Introducing Mastro Titta.
The original Mastro Titta was a famous executioner in Rome. He lived to the ripe old age of 89 (died 1869) and was put onto a pension of 30 scudi by Pope Pius IX when he was 85. His real name was Giovanni Battista Bugatti, but the 19th century Romans gave him his nickname, which was a diminutive of Maestro (of Justice) and 'Tista.
Why has our mysterious writer chosen this name? Who knows! Maybe it has something to do with him being the type that always has to have the last word! Anyway, I'm posting here what he wrote to introduce himself...
''Discovering grapes''
He came from Tusculum in the 1900's, he was oxen that kicked vines,
copper sulfate that coloured happy faces,
tight rows of grapes that glistened reflected onto overflowing glasses, mid morning;
the colour of deep gold.
Glasses that you could chew like bread;
This was a grandfather.
And I, his root.
An eighteen year-old, up to the brim with Collosseums and St. Peters
I found myself in uniform in Udine following a pair of blues eyes,
and fell upon the Loggia of Lionello.
Around the corner I encountered a little boy with a cheeky grin, watching me.
His mother held, gently in her hand, a bounty of fruit,
blue like the eyes I was pursuing.
In that, late afternoon, i discovered grapes, that yes, had borne me,
but didn't calm my hunger.
Yet quenched my soul.
Shelly according to Mastro Titta:
''Virtues and faults of an Anglo-Frascatana''.
Arriving here from London or thereabouts, is to marry a loving cynicism, a fatal disenchantment, a beauty that is infinite: after the Scottish footprints of York. To live then for a whole lifetime, not losing any of that London-itude, the satisfaction of being an epicenter, of being inevitably a step ahead, to continue to be in unison with the beats of Big Ben. Everything that makes one special, as are those that live superimposed lives. Maybe a little disheveled, but fully worn. To arrive from London to rapidly inhale, exhale and oxidize, like a packet of cigarettes without filters, right down to yellow fingers, smoked all the way through: this continuous will-to-do, here, where everywhere, most of humanity stops at the first puff.
The original Mastro Titta was a famous executioner in Rome. He lived to the ripe old age of 89 (died 1869) and was put onto a pension of 30 scudi by Pope Pius IX when he was 85. His real name was Giovanni Battista Bugatti, but the 19th century Romans gave him his nickname, which was a diminutive of Maestro (of Justice) and 'Tista.
Why has our mysterious writer chosen this name? Who knows! Maybe it has something to do with him being the type that always has to have the last word! Anyway, I'm posting here what he wrote to introduce himself...
''Discovering grapes''
He came from Tusculum in the 1900's, he was oxen that kicked vines,
copper sulfate that coloured happy faces,
tight rows of grapes that glistened reflected onto overflowing glasses, mid morning;
the colour of deep gold.
Glasses that you could chew like bread;
This was a grandfather.
And I, his root.
An eighteen year-old, up to the brim with Collosseums and St. Peters
I found myself in uniform in Udine following a pair of blues eyes,
and fell upon the Loggia of Lionello.
Around the corner I encountered a little boy with a cheeky grin, watching me.
His mother held, gently in her hand, a bounty of fruit,
blue like the eyes I was pursuing.
In that, late afternoon, i discovered grapes, that yes, had borne me,
but didn't calm my hunger.
Yet quenched my soul.
Shelly according to Mastro Titta:
''Virtues and faults of an Anglo-Frascatana''.
Arriving here from London or thereabouts, is to marry a loving cynicism, a fatal disenchantment, a beauty that is infinite: after the Scottish footprints of York. To live then for a whole lifetime, not losing any of that London-itude, the satisfaction of being an epicenter, of being inevitably a step ahead, to continue to be in unison with the beats of Big Ben. Everything that makes one special, as are those that live superimposed lives. Maybe a little disheveled, but fully worn. To arrive from London to rapidly inhale, exhale and oxidize, like a packet of cigarettes without filters, right down to yellow fingers, smoked all the way through: this continuous will-to-do, here, where everywhere, most of humanity stops at the first puff.
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