Born in Milan, Massimo Fantuzzi lives in Leicestershire. Author of Marcia Gioie, a collection of poems and prose poems (Alkalea, 1999). Since 2001 works in education supporting SEND individuals in various settings. British resident from 2005, naturalized citizen in 2014. His poems have recently been published in Poetry WTF?!, Morphrog (#21) and are forthcoming in Poetry Salzburg Review (#37), Triggerfish Critical Review (#25) and The Bombay Gin (#46).
PRAYER, HIJACKED ONE
(With all the best intentions, perhaps purposefully of them, your cursive raids and your looped steals.)
In a suspended of bassoon your garden stalls
in a tally of plumage answers and chimera enters you, composer.
Pale redness stands here rehashed, disgrace walk halfway up the orchard. Some lemons drop at your feet, some will hang down from your newly earned twang, so to speak, only a lean bronze turned to gold by a procession touch of hands, vox populi, opulence of wasps the open trinkets
the life I do not let to equate, spiders and steps in spiral to give birth the side of the grave
the hour unstill, gone out and flushed
swamping in wine any intendment ahead.
‘Speaking of my quirks (but they were really so many???), yes, in my handwriting I still have the capital R in the woRds and, perhaps you won’t remember, there was and there is also the capital B.’
Of which, given timetable mostly makeshift, perverted motion appeared in a fuller green to flower the beetleweed amongst your augmented thoughts between reordered falls and purrs, the continuous drops through the botched job of that roof,
keep next door in their stagnant puddle, curse the heavens then start a dugout.
Scrap that last one, higher ground is what will save you
riding mattress that little longer insane.
‘The only minefield I can see here is if we keep running into each other behind every corner and every door.’
Dragonfly, verb, and butterfly, verb again as shaping, noun, subordinate contents, noun again.
To feel, tremor the rain over what has gone lost, soon retrieved, bet and lost again.
Will it be enough now, enough: pendulum of notes and keys either black continuous ones, flat or plain white, petite after your fatigues leaving to guess shades on freckles under the canopy.
To clarinet’s pallor
sing but your bliss,
alone, flood and tired tint I can’t June no more, undressed
laggard in leaves and wish for simple sleep: Mays or so I should attempt,
early crops from flute reflect, soil where we crumbled playing good shepherds.
‘Quite an erotic picture, maybe that's just me.
However, no doors, no corridors and certainly no corners right now.’
Wednesday’s farmers’ market brought you colours in baskets and in ordained paths, having dug the flavours out of memories and swallowed imagination: there is still the trouble in reading, for the two geometrical points are seen incapable to host and stick a line amongst the infinitudes that meet them.