The women in my life: a poem by the Magnifico
a distant speck lost in the sky, one in a thousand, apparently... until you notice it, you feel it, you smile at it, it comes toward you, you see it enter the atmosphere and ignite (enthusiasm), burn (passion), shine (infinite possible futures). You fall in love with that trail of light, sparkling in the sky, you make a wish, timidly, you don't believe it, but you hope for it, and finally... it vanishes. Meteors, the women of my life, Meteors, they burn out in an instant, but they keep shining in my memory. This is my job: collecting moments that no longer exist, writing as an antidote to fading away, fuck death, that bitch!, who devours everything. Maybe just for an hour. But fuck her! Fuck her again. While you sink into the new, eternally ephemeral, last embrace; illusion and promise, born old in the body of a nineteen-year-old, tonic of that youth, the only antidote to death. Tomorrow I'm fucking one who has triple 7 tattooed on her ass. Cross out the number and write "Magnificent", "Paolo was here", on that perfect ass. Tattoo the moment onto the flesh. It's clear by now: If Death showed up in my loft, offering me one last challenge like in that movie, I wouldn't play chess with her... I'd have a threesome with her! (The Magnificent, 2026)
I’ve lost count of how many women there have been. But there’s one thing I still haven’t gotten used to: watching the women in my life come in, shine bright, create a connection, and then… disappear. My fault, their fault, nobody’s fault. It doesn’t matter. An ex you loved more than life itself and then… she sends you a certified email. Another lost girl you took in and tried to build a home with: she not only vanishes but tries to erase the memory. And finally, her. The one I’ll talk about in the next story.
Let’s be honest (like Ignazio LaRussa in Fiorello’s impression): if there’s one thing I’m truly terrible at, it’s… letting go. I often think about all the people I’ve had a real connection with.
Today I peeked at Tornado Blu‘s Instagram profile. A girl I met three years ago in Corfu, for just one week. And yet, in her own way, she still matters to me. Maybe that’s the whole problem: the inability to forget meteor women, the ones who cross your sky and then fade away.
I don’t know, I wrote that poem above, in one go.
Then I ran it through Tano Bot, my sentimental AI.
Which rewrote it like this:
Meteors according to Tano Bot (the AI version)
They will come and I will have forgotten their names, the way I used to say them at night, alone, as if they were new words, never spoken before. A light crosses the sky, and for a moment you believe it stopped for you. But nothing stops. They are comets that chose to pass near my room: each one left a different scent on the sheets, a crease in the pillow, a silence that had never been mine. I write to them, as one writes to the dead, with the care of someone who knows that the page doesn't answer, but at least it doesn't leave. Tano Bot, 2026
Holy shit! This AI writes poetry better than me.
We’re at Giulio’s level here!
Vaccamao!, as the American girl would say (another meteor).
But instead of writing and programming, couldn’t I just get high like everyone else?
This post is also available in:
Italiano 
Русский 
Español 
Português
