Arturo Desimone

by Ian on February 9, 2013


Arturo Desimone was born (1984) and raised on Aruba (Dutch-Caribbean) of immigrant origins foreign to the island (half Argentinean, half Russian-Polish). At 22 he emigrated to the Netherlands, staying five years under its right wing governments, then decided to lead a nomadic way of life that better enabled writing fiction and poetry and making drawings. He has lived on the road between recently-post-revolutionary Tunisia, Greece, Poland and Eastern Europe. As of recently he is based in Buenos Aires, Argentina, living in the Constitucion area, “well-known for its Dominican and transvestite prostitutes. Sometimes if I wear too tight or colourful shirts I am mistaken for a male prostitute while walking in the area and have to turn down offers of 30 pesos.”

His work has been featured in Apeiron Review, A Tunisian Girl, Small Axe Salon, The Brown Critique and Unlikely Stories.


the world is a parliament, a Copernican cupola of no-music and noise
every atom, emperor
their thoughts and votes like the prices
on the floor of the exchange, I listen to Beethoven’s
Emperor, played by Arthur Rubinstein, emitting from
the tinny box,
seeking an open window in the palace of the heart,
seeking an open window
in the palace of another
may carnal love come rain
may it send me to sleep between shoulders
of the African sparrow that flies in reason over, up and out
of this damned infernal parliament, machine of options, opinions,
concentration camp of a million emperors with cars and air-conditioners
Iphones, Ipads, good well-paying jobs, concerns about the crisis on their blogs.


poem of loneliness and failures with women

A sadness that fills like lightning
emperor noise is dead,
wine conquers heaven

the muse, she is here, strongest without music.

Sadness is the state of love
in waiting
stationed at terminal, where music is
an unsent letter.

 I wait for a train from Buenos Aires to Bratislava
Sadness is in the wine of the lightning
until heaven and moon like ships conquer
light the lamps of my mosque of absences
and my inventories of empty brothels
that fill the heart-unamputated-mind like the sun fills lakes.

and I am awakened alone at night by rush of lightning
against rapid-eye-movement lids,
so I can write away absences,
about lovers awakened
by the thunder-nocturne.


St Jean du Garde

city overpowered by its locals,
young and old barbarians crisis means nothing to cry
I was happy in the orange sun
trees, light of lime groves, 9 euros for 
a meal with rose wine carafe
as I hitchhike a ride back to Cevenne mountains, to St Germaine
a crazy handsome fool,
sides of his head shaved, 
naked on a motorcycle rides by laughing
saw him at the tavern of old men with their faces falling off,
he has girls,
he is not cowardly with women like I am.


Woke Up Hating All Women This Morning

Tunisian morning’s boat of Carthage
in the sun
Italian girl stood me up last night
I remember the feminists of Holland
tough, tall trees
I have an axe to grind
with all women
but must shave first


In A Civilized Country

In a civilized country,
like Colombia,
the high school whore

reads Nietzsche
 translated into Spanish

to justify her kissing around

who betrayed her uber-mensch Pedrito

with Jojean.
in a civilized country,
not like the Netherlands

where the university students read Harry Potter

and intellectuals watch films on the internet

featuring, what suprise!

as they preach her liberation

with their other bored hand,
where o
where I wasted
five years

of my life.




I listen to her
when she talks
after midnight with her cigarette
and eyeglasses trembling slight,
Polish winter outside
here in the kitchen, radius
more importantly
I listen to the sounds
of water breaking
scattering again her body
as I sit writing while
she takes a shower at 11.00 am
it is both logic and music
the clear crown of silence

Haiku from a heart I forgot somewhere in Nowa Huta

Though I could have, maybe should have,

a szozna tree in my pants,

I did not rape krasotka in the kitchen.

Instead we discussed re-vindication of historic name-image

of Socialist Realist art
 visible in the ruins

winged-heart-shaped architecture
of Nowa Huta.
After this I drew a portrait of her.
She liked it

how I depicted her as a mermaid,

a Sirenka,

(like Szawa,
from the bourgeois
legend of Vars
and Szawa,

I kept myself from saying)

she preferred this 
to how her boyfriend
had painted her as a squirrel.

He had quit art
to become a software engineer.

to quote Jean Francois Millet

and say how
though I used my fingers,

I paint with my penis.


In the morning
he is up before her
good morning
after the bathroom
she puts on make up quickly
there is a man here

no naked face
sounds of sketching
a bird drawn in sanguine on forehead

Nowa Huta 12:53 AM January 29, -12 degrees

I loved her, under a żmija
zygzakowata-snake collar round her neck,
her advanced diplomas hung,
from her ear rings, powerful
she said she would not leave her country
that would mean failure
but for a moment
we spoke
she said something about
a stupid film she had seen
with George Clooney
asked me if I was like this man
who travels around
wandering selling
and finally meets a girl
wants to settle down
but finds out she is married
at the last second
we laughed and
for a moment she was a child
and I was a child
I loved her
but children don’t make love
people don’t become young again
with each other
if they don’t make love

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