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Alessandro Cusimano

Tragic figure, bordering upon madness, driven to extremes by the dramatic consequences of the devastating Hurricane Katrina, the image of John Le Strange represents a peak of romantic idealism. Talented poet, leads a provocative and dangerous lifestyle. And dies even before his true value is recognized. Destructive impulses and attraction to death are elements shared by John and Mary, a young prostitute in New Orleans and favourite muse. Attracted by the mythical hues, macabre and vaguely erotic, his courtly and bombastic lyricism joins surreal backgrounds of Louisiana. Extremely inspiring is the intense mysticism of language and a formal rigour disguised by the moral ambiguity and oscillating positions on issues often metaphysical and theological. Themes such as death, love and religious zeal are aggravated with the taste of the horror, the sense of sin and Satanism. According to Le Strange, death must be understood as an imaginary journey to hell that is life. He is a superior spirit, capable of raising himself and perceive the most secret correspondences. And just his skills become an object of curiosity for the common people. John chooses Mary to symbolize this condition, because he places her at the highest levels of perception and sensitivity. Mary is John's attempt to escape the anguish, projecting himself outside of his personal dimension, observing the city; but the attempt is vain, because looking at New Orleans, his restless soul finds only suffering people, just like Mary. An example that describes the agony of the big city and the illusory hope of a comfort. When even this illusion vanishes, all that remains is the denial of God and the invocation of Satan, which, however, does not result useful to his flight. The last hold, for the hopeless spirit of the poet, is death, understood not as a transition to a new life but as the destruction and decay to which, however, the poet relies, in the desperate try to find, in the unknown, something new, different from the ubiquitous desolation.

Despite being dead, I keep walking around the city, I want to drink. My face is reflected on each thing and every time I have to see it again. My watch has stopped. Le Strange, my name means something in New Orleans. Le Strange, the prince of Serendip. Le Strange, the visionary. Le Strange, an enigma wrapped in a mystery. Robbed of every wonder and enchantment, the city dies in the silence of a false dawn

                                                  every wonder and enchantment

the sigh of the wind takes me to places unknown to my imagination. There where life ends, starts an adventure that whispers words that only the heart can interpret. Towards infinite dreams. A magical place where the stories of the future write the poems of the past

                                                         the stories of the future

New Orleans sinks into the hypocrisy of the best friends and the scorn of alligators. The best friends lie, the blend of the good intentions gets quickly lost. The untrue assertion spirts the clever arguments and predisposes to the prodigious. You must make friends with the lie, being ourselves hands over to the hypnosis and the paralysis, to the opposite of ability. The absolution returns a merciful grace, a sugar plum wich satisfies the lame matter. Consciousness is rude, woos the stray canard who welcomes the travail of her woman friend. The falsehood is not satisfied with the peasant scuffle, with the resentment, the amusement. Pretends and hides every policy, opinion, pandemonium, without the deception of discernment, of the wrath


                                               you must make friends with the lie     

madness seizes the sorrow and becomes a flower, meets happiness, living, for a moment, the emotion of a different life, flatters the delirium and falls in love. Where the soul, that lives life with resentment, does not scare and bewilders the reason

                                                   the emotion of a different life

Mary brings home her puppet boyfriend and plays with him. The tall covex space appears turquoise, draws a sinuous line, sensual on the perimeter, steeped in the events of others. Is the profile of a sea wave, villain of the most beautiful seawater, ensures the persistence of blue. The opposite of darkness is spreading slowly, the wave breaks regular, long, smooth. Has a changing effect, hands out colours. The night owns the future, forgives the guilt, multiplies the fixed and reflected light, surrounds the vaporous game, unties a curtain. After dark, you look and measure the content of mirrors, the anxiety of angels goes on stage, have memory, remind all. The vibrations are perpendicular, penetrate the skin, a mass of water rises and falls. Is female, able to overwhelm the spectator with the honesty of her sins, under a dim light, so as not to be seen, so you do not see the others. There's a glare, the vision is complex. A comely light, double. The volume of the music is consumed, a ruby-throated hummingbird flies free. Growing soft folds follow the trend, the long radius, the imagination to reach, the underside of the tables. Steel and water deposit the gray and blue in the depths of the deepest eyes. Wooden puppet head is sitting on himself, his face is opalescent, flattered, inspired by an happy melodrama built on the water

