BUR BUR Pills (at a modest cost of € 5.00), is certainly a book worth more than what it costs. The rule on which it is built is very simple: Luigi La Rosa, the curator, took all the letters of the alphabet (including J, K, W, X and Y), and each of them has chosen one or more topics and each theme is represented by a song, and it's classical or modern literature, Italian or Greek or Russian or American does not matter, because the love-heterosexual or homosexual-it knows no language nor distance nor borders.
After reading it and enjoyed reading all the ideas you have given me, I would offer one of the songs that struck me most, and that I found the letter "L", "lips".
is an author of whom I did not know the name, Covacich Mauro, whose story that inspired the following song is entitled Here lies Francis Turner . The whole story can be found in the book Deandreide (BUR), a collection of fourteen short stories of so many Italian writers, each of which is based on a song by Fabrizio De André.
Here lies Francis Turner
Mauro Covacich
On Mary, do not stand standing there, supports the flowers and sit down. Grass, yes. I thought it would no longer come and yet here you are. I was given a beautiful place, is not it? From here I can see the road that bends down toward the river, you see? And the parking lot. Spending the days to follow all the comings and goings that's out there, I do not even dead. Come on, Mary, do not do that. Dried, as a good. You could not know. No one can think of killing someone with a kiss. You have been spontaneous and nothing else. Have you heard of it and, so, suddenly, after all the things left to believe that you'd never done, I've kissed. You have not used a knife or a gun. You had a cyanide capsule hidden in his mouth. You simply placed your lips on my floor. You should stop blame yourself. I did not I say anything, but maybe I should have preferred to risk it. I spent all my life to control me, with you I wanted to risk it. I had encountered nothing so far that he deserved more of Miss Mary Iggins and I do not regret having done so. My whole childhood has gone with me sitting in the stands watching the parade.
[...] You know, Mary, for life, day after day-one day after another, one after another after another after another after that one and still and a still ...- one I stayed to watch. My parents have told me immediately what was going on. No dodgeball, hide nothing, no tree house, no ride. A sheltered life as a spectator, this touched me and I've got this. Until I met you.
[...] I mean, yes, do that thing there, I missed a lot, but it seemed to me to imagine how it would be good enough. The final least, I know him well: a pleasure that you empty, and a drop of voltage from the knees to the roots of the hair. The start however, the real beginning of time, when the hands are still in place and the clothes too, when the mouth speaks only as a diversionary action while he's peering eyes the thoughts of others, here is short, the moment, the moment before the first kiss, I wanted it as the revelation of a higher state of consciousness, which in the end it was for me too, in as a human being. After the kiss is a lot of other nice moments, but they are well-thought-an automatic consequence of the first exciting enough contact from which they sprang. End up in bed after we kissed it was splendid to be but it is not surprising, at least ever since the moment in which the other, an individual in all respects unknown until a second ago, agrees to open her mouth as you approach. The Kiss, kiss the woman I wanted, was what most would have risked my life, but it was also the challenge more exciting. I had done with you, Mary. And I had lost.
[...] Again, the silence of the night before. And what you get closer inch by inch, taking in my eyes, lifting his chin to a place that, against all odds, against all freer imagination, seemed to be just my mouth. What immense joy, the moment the intention betrayed. I was doing, I was just doing. The people had not noticed anything, and neither do you. You could have heard the shot. One tum. And then everything stopped, no one beat, no sound, everything already done to myself, while our love began. No, no cyanide, but the taste of your lips, your saliva, it was perhaps even more powerful weapon. It's so, Mary. You can cry if you want, but my heart has exploded because of you, my heart has exploded thanks to you. I see your lips perfectly still hatching as I fall, the inside shiny, dark eyes of a woman who, without knowing it, he just put his lips on the death of a man. Here, on the knoll of Spoon River, loves to hear tell it lethal. But ours, Mary-perhaps that was what you wanted to hear-it was really unique.
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