The Genderless Egg (Deluxe Edition)

CoverSecond Edition

The genderless egg revisited. Signed. Now with additional poems.

Download for free here: TheGenderlessEgg(II)



When you opened your arms

The grasshoppers hushed

The dogs lowered their ears.


It was

akin to seeing a saint

struggling to climb a tree

to see better in the distance.



If you enjoyed this post, please consider making a donation to support "The Doubtful Recluse".


Ripe, a novel in three parts

Ripe is the first novel I ever wrote. Though I call it a novel only for the sake of a generic, if not childish, necessity. I started writing the first part in 2009 when I had just completed my undergraduate studies and spent the whole summer reading and writing. A couple of years later I wrote the second part. Then I thought the endeavor wouldn’t be complete without a third part. Since it’s a novel about the painful process of acquiring maturity and of discovering oneself I thought a third part would close the circle, and close it for good.

Ripe is also a novel about the nature of light. I’ve always been fascinated with the textures of light, its whims, the way it often appears as a mood rather than a stream of rays. But more specifically, it’s a novel about how different people have different light around them. Some of my characters appear in a golden light and some of them have no light at all. There are mirrors and beds around these characters, windows, closets, a mental geography that has stayed with my writing and with me since then.

There’s no structure to this novel, it does not follow a narrative except the one you could deduce from what’s being said. The structure is the novel itself, there’s no chronological order but episodes coming from different moments of my life. Ripe is an end in itself, an ax digging into the trunk of a fallen tree. It’s an attempt to reconstruct that tree, to bring it back to the exploding leaf buds, the greenery of Spring, and to force it back into that final admit of defeat, the falling.

Ripe is a novel that must be read, I think, in small doses because it might smell like gasoline, or like fresh paint. And like all of my novels, this one is dedicated to a person I can’t name directly but who has haunted my writings, whatever shape they take. All of my novels, in fact, are a prolonged apology to that particular person.

You can download the full version, for free, here: ripe-a-novel-in-three-parts

39 and 49 other poems


So, for quite a while now, I’ve been working on this poetry booklet, which is available for download starting this very moment. It contains fifty relatively short poems written in odd situations that were not necessarily optimal for such writerly activities.

Anyways, enjoy. I guess.

Click on the link below to download PDF:


Megafauna (a poem)

when I woke up

there was so much body around me

waves of flesh that

blended in with the sheets

the skin

wooden fences to keep

wild animals from coming in

or going out? the civilizing gesture

so masterfully planned

so present in the composition

waves of flesh

flowing under mother’s feet

positioned at the end of our bed

flowing upwards and over

mother’s questioning face

the eyes moving away from what was once

her beloved son

only to see you

alpha male a hairy hand going over

my neck to pin me down

the picture finally complete

stampede of teeth and

suppressed bursts of laughter

a morse code

of not knowing

who is this fourth man

coming into our house

to claim my bed?


you’ve given me a body

that doesn’t seem to make you happy.

Father our (a poem)



A reading by the author:


father, you’ve taught us how to kill each other

when there was no one left to kill

you drove our hands backwards

there, where our hearts and guts were sitting and watching

our hands that still held the knife

with the stubbornness you taught us to trust

but then how much of me is there left to kill

how many unwanted versions of me are there?

because when I held within my palm

not the knife but

my uncle’s erection

the coronation of a midday nap spent

under the covers on a summer’s day

I did not think of eternal damnation

I was too short to fly above my adults.

no such thing had crossed my mind

when I let the other boys pretend

I was the wife and they the breadwinners

who came home from work with green leaves

instead of money.

back then my flesh had not yet acquired

a memory of fire

the skin did not burn when

I lowered my pants

and hid my face in the tall grass

or when I felt their weight descend upon me

that pressure not resembling

the one of being buried alive.

back then it was only the red-cheeked embarrassment

of nakedness.

I did not see the demons dancing

around my head when

later on

I watched boys in the locker-room

and marveled at the way they wore

their bodies

and wondered what was wrong with me

when girls

in the mind of other boys

occupied categories

held distinctions according to their pubic hair.

father, you’ve taught us how to hide twice over

once, within our bodies

and then within our minds

you’ve taught us how to tie the knots

over our hands

to keep them close to our bodies

when everybody else was free

to reach and show

the objects they desired most.

you turned our blood against us

imagined branches withering

on our family trees.

my flesh did not resent me

when I let another man’s tongue

come searching in my mouth.

I only thought of coming home

that home unlike the promised land

the house beyond the walls you built.

so tell me, father

shall I not seek your love

man, in the arms of another man?

Random Moment (Guernica II)


A reading by the author:


Seeing the world through the eyes of a fish you see me in ways and colors I could not see myself, stolen from the world, perched on the mountains of my mind, my left hand raised not to catch a glimpse of the sun but to hold on to the entrails of my beautiful gods. Against their ruins I throw my own body to deface it, make it resemble something you could have feelings for. Today, I make myself ugly, awakened, as leeches are, by the smell of the pulsating warm limbs of mindless children, just to give you reasons to uphold your lack of nerve. For once, let your blood talk. Because nobody has ever had the courage to tell me they loved me and you are no different.

I often wonder whether it’s a question of time, or timelessness. Do you postpone your words, promise to utter them tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow? Because when I look up I can only sense the narrowness of a breathing tube, its transparency made to resemble that of swimming jellyfish. The narrowness that curbs upwards like the momentary thrust of anticipation. The narrowness that then plunges downwards and curls into itself, struggles to reach the tiny mouth of a machine. Will that be the moment when you will finally say something? When the plastic lips will finally touch in a kiss bound to go on forever? Say it now, while you can still distinguish between the brownish hues of my skin and the sheets in which I sleep as in a cocoon. For once, let your blood speak, because if I speak the leeches will come out of my mouth and you will turn away, disgusted.

Then I will tell you about the sounds that come from the walls, and the way sometimes construction cranes resemble the skinny limbs of a praying mantis. What are they praying for? I’ll speak of resonance and the ground we stand on, which was once a battlefield. Of the bed we could be sleeping in. Of how I don’t want to imagine you with your back turned to me. Of how I often feel as if people are afraid of me. Is it because they know I’m afraid of their emotions? I am, in fact. But not because I’ve never went through them. It’s because whenever I see them do it I feel as if they are taking something away from me. In time, I got used to it, and started giving them everything until, at the end of the day, I would feel depleted. I gave them my dreams and kept the nightmares for myself. I offered them my hopes and they took them. I gave them my time. And I will keep doing that until you finally decide to speak.

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf

sutura | gymnasium

sogni di criogenesi

Christianity Other-wise

Exercises in Re-Thinking the "Western" Tradition... and Other Fun Stuff

Time Now

The Iraq and Afghanistan Wars in Art, Film, and Literature

Marcolupo's Blog

a scrivere sono bravi tutti

Libreria Internazionale Luxemburg

"Vivere senza leggere è pericoloso, ci si deve accontentare della vita, e questo comporta notevoli rischi." Michel Houellebecq

La McMusa

Te la do io l'America

Charter of Writes

The thoughts and ramblings of a dreamer

Life of A Fallen Angel

Clarity through flight...

The Glass Closet

Diary of a Closeted Homosexual

Live to Write - Write to Live

We live to write and write to live ... professional writers talk about the craft and business of writing

Mostly About Books

What I'm Reading and Writing



The Neighborhood

The Story within the Story


what happens in my mind put into words

%d bloggers like this: