Christopher A. Cipollini
Poetry & Text
There is no form of art finer then writing and poetry, and love both dearly. Here, you can see videos of my reads and texts of some of my poems and random acts of creativity.
"Madaline"
A poetic interpretation of a last letter from the Marquis deSade to his lover before his death in 1814. "My dear Madeleine, Day by day, I feel the crippling sphere of this supposed reality as my perception shifts wayward into delirium. The silken sheen of my world is laden with festering holes easily gazed through. Oh, how I see my world unfurling! How a proper duel would stir my blood, a bit of candlelit savagery, the throbbing within my codpiece. My blade is so savory and sharp-ready and waiting for a duel once more. 'Tis no creature's firm flesh more yearned for then a simple pot of ink and a parchment roll or goosefeather quill to purge my woes. Now world, do I suffer for my sins. 'Tis the clench of one's fist that makes one a man, but tis the grasping claw of a crazed devil that makes one a sinner. A lecherous priest, an unspoken sin,a skillful tyrant, a shadow complete. The memorization of forbidden words. I alone have surrendered myself to a pleasure most unholy. I alone have laid with pain and ecstasy. I alone have placed my tongue upon the hip of unrest and maneuvered into delight. I alone have yielded,beyond pleasure, beyond pain, beyond passion, beyond obscenity-to the divine." Forever yours, -Donatien
Copyright. Chris Cipollini
2014
"Between Worlds"
For the travelers
I have ventured between worlds.
I have laid next to a dying fox with a silvery streaking tail and called to who knows what.
I have placed my hand on the hourglass and wondered, "if only this could be true". I have ventured through the dark forest in my mind, heeding the call of maurading drums heralding the oncoming dawn.
I have sat beneath the ficus tree in sterile man made environs and wondered "what else is there?" I have careened through the rivers of my land,dodging nets and scaly vines seeking stray roots to climb.
I have sat at the edge of a trash heap of existence, my eyes thick my tears and oils, too absorbed to think. I have glided, beyond care and concern on the backs of beasts bucks and bulls on the winds of imagination, hands outstretched on a midsummer evening, as the falcons gave their final cry to the night.
I have wandered through the abandoned room of my elders, passing a mirror forgotten whilst dreading tomorrow, placing my finger on it's glided lips.
I have seen the light of day and come back again. I have seen all that was made for me. I have held the gaze of this stranger and wondered, "who could this be?"