty
of these unraveled
pleasures
and the mischievous
thoughts.










© Tom Del Braco

quilty

no one is to blame.
culprits,
they are a relative phenomena.
they appear obsessed
with innocence and thoughts
that they are all just victims
of naive propaganda
by the corrupt consciousness.

and they're not guilty,
although sometimes I believe
I knew how to think quite
the opposite;

they are.

that insignificant indifference
towards them
makes me guilty as well.

now I understand;
I have supported all of the lucid ideas
by staging moral scorn
towards social norms;
I'm guilty.

cynicism, hypocritical narcissism
are only a part of
the rotten human mind
for which I would point out
all of the non-existent values
if I'm not of sound mind.
luckily, I am
so I will not.

clearly - in the environment
with no witnesses
we're all
guilty.

therefore,
I give up.









© Tom Del Braco











 

the feeling is right

she's quite something, you know.

we never really understood

each other

that well before. I know that now.

but what we have today

is way beyond

understanding.

we have respect. we learned.

we accepted each other

for who we are

and we know we're not perfect.

and so we moved on from there.

with the new found freedom we started

to love our friendship again.

and that friendship is bringing us closer.

weird... we needed to move away

from each other

to get

closer

to each other.

life can be

goddamn ironic sometimes,

you get really surprised.

we've gone full circle.

we got our relationship

reincarnated.

we've beaten the odds.

we will be

ok.

© Tom Del Braco

 

Iris

among the planets and the stars

you know very well
that there are stars
in the sky

and planets
among them.

so even though your hands
can not reach
that high

in a dream
you fly happily
over there.

you want the moon
to be
the cradle of that dream

and you
a child who wanders
through those highs;

a child
among those planets
and the stars

who knows that the world
is only
a small toy--

a truly small toy
in the arms
of
the universe.










© Tom Del Braco

comfortable silence

hole

it's the kind

of a day

I'm yet to understand.

once again

in a lousy mood

and it sucks to be

stuck

in this hole.

I know

there are those worse

than me

but somehow

I don't feel I'm

any better.

there are things

that make me

feel good:

the excitement of

buying the book;

the fresh smell of paper;

a poem written;

a decent human conversation

excluding vanity;

Bukowski's Madness;

a touch of luck;

the feeling of fulfilment reached

with good music;

a message of encouragement.

but now

I'm empty.

empty as a trash can

in a haunted house.

empty as a politicians

promise.

empty as a following thought written

on a blank peace

of paper:

we're all

just the same; we are only

borrowers

on this planet

and that is a simple

truth.

empty

as this hole

I'm in.

maybe

I should get

a cat?

I like cats.

they'll stick with you

for as long as you

feed them and

occasionally

pat them.

even if you don't

they'll find the way

to survive.

they'll move on

to better things.

with no fuss.

I'm sure

they'll even know the way-

the way out

of this

hole.

© Tom Del Braco

 

penetration

put together as one piece
and then destroyed by
the explosion within;
now, that's what I call the
ending, the burning of my skin.
tempering with thoughts
to be outside this simple box,
revolutionised self-being,
aggressively lethargic in
total misunderstanding.
unshaven and let loose
in the kingdom of misused,
penetrated with silence
I scream what I desire.

and now I wonder
if you know
what
sets me on fire?

walking on
the
thin
wire.











© Tom Del Braco

the mirror

finger in the eye

 

a toast

with the bottle

of red

and my laptop

tonight

I will salute

all the women

in my life

that made me feel

miserable

to say

THANK YOU

for the heartbreaks

the loss of innocence

for a dirty mind

for helping me discover

what love really is

for the first fuck

I remember all too well

(but one I would

rather like to

forget)

and for everything that's

better left

unsaid

because you were

the real teachers
in my life

(when I paid attention)

and I still love you

all

with no

exception.

© Tom Del Braco

 

the burning

to do it alone
to be dethroned
to follow
to follow the words
unknown
to be a poet
without suffocation
to set him on fire
without hesitation
to be able to hear
the undeniable
truth
to be able to heal
when it hurts
to be able
to say
that I won't obey
to you
my master
your rules of play

to be able to hide

and show myself

again

to be able to kill

the pretentious

madman

but I'm still alive
with this fire within
and I'll be pushed

again
but I will
win.

 © Tom Del Braco

the cupboard

 

I remember

I wasn't ready
as a child
to understand
the expectations
for myself.


Even now
I'm surprised
with the answers.

















© Tom Del Braco














 

the art of being invisible

there's a certain world

around me.

everywhere

I turn.

people are there

but I'm not.

among them
I'm irrelevant

and I'm sorry.

different worlds of desire

exist around me

flying as winds

and they're tied by

soft foundations of their

relationships and their

heartbreaks;

and I

understand them

but they don't understand

me

and I'm sorry.

there's

an eternal dreamer

living among you.

and you don't even know how
the darkness

is only one silk curtain

under which

he's happy to hide

until it gets eaten up

by moths of the

morning sun.

and he's a star in the sky

flickering

as if every moment

he's about to fall

on one's palm

to be strengthened by its

mystique.

but he doesn't fall;

he disappears in the light of a day

because then

he doesn't belong

among you

and for that
he is not sorry.

and you should maybe try
to understand

why

because he can't.

 © Tom Del Braco

the instrument of surrender

probably the most tragic thing about poets
is their comical nature,
and what's really comical about them
is their incomprehensible
tragedy.

dreams are eaten up
by a harsh reality
and almost every written poem is
in fact
a signature page of surrender.

too weak
for such a battle, in life
they almost always remain
defeated.









© Tom Del Braco












 

(home)less

it's only a repetition
alarm bell knocking on the door
of a cold Ackland street
the fork of life is lost
in singularity
and the night stabbed with a knife
not young any more
principles are irrelevant
regardless of their faith
some
people
always
feel
alone
like an attitude
against the rules of life
a lack of fortune exposed
like a sadness on the face
of a merciful coin sleeping
in a hat.









© Tom Del Braco













 

not today

I still don't understand why
I started writing poems.
and why poems
rather than
novels?
ah, I've heard the stories that life writes them for us.
and I believed in that once.
I even believed that there's one
perfect poem hidden in all of us,
the one in which we'll be able to fit our entire life.
but I'm still looking.
still searching for it.
and I can't remember when it became an obsession,
the dependence on finding spontaneously devastating words.
an obsession as real as drinking
to a broken man,
inhaling smokes of cigarettes
to a penitent sinner,
sex without discrimination
to the masochist.
something like masturbation to the climax
of the last word in the mosaic.
and each new poem
in a unique way
becomes a new thought orgasm. a miracle.
but I don't understand why
when I write
it has nothing to do with the actual words,
but it's all just the sigh of the storm.
I don't understand why those words are sometimes
like ghosts in the fog
that speak a foreign language.
maybe it's all a matter of projection,
black and white film, a negative
awaiting processing to be converted into the
positive image.
and maybe one day
it will make sense, but today
I don't know.
I don't understand.
I can't remember
why.









© Tom Del Braco