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Dear Dad.

You who are now in the heavenly pastures, in the earthly pastures, in
the marine pastures.
You who are in the human pastures. You who vibrate in the air. You
who still love your son Alesi Eros.
You who have wept for your son. You who follow his life with your
vibrations past and present.
You who are loved by your son. You who solely existed in him. You
who are called dead, ash, garbage.
You who are for me my protecting shadow.
You who at this moment I love and feel closer than anything else.
You who are and will be my life’s photocopy.

That I was 6 or 7 when I saw you Handsome - strong - proud -assured - daring respected and feared by others, that I was 10 or 11 when I saw you violent, absent, bad, that I saw you as the ogre that I judged you a Bastard because you beat my mum.
That I was 13 or 14 when I saw you saw yourself losing your role.
That I saw you saw the rise of my new role, of my mother’s new role.
That I was 15 and a half when I saw you saw the gallons of wine and bottles of brandy increasing at a frightening rate.
That I saw you saw the look in your eyes was no longer handsome,
strong, proud, upright, respected and feared by others.
That I saw you saw my mother growing distant. That I saw you saw the beginning of an ordinary tragic undoing.
That I saw you saw the gallons of wine and bottles of brandy
increasing at a great rate.
That I was 15 and a half that I saw you saw that I was running away
from home, that my mother was running away from home.
That you wanted to play Tough.
That you did not stop anyone.
That you ended up alone in a self-contained two-bedroom flat.
That the gallons of wine and bottles of brandy kept increasing.
That one day. That the day. You came to pick me up from the police station cells in Milan I saw you saw yourself alone. That you wanted either your wife or your son or both in that self-contained two-bedroom flat. That I saw you saw you would do anything to have that back.
That I saw you saw your hand stretched out in a gesture of peace, an armistice.
That I saw you saw a gob of spit on your hand.
That I saw you saw your eyes weeping solitude caked with punitive,
masochistic blood.
That I saw. That you saw the desire to punish your life.
That I saw you saw the desire not to suffer. That I saw you saw the
gallons of wine and bottles of brandy kept on increasing.
That I saw you saw at that time your future life.
That I knew you knew that your son was an addict that your wife was carrying another man’s child (the child she would not give you).
That I saw you saw 3 years go by. That I saw you saw that on 09/12/69 you did not come to visit me in the madhouse. Because you had died.
That now you see I see. That now you are the first that you play this
dead man's hand as the dead man.
But that you play anyway, that now you see I see that I worship you that I love you from the depths of my being.
That now you see I see that my mother thinks ruefully of. ALESI
FELICE FATHER OF ALESI EROS.
That now you see I see that I have once again fled towards solitude.
That you see I see only vast huge blackness the same blackness I saw you saw.
That now you will continue to see what I see.

                                                   *

That dear father I will tell you about my journey to India. That I am
sure, certain you are listening.
That it’s been several months on amphetamines. That at a certain point amphetamines were impossible to find in chemists’. That the black market was extortionate. That my journey to Naples - return ticket - that Naples was almost a virgin market for amphetamines. That the return ticket to Rome ended up in a toilet. That one month in Naples, a city that wants to move with the times albeit retaining an unnoticeable traditionalism - that in Naples, Piazza Municipio, there was Gionata Usi, Lorens and many others. That everyday two three bottles of Ritalin-Metredrina-Desoxyn-Psichergina-Tempodex. That then the chance of a ten thousand lire theft and my obsessive paranoia brought me to Foggia - that escape to Manfredonia - that the only hippy in Manfredonia gives me his ID card - that I hitch-hike on to Brindisi - that your spirit, your words, your molecules helped me along. That I find five thousand lire enough to sail to Gominizza - that then father nothing, no hypodermics no intravenous. That I just travelled mostly on foot, on the hairpin bends of the mountains that are Salonica’s dividing line. That in Salonica I met with a Frenchman ripe for a just and unjust revenge. That dear dad he was ripe for goddess and ungoddess death. That he returned to France that I was heading for Istanbul. 
That dear father Istanbul reminds us - reminds me of a year in jail.
That dear father I love you and have nearly always loved you. That I did not want your anxiety, your grief. That I arrive in Istanbul with a faked ID card, without a Turkish penny. That I steal two passports, an amazing watch and some loose change. That in Istanbul I was injecting immemorable doses of opium tincture. That I was serene, that I wasn’t thinking of you except in short bursts. That after the theft an obsessive paranoia. That a taxi to Eastern Istanbul. That paranoia was corroding me. That at last Izmit. That I meet a Frenchman on his maiden voyage. That I work in Modino thanks to my knowledge of Turkish. That one afternoon from inside a fourth-class hotel. That here George Souterbanc leaves his trousers containing passport and two hundred and fifty dollars at the foot of the bed. That dear father great introspective struggle. That in the end I flee with the Frenchman’s trousers. That a taxi. That 50 grams of liquid opium. That a village whose name I don’t remember I take a bus heading for Ankara. That obsessive paranoia. That in Ankhara plane to Erzurum. That hours counted through a dropper. That finally heading for Iran. That three days travelling drinking the stomach-turning liquid of liquid opium. That first stop the customs, and my opium safe. That then Tabriz, a few hours’ rest. That dates and apples I bought. That finally Tehran. That Amircabir Hotel the moneyed tourists’ Hotel. That opium and heaps. That heroin five times, smoked, as per local custom. That sniffing - that fixing. That I was expecting more from the queen of drugs. That twenty 32 mg. morphine tablets. That chillum. That counting. That a new theft (transistor watch) that less paranoia than the first time. That a train for Mescad. That the last pennies for Herat (Afghanistan). That in Herat help because of reciprocated liking for a German kid. That travelling to Kandar I meet an old French companion, Franswas. That together we eke it out on the last money I’ve left from the petty little theft of a few vials of morphine.
That the self was travelling. That the self was reduced to colourful rags. That the bells were tolling. That they were tolling 12, slowly. That I would love to drink a glass of cold milk.

                                                     *

Dear, sweet, good, humane, sociable mother morphine. That you only you sweetest mother morphine have loved me like I wanted. You loved me whole. I am the fruit of your blood. That you only you succeeded in making me feel secure. That you succeeded in giving me the quantity of happiness indispensable to my survival. That you gave me a home, a hotel, a bridge, a train, a doorway, I accepted them, that you gave me the whole friendly universe.
That you gave me a social role, that requests and gives. That at 15 I
accepted to live as a ‘man’ human being only because you were there, you who offered yourself to create me anew. That you taught me to take my first steps. That I learnt my first words. That I felt the first pains of my new life.
That I felt the first pleasures of my new life. That I learnt to live as I had always dreamt I would live. That I learnt to live under your care, the numberless attentions of mother morphine. That I will never be able to renege my past with mother morphine. That gave me so much. That saved me from a suicide or a madness that had all but destroyed my life jacket.
That today 22/12/1970 I can scream out once again to myself, to others, to all that is noble strength, that nothing and nobody ever gave me as much as my benefactor, adopter, mother morphine. That you are boundless love boundless charity. That I will leave you only when I am mature for my friend death or when I can rely on my own strength enough to be able to stand without mother morphine’s powerful vitamins.

                                                  *

That you through all the streets and alleys in the world, that I either in a madhouse or a jail of whatever city in the world.
That twice this sad reality posited itself and both times I have run to your magical and mysterious home, the Orient and both times I have
embraced you again with all the love you have taught me to have.

                                                  *

That I am fresh out of the madhouse a third time, a third enforced
separation from you MOTHER MORPHINE. That I am sure, that I am almost sure, that before long I will be embracing you again.
That two thirty of 23rd December 1970 people talking about my search, search only I have engaged in that only I and mother morphine know, that only I and she have continued in the search for new truths mine and for me like the truth I love Giorgio. Like the truth of two who are looking in the other room for someone to impersonify him.
That I’m in touch with Giorgio.
That I felt Ettore go down and I don’t like to be the sole winner that I am terrified of ending up alone, under any condition. But that I have to be alone to become Buddha.
That at 4.10 I heard Ettore’s voice loudly and clearly implicating me in his grief. That Giorgio’s voice pointed to the truth.
That at 4.20 in Piazza Bologna me and the essence, the memory, the
impression of Giorgio gave the others one big gob of spit. Because they were not like us. That in a while the Bonaventura family will find the dearlittle warmth it seeks in a bed in the house on via Andrea Fulvio.
That I want no wounded.

                                                  *

That the commune of via Andrea Fulvio contributed to the formation of my defence army. Army that has to defend itself from its own state.
That the commune, like the fact I was expelled from India and like many other facts screamed out to me that the enemy I identified, and perhaps still identify, with other living beings was nothing but my own self. That perhaps at this point I could say that my flight my insisting upon my role, my journey turns nefarious at the same level at which it can be furthered by good omens.
That I left the commune of via Andrea Fulvio with a bitter taste in my
mouth.
Perhaps I should have given time the time to sweeten it.
At this point I no longer understand anything, I no longer know. I know I’m on a train to Brindisi - that the rest belongs to afterwards, to the bright and black tomorrows. That I write, that I have written.

                                                  *

29/1/1971 Rome
That green grass, shady and fresh. That the great sea of great relaxedness appears. That Rome, the athletic breeze of February 1970, that the breeze of 6th February 1970, opportunistically and indifferently covers my truths with its sand. Who knows! After how much coagulated blood I shall fall into the destructo-creative machine of the universe.
That today I am happy to be what I am, to rest my feet on the marble of Trinità dei Monti, to smoke a filterless gauloises. That I am the sky blue of a watercolour palette. That the diamond gong thriceshivers intermittently a rhythmically rhytmical sound. That throbbing tattoo.
That the warm wave travels warmly. That the warm wave penetrates all matter. That I seek silence. That I seek silence filled with sweet perfumes.
That the neuropathic, neuroparanoid silence

That I am happy. That I am happy rejoicing in the void, the empty void. The empty void that encloses nothing, not even happiness. That still the illusory, delicate beneficial friend, true lover, humanely godly god, dogma believed in from the depths of the heart. That it slips into the blood like a good thief. That the candle weeps the last tears of its body. That I scream out my joy at being. That I scream out my joy at being able to scream out my doubtful serenity. That I feel the flash of love, peace, serenity, trust, of living without thinking. That I god. That I great god. That I greatest god. That I believed-in dogma. That the waves vibrate. That the vibrational waves bounce back.. That the marks drawn on this sheet leave the vibrational waves. That these marks are part of my situational dimension.That blagging. That blagging is part of my situational dimension. That in the middle of my chest I feel forces pushing against my ribcage. That I feel forces at war. That I feel a great force. Force raging for an outlet. Force at war. Force that would create. Force that already has created.

                                                  *

I was 14 when the flesh of my being turned into warm bone. I was 14 when the flesh of my worm turned into warm bone. And it curved like the muzzle of a trotting horse over the curls of two lips suckling the seed of life. Three crosses and a beardless friar, on the earth that drinks the blood of God/Love for the situation that was born/That the vibrating waves rend the darkness and the thick nebulous density of my truths. And the great refusal of the scarlet shroud of death. That I am weeping over a notebook found in the Pincio caves. Green grass shady and fresh. That the great sea of relaxedness. That Rome. That the big raindrops and atlantic breeze of March 6, 1970. That from those with their own wave to the great sounds that the breeze of March 6, 1970 is covering in the sand of opportunistically situational indifference, the massacres, the carnage of my truths. After how much coagulated blood shall I mass up my creed in the destructo-creative machine of space.

                                                  *

O dearest.
O masterful death.
O supremely serene death.
O invoked death.
O fearsome death.
O indecipherable death.
O strange death.
O long live death.
O death which is death.
Death that puts a stop to this vibrating lightning bolt.