SPOTLIGHT: Confessions Of A Pregnant Man by Aldo Quagliotti

Who told you that men cannot get pregnant? Since when, exactly, pregnancy was merely addressed to children? After his fiery debut with Japanese Tosa (London Poetry Books), Aldo Quagliotti’s return is once again in the name of experimental, adult Poetry. Confessions Of A Pregnant Man is an Ode to human imagination and a personal love letter from the author. Through a new collection of selected work, the author travels through undisciplined subjects with a critical eye, sometimes skipping cordiality and jumping to passionate statements but always delivering undoubtedly originals points of view. Ironical and irreverent, at times mystical and lyrical, this new chapter will plant the seed for a new generation of riotous, queer, alternative approach to the Spoken Word scene.

Pregnant

My ankles are swelling
the musculoskeletal call
is a muezzin chant
artform still undefined
a translucent hug
circling divinities
a bowel movement
that is the Earth’s navel
a feathery rhyme
a waxy protective coating
a watery pre-milk
is a displacement of waves
heartburn, falling in love with
life thickens
the idea of justice, miracle,
loving with gusto
a head-down creature
renewing your life

I want to write
what shuts me up

9-months hiatus
before I meet my future
immodestly showering
in front of me

Looks

I adore when they jabber away
their incomprehensible poultries of nothing
I believe Coronavirus was Jesus undercover
an inexorable recall, peregrinating to see
how hard it is touch each other
as a raconteur witnessing the end of civilization
an otiose migratory group
oscillating between inattention and carelessness

the querulous request
to skip the queue for their iPhone
the calumny of data
mass media slavering terror
infusing panic, the enemy is out
we need a raid, extra protection
the world is static in its abeyance
a pusillanimous fight, yet internecine

the univocal spring
I’ve been evoking for some years
Is a neck kiss to this balderdash:

All we need is Kate Bush’s music
and a joyful path to follow
eroding the ground of the tough shit we stumble upon

a pantheism of good gestures
harsh challenges to ourselves
an augury of difficulty
a dance floor of shattered exes
smashed memories
against the encouraging wall of future

William

I’ve liked William Blake
since my foetal development
an apocalyptical labored breathing
orchestrating my heartstrings
and I’ve adored Antonia Pozzi
my blood leaking back in its chamber
it should have been pumped away from
with Ferreira Gullar I experienced syncope
a heart murmur obliquely rhyming
with my sense of infinite
in the end, an insulated insensibility:
being aware of every beat, flogging me
into a dilated cardiomyopathy

But it love it this way
an intellectual stroke
preventing me from dying again

Fiesta

On the pelvic floor, they’re making cocktails
my contentedness protrudes, some times
I yell, make weird sounds, an ancestral bliss
getting out of my diaphragm
a euphoria enlarged by the wind
a cartilage keeping together
my uproarious curiosity
and life cruelty
when the breach is done
I’m susceptible to immortality
I need a party to be thrown
towards the survival of my enjoyment
I look at the sky, mirroring my intestinal infinity
I’m a drop of boundless blessings
an endoparasite triumphing in the Creation
I hatch new wishes, every day
and of my fiesta there shall be no end

Lisboa

We were sitting, so entwined
on the scalp of moisturizing ocean
weeping salty statements, as broken queens
you were torching your torso
blowing kisses to the coast
I was scrutinizing your smile
symmetrically reflecting happiness
I echoed your sadness
our roots are so raveled
that by the time that a new day
has been called
Your majesty is already an organic smoothie
I distractedly forgot
on a bench in Solihull

You contain me
You are me

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