                                                  a mass of water rises and falls

expeditious after a rinsing, a vixen becomes Mary and hooks a wealthy sucker, next to a Babylon, hanging on a sofa. The booby dwarf takes to carouse, with the boldness and the elegant rudeness, soaking the conference with champagne. The abundance prods the lout who sinks into the spree, mortified by a flamboyant quagmire. Exhausted, does his outmost, becomes comical and rolls in the darting and whining of the female. The fowling of the simpleton happens with physiognomy and ability. Illiterate and complimentary, seems to sail by his brig, closet of shame and slovenliness of a penitent. Champagne becomes Cain and burden, wearing the excitable and the intemperance out. The brig is wrecked weakened in the trick, soaked, decimated and limp. The face stops barking and turns out joke, unfair joy and gloom. Back from the dressing room, the lady mistress comes out of the maze, wasting with a snatch the sullen nabob's hoard. Collected the discourtesies and the bundle, prevalent and laconic, slackens the soiled and ragged snare, while, lazy, the ignorant brigand, obscene and minced, cancels the boarding, stuffing himself with glances

                                                        a vixen becomes Mary

girl, curl your blond hair and run caught up in the Sun. The only shadow, on your way, diverts the light. Fragrant, young gardenia, apple so round that no snake will ever be able to encourage to leave the paradise. You do not seem on temporary holiday. A natural destiny, where time is absent or hidden in your breath, while you are focused on the hope of coming to answers, on attitudes. The day ends, fragments in sunny moments and gets lost in your blue eyes. Caress without movement, hours without tolling, fantasy without discernment, lost for the sake of living a sudden idea

                                                         hours without tolling

the gaze bends the night damp colours, new anatomies. Bold shapes wink and move, under the roses. Tasting strokes, things you can touch, perfect lipstick, clear in the stretch, creamy. Rose leaves sweeten the thorns. In summer, the night put on its coloured plumes, the great silence wakes up and takes away the agony of boredom. The wail of a rose is the cry, at night, of a carnivorous spider, with sweet mouths, showing off brand new throats, with its multiple body, innumerable and victorious

                                                 rose leaves sweeten the thorns

nymphe of the woods, mistress, seductive demon, persuasive lady, Mary. Vicious, mating of great attraction, indulgent nightmare, up to eternal damnation. Preferable, sacrilegious, immortal soul for mortal men. Plaguing all the saints, throwing unclean thoughts, in her own way, imitating all the gestures of a woman. Corpse, before the blake flame made her walk again. She will consume you, causing your desire, again and again, and you will die of exhaustion within a month

                                                       up to eternal damnation

Father which art in Heaven, along with the inspired dream of a monstrous hag
crouched on my chest, mute, immobile, malevolent. Feeling of suffocation, life-size nightmare, perched on my body, compressing, waiting for me to leave my breath. Incarnation of evil spirit, intollerable burden taking out the beat from my heart. Deadly gaze, relentless, she petrifies me with horror, performing her hits and makes my existence unbearable, a distant hope

                                                    Father which art in Heaven

Holy Spirit is not a church mouse. Is a stray queen, Our Malicious Mary, full of grace and confidences, sovereignty of mirrors and sofas. Heavenly Absinth, fragrant drink of salvation, scalds and flares up and knocks again, in the dark dirty burlesque. A jewel case for Dionysus, usable misleading, celestial female with a blessed voice, flowing in the shadows, extraordinarily restless, amused, with a principle of faith, absolutely compliant


                                            scalds and flares up and knocks again

no woman knows, for sure, if her lover is me, or not. Demon nightmare, angel fallen from grace, the most malicious insatiable lust. Lover demon, bearing down my vulnerable women, pursuing the longing. Human flesh endowed with artificial life. In her sleep, I am the husband lying beside her, I am the next-door neighbor, I am the young and attractive stable boy. And the nun claims to be assaulted by the prelate. And the unholy offspring takes the image of suspect twins, of evil look daughters, of Merlin the Wizard. Beloved Mary, I will pick up hundreds of stones and built a wall around you, so high, you will no longer be able to leave your bed if you do not use a ladder

                                                         angel fallen from grace

hellish exile of the east peacocks, worship of the great flame, ray of the vain vampire. In the pagan temple a creole beauty crosses the pavilion with the half-mask and the rule of the despot queen, winning the pedestal. In the underworld of the ragged little girls, her serpentine allures each sharp talisman, every drunk javelin. In her room, bricks with a transparent bark, tapestries, mats, torn canvases, decorated shutters climb up from time to time, a cobalt coloured carpet draws chinese ideograms. Oriental lamps similar to distant galaxies with a bright opacity commend the pale meeting of demons and witches, the pandemonium. The stubborn emptiness of chatters attracts the discontent and an intermittent fever in the meaningless space of a vacant abyss. Myriads, gaps, secrets, the profane grants the Sabbath, the small of the abuse, the crackable demonic. The officiants pass the sentence, the holocaust of pythonic. Her hair detains the instant century,
with the favorite balsam, fruity. The loss is made elixir, essence and flower. The guillotine runs through the hazel thinness with the rush of maltreatment. Dishevelled, wrapped in a tipsy cloth, the lifeless body on the infamous slope, cold, in the shade of slaughter

                                                            the pandemonium

yet I get delicate perceptions, genuine, or otherwise desperate and, however, capable of confessing love, of taking my hand, of making me understand. And if the world I have chosen is a world in the feminine, I follow, with sense of devotion, patterns emerging from my imagination. I let myself fall and see Mary in her poignant naturalness, because I simply yield to her as she to herself. Everything ends with the beginning of a smile. What I see comforts me so much. My essence and matter, my escape, a revolution in space and time. A blonde girl, bride and melancholy sister, as the relationship among sisters are when are touching. Promising creature of the afterlife, I see her browning, the hair draws her in the most handsome figures, exhalts her wanton malice and the affected exuberance donated by a liturgical Sun

                                                promising creature of the afterlife

immortal embrace of a fragrant victress. Caressing, bodily shape mimosa, carnal scent of Louisiane, female equivalent of a tempting faun able to appear bronzed, statuesque. Rising hues verging on rosy, surrounded by a medieval ocean, immense sacred vestments, the courting of a majestic Moon. Remembrance in love with the perpetual symphony of the thunder, sword of unusual brilliance, shining armour. The selfishness holds back, the moment puts off, torments itself. Flashing with anger in the unfair oblivion and resents, swearing black is white, making a dash for the twilight, even now

                                                       symphony of the thunder

the Infant Devil is not a childish epiphany, is a breathtaking ride, a foundling with the face hidden, a child always first, with a frantic laughter, has the Seven of Diamonds. A little boy saddened by the opening of the womb of a lean mother and given to a vigorous nurse, crazy about him. A sharp-shooter, a heedless burglar who causes insecurity and whispers like a locomotive, bangs every idiot and babbling boor, slamming the door. The frenzy of an obedient inquisition, a lawyer who doesn't seek to make money, a poison that does not grope, the rattle of a long-running torpedo

                                                a foundling with the face hidden

if the Judgment did not lay the blame on me, the defeat. If the Assassin asked for mercy. Under a priesthood of disgrace, the Whitish Light of the Icy God is in love with the beloved first blood in the morning. In the pale carnage, short bodies fall reddish on the Stone Earth. Half a shadow of the vermillion child glides along the blade-beast of a bluebottle-razor. In a rusty and purple garden, the amaranth sting whips the shot and the Martyrdom with the rope flame. If Endless Father shed his own blood, if Heaven had no more blood. If, Enemy of God, I were a butterfly. If, Demon of Devils, I accepted, on a whim, the agony and invoked, sweetly, the madness. If I upheld, I swear, the torment, if implored mercy. If, Beautiful Prince, I tore my teeth and my eyes. If small arms, rich in blood, waved flags painted like butterfly wings

                                                  in a rusty and purple garden

I am the nervous wandering, the arabesque, the disorder. I am the restless story, the agony in cage, the excellent madman. Mementos, still in the light, cast into a bottomless pit, before a regret depicted by the frosty warmth of my pale smile


Alessandro Cusimano was born in Palermo, Sicily, Italy, on July 2, 1967. He lives in Rome, where he is jewelry designer, writer, poet, translator. Son of a painter and a teacher, his life was marked, very young, by recurrent and painful bouts of depression. Nevertheless, this does not detract him from research and study of narrative techniques, his poetic style; with a special focus on visual arts, from painting to cinema, from photography to theatre, lived with deep introspection. Anarchist and visionary, painful and surreal, his works reflect on anxiety, crush conventions and illusions, proclaiming, with a barrage of words, that life is, by its nature, a scandal. An unconventional path, funny and desperate, populated by staring puppets and strange creatures whose life unfolds between sarcasm and resentful emotion.

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