Literature In Los Angeles

Archive for August, 2011|Monthly archive page


In POETRY on August 24, 2011 at 1:31 pm

Photo Credit: Helmut Newton

For the fairy fingers
Your hands will hold
One by one
My rotten nails I’d rip and tore

For the place of honor
Your arms will guard
One by one
My filthy bones I’d break apart

For the blue spring holes
Your lips will crave
One by one
My sad two greys I’d scratch away

For the witchy smile
Your words will dawn
One by one
These poisoned teeth I’d pull and blow

For the regal paleness
Your tenderness will trap
One by one
My veins I’d draw of the last blood drop

One by one
I’d skin my soul of every inch of me
To blossom in the only dream of paper
You can call Love.

Poem by Liliana Isella.

Photo by Helmut Newton.


In NO SPEAK ENGLISH on August 16, 2011 at 2:26 pm

Photo Credit: Santa Cruz Police

Per dita di luna
Che incrociano le tue mani
Una a una
Scarnificherei le mie unghie luride

Per buchi d’ azzurro
Dentro cui rispecchiare i tuoi
Uno a uno
Strapperei i miei bulbi neri

Per il posto d’onore
Nelle tue fragili braccia
Una a una
Spezzerei le mie ossa livide

Per il sorriso di favole
Che fa nascere le tue parole
Uno a uno
Scardinerei i miei denti stracci

Per il pallore d’argento
Che attira le tue carezze
Una a una
Svuoterei le mie vene dell’ultima goccia

Una a una
Spellerei ogni piega della mia anima
Per rifiorire nel solo sogno di cartone
Che tu puoi chiamare Amore.

Poem by Liliana Isella.


In INTER-REVIEWS on August 6, 2011 at 1:47 pm

Gary and Nuno of Extreme

This guy got my number at a Coffee Bean in Santa Monica.
He’s a sweaty-yoga-class coffee drinker, what I’d call “post-pathetic.”
But, he’s a producer, and I certainly didn’t come to Los Angeles to hang out only with stupid Italians so, “Whatever. Another fucking concert can’t hurt.”

Extreme. Tuesday night at the House of Blues. Okaaaay.
I move from the mirror to the closet to find a dress that matches the accessories of my showery nudity: blue stilettos, Ray-Bans and two gigantic hoop earrings.

Post-Pathetic Producer picks me up. He must be the same age as the guys we’re going to see.
Back in the early ’90s, Extreme was the two “oh, wow” brothers of More Than Words.
In reality, their brotherhood was just a bewildering voice my school girlfriends had created out of their incestuous fantasies.

After a couple of half-smiled beers and a few cigarettes, the lights and the music finally turn the stage on.

For the first minute, I’m in shock:  Jesus, Gary Cherone is the quintessence of sex!
My lips are dying to taste the sour sweat on the fortress of his full-bodied voice. They’d fight against its iron nerves, defeat all those seductive muscles and pierce that impenetrable skin just to reach, touch and kiss his agile cords of notes.

But it’s when the ambience calms down from the hot blooded energy of Get the Funk Out and Decadence Dance, that I really feel Nuno.
He sits at the piano and his fingers make Ghost, an insightful extract from their most recent album Saudades de Rock, fly up in a lyrical, blue melody.

And, when his exotic Hole Hearted sings into my eyes “there’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you,” I’m about to believe his betraying guitar, but an awkward left hand ring disarms my interest. No green card for me, here.

Gary’s hands are free, instead.
Too bad I can’t go meet him backstage, though.
Post-Pathetic Producer cannot see the slut I am; there’s the risk he demands the same treatment for himself, then.
And, in Hollywood, a smart girl never offends a masculine ego.

Another lonely night is the price to pay.
But, imagination doesn’t know boundaries. So, here Gary comes.
My thighs embrace his powerful senses, hold his warm breath and press on his explosive life.

Sorry, but we’re heading to a place where visitors are not allowed.

Story by Liliana Isella.

%d bloggers like this: