Without filters in the tunnel (free thoughts) - Senza filtri nel tunnel (pensieri liberi)

 Without filters in the tunnel (free thoughts)

from "Versi da una camera oscura", Amazon editions, 2021

I don’t know how much again I should serve my guilt to have loved with no limits

Neither of the mind nor of the conscience

I recollect the fragments of what has been at the mercy of nothingness

Just by virtue of my passion and without welcoming addressers.

As ever I love who is not present

And the imperviousness of the path attracts me and shroud me without filter.

Who we gather what I sowed along the way and will succeed to stitch me up

To come back to be what I was and to evolve in something somehow better?

I have no consciousness of what I am

And the future is an unclear arcanum.

Behind the walls of the indifference often are hidden sick hearts.

I hope to have let transpire some sense of beauty and inner illumination

Even if sometimes avulsed from reality,

To have gifted a dream

In a world that is not so marvelous

And escapism

And a cradle of tenderness

In which finding shelter.                                        

I know how it feels

When you arrived stretched blown out to the limit

And you feel with no rescues, no god, no alibi, no hope. 

This is what I have given not asking nothing in return,

As I would have wished to have been done to me.

But it was like talking to a deaf

And to show to a blind man.

So much that I had to turn back to retrace my steps

Not losing out too much.

I wished a son of love to offer to life…I produced cancers…the sons of rejection…

My immunological system is fucked,

Psychological defences to seal again

But at least is left the poetry.

You’re a professional killer.

Maybe it’s just me the deaf and the blind person.

Probably it’s the strange manner to adapt oneself to the life.

And I’ve lost and an important part of me have been left.         

Mocked and repeled

Made insignificant

With you I risked the bottom of the barrel.

Maybe I have a propension for bastards…

Everyday one humiliation more.

You sucked me in a vortex

In order to see me reduced to beg for a caress or a gesture

Make me go beyond each of my abysses

To find always new resources

To be able to love you one time more

Persisting in not accepting a reality different from that I have imagined.

Let’s not turn back any more, let’s look just ahead,

Towards more natural compatibilities, out of the machine,

Searching not just by the instinct and the heart

But also by the use of mind

What helps us to build our happiness,

If we are not able to stay alone.

We would create less damages if we would learn to love more ourselves.

It’s been foulishness. Maybe it’s my fault.

The end of a love story is not the end of life,

Even if I live each of them as it was the only one,

Even if I always fight with my first of them, the only unforgettable,

And it’s hard to find new equilibriums

Because every story transforms you    

And you can’t be always equal to yourselves.

We drag ourselves, we combat to find us again unnerved, not knowing what to do

Sometimes for the wish to put ourselves at stake

To find a sense where sometimes there isn’t one

To look then the sky and find again the serenity,

a sky that shows us that this is all.

I don’t know if it exists the perfect alchemy or it’s just a bullshit that we tell us

But I have learned by experience that the most important thing is to not lose oneself of sight,

To preserve us from useless devastations and self-harm,

In search of wisdom within an emotion.

 Love is communion, not annulment for the other

Even if maybe I won’t never be capable of not giving myself completely without conditions

And I will live forever somehow the conflict.

Arrived to forty, you come to terms with it

With the fact that nobody won’t be able to fill up that void

But maybe I’m just wasting my time with no point

For who has never deserved it and has never cherished my happiness.

I try naturally to open myself to life, with its joys and sorrows,

to who wants me to reflourish and smiles at me,

rather than dredging up an inclement past

to shake off the cross of pain. 

Senza filtri nel tunnel (pensieri liberi)

Non so quanto ancora dovrò scontare la colpa di aver amato senza limiti

Né della mente né della coscienza

Raccolgo i frammenti di ciò che è stato sparsi in balia del nulla

Forti solo della mia passione  e senza destinatario di recapito.

Come sempre amo chi non c’è

E l’impervietà del percorso mi attrae e coinvolge senza filtro.

Chi raccoglierà ciò che ho seminato per la via e riuscirà a ricucirmi

Per tornare a essere quel che ero o evolvere in qualcosa comunque migliore?

Di quel che sono non ho coscienza

E il futuro è un arcano incerto.

Dietro muri d’indifferenza spesso si celano cuori malati.

Spero di aver fatto traspirare qualche senso di bellezza e illuminazione interiore

Sebbene talvolta  astrusi  dalla realtà,

di aver regalato un sogno

In un mondo che tanto meraviglioso non è

Ed evasione

E una culla di tenerezza

                                               In cui trovare rifugio.                                              

So cosa si prova

Quando si arriva scoppiati al limite

E ci si sente  senza scampo, senza dio, senza alibi, né speranze. 

Questo è quel che ho dato senza chiedere nulla in cambio,

come avrei voluto fosse stato fatto a me.

Ma era come parlare a un sordo

e mostrare a un cieco.

Tanto da dovermi ritirare sui miei passi

senza rimetterci troppo.

Volevo un figlio dell’amore da offrire alla vita…ho prodotto tumori…i figli del rifiuto…

Il mio sistema immunitario va a puttane,

Difese psicologiche da ricucire

Ma almeno è rimasta la poesia.

Sei un killer professionista.

Forse la sorda e la cieca ero proprio io.

Probabilmente è lo strano modo di adattarsi alla vita.

Ed io ho perso e ci ho lasciato una parte importante di me.       

Irrisa e repulsa

Resa insignificante

Con te ho raschiato il fondo del barile.

Forse ho una propensione per i bastardi…

Ogni giorno un’umiliazione di troppo,

mi hai risucchiata in un vortice

per poi vedermi ridotta ad elemosinarti una carezza o un gesto

facendomi andare oltre ogni mio abisso

per trovare risorse sempre nuove

per riuscire ad amarti una volta in più

ostinandomi a non accettare una realtà diversa da come l’avevo immaginata.

Non volgiamoci più indietro, guardiamo solo avanti,

verso compatibilità più naturali, fuori dalla macchina,

cercando non solo con l’istinto e il cuore

ma anche con la mente,

ciò che ci aiuta a costruire la nostra felicità,

se non sappiamo stare soli.

Faremmo meno danno a imparare ad amare più noi stessi.

E’ stata una follia. Forse è colpa mia.

La fine di un amore non è la fine della vita,

anche se vivo ogni storia come se fosse unica,

anche se combatto sempre col mio unico primo,

ed è dura riequilibrarsi

perché ogni storia ti cambia        

e non si riesce più ad essere sempre uguali a se stessi.

Ci si trascina, si combatte per ritrovarsi sfiniti e non saper che fare

Talvolta per la voglia di rimettersi in gioco

Per trovare un senso dove talvolta non c’è

Per poi guardare il cielo e ritrovare una serenità che ci mostra che è tutto qui.

Non so se esiste  l’alchimia perfetta o è solo una balla che ci raccontiamo

ma  ho capito con’esperienza che l’importante è cercare di non perdersi di vista,

di preservarci da devastazioni inutili e autolesionismi,

 cercando saggezza  dentro l’emozione.

 L’amore è comunione, non annullamento per l’altro

Anche se forse non riuscirò mai completamente a darmi senza riserve

e vivrò sempre in qualche modo il conflitto.

Giunti a quarant’anni te ne fai una ragione

Che quel vuoto non lo potrà mai colmare nessuno

Ma forse spreco solo tempo inutilmente

Per chi non l’ha mai meritato e non ha avuto mai a cuore la mia felicità.

Cerco di aprirmi naturalmente alla vita, con le sue gioie e i suoi dolori,

a chi ti vuol fare rifiorire e ti sorride,

piuttosto che rivangare un passato inclemente

per scrollarmi di dosso la croce del dolore.

 

Attaccata a uno stelo - Attached to a stem

 

Attaccata a uno stelo

Una tuba di falloppio in sfacelo coi suoi bitorzoluti ammassi e fibromi

Un cancro che arriva a intaccare le ovaie ponendo fine a un sogno di maternità rincorso per anni.

Una donna a metà forse,

Forse non ho mai voluto esserlo fino in fondo,

probabilmente destinata a vivere come un’eterna bambina,

Una bambina mai nata,

In balia della precarietà e del non senso

Tra l’hustle and bustle e il tam tam rumoroso dei giorni morti

Le voci confuse e sovrapposte di dittatori spietati e caustiche maldicenze

Giudizi non richiesti, opinioni soggettive, relative, frammentarie

Che dalla superficie in cui nascono si annidano a fondo nei meandri della psiche intossicandola

E di cui neanche l’eco aveva l’alibi né l’invito ad interferire indebitamente

Voci che tacciano il fluire libero del pensiero e appesantiscono la fluidità dell’esistenza

Sospingendosi distruttive,

seppur repulse o fatte scivolate via in un’indifferenza di facciata o ragionata

E in cui ti perdi in un baccano malsano che nulla dice,nulla ascolta…

E ti trovi a voler essere un soffione

Che vorrebbe dissolversi  libero nell’aria,

Con gli occhi rivolti verso il cielo,

Estatica, leggiadra, senza peso, spogliandosi dei suoi ornamenti

basta cosi poco, il soffio di un attimo…

Ma che si ritrova ancorato giù al suo stelo

Sotto il peso dell’angoscia e del suo tormento

Che reclama le sue radici

gelando all’alito travolgente del vento

Che purifica, disincaglia e porta via con sè le scorie dei veleni

Ma che non riesce, non vuole, più lasciarsi andare…

Eppure sa che, nonostante speri in ripari d’occasione,  è l’inevitabile, liberatorio destino di una parte di sè …

Le uniche vibrazioni che sento ormai

Sono solo i rintocchi delle campane a morto

Che hanno dato il saluto ai miei affetti più grandi

E mi ritrovo a riporli in un cassetto, insieme alle loro foto,

in un angolo di un cuore che scoppia e che è stanco di battere ancora

avvolto in un manto di oscura solitudine e depressione,

che ha perso le ali invece di volare alto

nel rompersi delle uniche catene che lo legavano all’amore

e rimasta incastrata solo in quelle dell’odio e dell’oppressione.

Ultima delle romantiche ho sempre sognato una reale congiunzione di anime affini,

 il rapporto perfetto,

per concludere poi che l’idillio non esiste,

un’emozione placida e intensa come le onde del mare

che mi trascinasse con se anche in un putrido rigagnolo

 che riportasse al mare questo mio grembo sterile

che vorrebbe accogliere il seme di una benedizione che lo facesse rifiorire e riportasse a creare.

non l’ho mai trovato, non può essere altrove

e alla fine di quest’esistenza

vincitrice o perdente di qualcosa in questa corsa a ostacoli

vorrei che le mie ceneri riposassero per sempre nel fondo di quelle acque che, immaginarie o reali, non ci hanno mai diviso,

per non essere più pasto per i vermi anche dopo la morte

e non affrontare il degrado di ulteriori marcescenti putrefazioni.

 

Attached to a stem

A Fallopian tube in decay with its knobby masses and fibromas

A cancer that arrives to affect the ovaries sealing an end to my dream of motherhood I ran after for years.  

A half woman maybe,

perhaps I’ve never wanted to be one all the way,

probably destined to live as a forever child,

a never born child,

at the mercy of the precariousness and the non sense

among the hustle- and- bustle and the noisy tam-tam of the dead days

The slurred and overlapped of ruthless dictators and caustic slanders

Not asked judgments, subjective, relative, fragmentary opinions

That from the surface in which they are born nestle themselves to the bottom of the meanders of the psyche intoxicating it

And of which even the echo had neither the alibi nor the invitation to unduly interfere,

Voices that fling the free flow of the thought and burden the fluidity of the existence,

Destructive impelling,

even if repeled or let slip away in an apparent or reasoned indifference

and in which you lose yourself in an insane mayhem that nothing says, nothing listens…

and you find yourself to wanna be a dandelion

that would dissolve itself free in the air,

with the eyes turned up to the sky,

ecstatic, graceful, weightless, undressing all its ornaments

it’s so easy, the blow  of an instant…

but that is again anchored to its stem

under the burden of the anguish and of its torment

that claims its roots

freezing to the overwhelming puff of the wind

that purifies, refloates and drifts astray the excoriations of the poisons

but that is not able, doesn’t even want let itself go no more…

Anyhow it knows that, although it hopes for occasional refuges, is the unavoidable, liberating destiny of a part of itself….

The only vibrations I feel by now

Are just the tolling of the death knell

That have given the final goodbye to my greatest and dearest affections

and I find myself to store them in a closet, along with their pictures,

in a corner of a heart that is exploding and is weary to beat again

shrouded in a mantle of dark solitude and depression,

that has lost its wings instead of flying high

in the breaking down of the unique chains that bound it to love

and remaining trapped just in those of  hate and oppression.

Last hopeless romantic, I’ve always dreamt a real conjunction of elected souls,

The perfect relationship,

arriving to conclude that the idyll doesn’t exist,

a placid and intense emotion like the waves of the sea

that drags me with it even if in a putrid rivulet

that bring back to the sea this sterile womb of mine

 that would welcome the seed of a blessing that would make it reflourish and bring it back to create.

I have never found it, it can not be elsewhere,

And at the end of this existence,

Winner or loser of something in this obstacle course,

I’d like that my ashes would rest forever in the depths of those waters that, imaginary or reals, have never detached us,

To not feed anymore other worms even after my death

And not having to face the degradation of further rotting putrefaction.

 

 

 

 

 

Route to nothingness

 Your kisses, like bunches of white grapes,

insinuated themselves into the brooklets of my heart

to soothe its hurting sorrow,

sliping deeply down into my womb

to dampen my hot fragile intimacy

untouched for so long.

What has been done of this strange sort of unexpected excitement,

that left me behind in full surprise? 

What about the unspoken words and unexpressed feelings?

Another astonishing childish pleasure,

broken off suspended in between,

another unanswered question,

another spike of madness

that let me dizzy and uncertain,

wobbling in my trembling footsteps

into the dark route to nothingness. 

Lastricate geometrie di sangue - Paved blood geometries

 

Lastricate geometrie di sangue

 

Vorrei sentire le tue dita, anziché le mie,

bagnarsi nel sangue mestruale,

risalire e imbrattarmi tutto il corpo

lastricandomi con strane geometrie il mio ventre sterile,

per arrivare a sfiorarmi i capezzoli

che trovano la tua bocca e la tua lingua

fino a infilarmelo tre le vermiglie labbra di fragola,

per farmene gustare il sapore amaro e salmastro,

per sentirti respirare e sospirare all’orecchio

erotismi arditi,

tra saliva e battiti,

tra pulsioni di amore e morte

che sospingono finalmente il tuo fallo nel mio antro

per scassarlo ripetutamente

con tutto l’impeto che possiedi

nelle vene e nelle viscere

e lasciare il marchio di una fugace appartenenza.

Paved blood geometries

 

I’d like to feel the touch of yourfingers, instead of mine,

dipping into my menstrual blood,

going up and dirtying all my body

paving with strange geometries my sterile womb,

until arriving to graze my nipples

that find your mouth and your tongue

until slipping it through my vermilion strawberry lips ,

to make me taste the bitter and saltish flavour ,

to hear you breathing and whispering to my ear

bold erotic words 

between saliva and heart-beats,

between pulsions of love and death

that finally push your phallus into my den

to reputedly break it up

by all the impetus you’ve got in your veins and in your guts

and to leave the mark of an ephimeral belonging.

Innocence....My new tattoo!!!

"P-P" - "Innocence"

Finished the 19th of November, 2021..."Tattoo's Way", Reggio Calabria, Italy

Pungenti piercings selvaggi - Stinging wild piercings

Stinging wild piercings

 

 Who knows if in this absurd sleepless night

I dwell again in your dreams....

If I flutter over your queer thoughts, and how...

I’d like to be able to give you away a handful of tenderness,

That could keep your heart warm,

in a numb’s embrace

delicate and sweet

as the perfume of our skins

intermingled with the harsh smoke of our challenges

and the rock of our contradictory wild perplexities

on which linger dreams of freedom,

stinging as piercing to nostrils,

sparkling as a multi-faceted diamond,

a little softly, with low voice, on the sly

a little shouted at the top at full lungs to the four winds

in a scream that explodes or implode yourself,

Ravaging and yearning,

that can kill you or kill...

I don’t know if will be left just a remembering

To get weird an inattentive memory

Or if we’ll have better occasions, more and more true and intense,

To keep on possessing each other

until the extreme consumptions of the soul and of the bodies,

to keep on quivering once again

of overwhelming and phagocytating emotions,

in which we lose ourselves, one in the other,

in which we sweep away everything, even ourselves,

to sow, spill out and spread around just and merely love...

 

Pungenti  piercings selvaggi

 

 Chissà se in questa assurda notte insonne

abito ancora i tuoi sogni....

se aleggio nei tuoi strampalati pensieri, e come...

Vorrei riuscire a regalarti una manciata di tenerezza,

che possa scaldarti il cuore,

in un abbraccio di nuvola

delicato e dolce

come il profumo delle nostre pelli

frammisto all'aspro fumo delle nostre sfide

e al rock delle nostre contraddittorie perplessità selvagge

in cui si adagiano sogni di libertà,

pungenti come un piercing alle narici,

brillanti come un diamante dai mille volti,

un pò sommessamente in sordina

un pò proclamate a squarciagola ai quattro venti

in un grido che esplode o che ti implode,

devastante e struggente,

che può ucciderti o uccidere...

Non so se resterà solo un ricordo

a stranirci una svagata memoria

o avremo occasioni migliori, sempre più vere e intense,

per continuare a possederci fino all'estrema consunzione

dell'anima e dei corpi,

per continuare ancora a vibrare

di emozioni fagocitanti e travolgenti,

in cui ci perdiamo l'uno nell'altro,

in cui spazziamo via tutto, persino noi stessi,

per seminare e spargere intorno solo e solamente amore...

 

Burlesque

 

Burlesque is a widespread theatrical phenomenon, involving remarkable social implications, brought back to the stage by new generations (“new burlesque”), craving for preciousness, exclusivity, grandeur and allure of Hollywood Golden Age stars and rétro cultural features, departing from that experience to actualize these kind of performances to contemporary days. These sparkling paradise pavilions in the black and hypnotic cradle of fiery shows keep on riding high the revenues of the industry, outshining the slot machines and the online poker touch screens. The differences with the past times are huge mainly for the upcoming of capitalism, the proclamation of the shared values of peace and democracy and of fundamental freedoms. While in the past burlesque was almost scandalistic and dealt with many troubles because of the protection of what is intended for public decency, or even obscenity, and it was not unanimously welcomed by the general public opinion, today is taking place a new version of this form of art, that rediscovering past theatrical traditions and ancient icons of femininity, is originally and personally interpreted to make it available for a new audience, sometimes stretching to the exaggeration and eccentric plays, careless of false taboos, Christian assumptions, social prejudices and sometimes ridiculous legal restrictions, going even beyond the disequality of gender, although these acts are mainly displayed by women, in an era in which the notion of transgression is outdated and the greatest scandal is to be homologated and traditional. In a capitalistic society that tends to forget individuality and cultural distinctions, seems to be a sort of defence and self protection of the identity plunging in the memory of facts for showing off a renewal of these kind of histrionic performances, emphasizing the role of the woman that exhibits herself transcendentally from time and space, dancing and acting in an illusionistic dimension of “eternal present” where “art is art”, following the motto: “Whatever you’re gonna be here…you gotta be in a big way!”.

Burlesque gigs represent someway an escape from reality. There is a redefinition of stage spaces and a marginalization of the role of the art director, as burlesquers often claim an independent artistic expression in about all aspects of the performance, rejecting any form of paternalistic and chauvinistic mentality and any leading thread, sometimes denying any form of attachment for slavish imitation of reality in the theatre.

Surfing the net, throughout social networks, websites, blogs, forums, such as pinupmodels.org, suicidegirls, 21st century burlesque magazine, often personal diaries of burlesque celebrities, starlets and wanna be models, what results is a general trend to be naked, rather than to be simple, as a psychological meaning of revealing themselves just the way they are, in their profession as in their personal life, passing by the updating or advertising of the latest burlesque revue or photoshoot, going further their weaknesses as well as their points of strength, their affectations, their whims, their contents ranging from their routine life things and happenings, such as the birth of the new nephew, last granma recipe, last bought garment, last photo and relating impressions, last memorable philosophy and cool quotations, to put in evidence all aspects of beauty, charm, sex appeal, unfolding their dreams and wishes.

They don’t pretend to be next door girls they’ve never been but they are the latest bulwark of true femininity, suspended in a dimension that stays between dream and reality. Obviously, it’s unleashed the exasperated individualism of our generation, if compared with the past decades, when it was more common conforming oneself to some “cultural trends”, in addition to a need of self-affirmation and an impulse to make a difference, accompanied by a crisis of common religious values, a flair for hedonism and narcissism, often occurring as a protest against stereotypes and social formats.

Lately, in fact, the new burlesque is no more inspired by political facts but is above all the nth attempt to astonish. These kinds of displays are not all artifice. The performers don’t want just to mesmerize their public with special effects! On the contrary, they start from the desire of showing what’s beauty in nature, in a demystified conceptualization of the body, daring an empowered independence through pure innocence and parody. Look out! Burlesque halls are places for open-minded people, free creativity and fun! Not everything is on stage necessarily belongs to the classical aesthetical parameters of beauty but it could be for certain aspects stinging and scratching, hovering over the concept of perfection (it doesn’t matter if you’re slim or fat, with one eye or three boobs, etc), all focused on the message they want to convey, not attaching importance on whether the acts will be displayed in a positive or in a Mephistophelian manner, sometimes representing a form of rebellion and subversion, always surrounded by a precious and detail-oriented scenery amazing to see.

Chewing over religious contexts, if we wanna talk of God, for the believers, or some sort of immorality pointed out by many Christian lobbies, the most widespread in western societies, often behind politics, getting a lot of money and lawyers, their opinion is that the body is a god’s gift, worthy of gaze, as all the other creations. Christians, as well as Jews and Muslims, denounced an outdated value of the lack of modesty, accused them to undermine the self-esteem of ordinary women, revendicated an aberrant patriarchic assumption of femininity (man is to god as woman is to man and man has the right to control woman body to preserve its lineage), declared that they could cause harm to married women, when instead these shows are often displayed also by married women, and are scandalized for their will to compete economically with men, on what dominion is founded the order of society in the Earth. They picket clubs for purposes of intimidation, distribute anti-club literature, block club entrances, photograph patrons and call their families, vandalize clubs. Sexual needs, blamed by these people, are out of this business and it always depends on the personal will, etiquette and professionalism of the dancers.

What should be impeded and regulated is not the way in which the artistic performances are expressed, grossly protected by the Charter, but what is obscenity, lewd, rowdy, the riff raff sometimes attracted by the clubs. The overlapping of written rules and jurisprudence decisions can’t ban exotic dances but can regulate it to death, sometimes arriving to make even impossible dances and theatrical movements (arriving to measure centimeters and restrict gestures), consequently restricting the freedom of expression, and risking to bother their patrons.

Finally, it could be deduced, as a psychological and socio-anthropological observation, that the evolution of this artistic phenomenon, harking back to the origins of the world, highlights an intention of the artists to distinguish themselves, a certain dose of rebellion, even in the impact the outfits themselves could have on the audience, often indulging in extravagances, mocking all that is austere and conformism. In certain occasions, it represents the state and the feeling of displacement, dispersion and disorientation of young generations, “the post-modern generation”, their wish of unchaining from family, institutions and any kind of patterned frameworks, that often impose rules but leave you in the shallowest solitude to face the uncertainties of modern times that is not so perfect as it said to be, not granting enough space to the Self and make you feel compressed and sacrificed on your intimate nature. The key factor of their success is that they put on scene what anyone wants to see, expressing a need to dismantle the false and redundant structures imposed, the prejudices and restricted mentalities, in a debate of what is normal and what is deranging. Does society start from individual or is the individual that has to follow, like a slavish dog, a society that doesn’t care about having an open ear for understanding and meeting his needs, leaving him no more than an endless precariousness. What would be the answer of governments? Repression? Limitations? What they really do for us? Giving rules, standards, prohibitions, rushing times to be respected at the mercy of common stereotypes? If the community doesn’t start from the individual, then, it's no more wothy to be called like that. By consequence also political representation (see my “Twilight of idols, liquid society and post-sovereignism” – crisis of nowadays representative system) lacks of meaning and, of course, would need reforms.

My book, "Kindergarters - Burlesque in Canada", wants to be a supporting manifesto for burlesque shows that have the right to be displayed and the long stories about the danger of harassment should finally have an end, as any woman should have the right to show off her beauty, intimate features and express her artistic vein, without being necessarily considered as a creature to be defended,  and could even be exposed to the gaze of the children, because the evil is in the gaze of the looker and there’s no ground for causing harm as these plays are performed in specific venues, often in a stylish and refined environment, and no one is obliged to pop into them. Generally speaking,  surveillance systems and body guards properly monitor and protect already the security of the dancers against pernicious customers or other dangers and the worries about the health of the performers are out of context, because the clubs are generally perfectly sanitized and cleaned. We don’t live in thriller or dark movies about drugs and aliens trafficking, women slavery and other crimes that could happen everywhere. Furthermore, mental and public disorders could arise from many heterogeneous sources, not for sure from free artistic forms of expression. For this reason, the zoning rules from churches and schools seem to be evidently unjustified in civil societies, as these venue should be equally distant from any other building. So, there’s no point in discriminating in such a way these places and exhibitions. As times change, the criterion resides in what is in your mind. What the government should regulate and protect is just violence and intimidation. The pursuit of economic purposes for sexual activities has nothing to do with burlesquers and pole dancers. Burlesque is all about sexy, not sex for money, and the main attraction of these performances is sensuality, seduction, illusionary promise, enchantment, metaphor and counterfeit intimacy through verbal and non verbal communication.

Law of attraction, put on evidence in these shows, but affecting every ordinary man, is a natural instinct of mankind, leading to perpetuate the species from generation to generation, and there’s nothing to be afraid of or to be criticized for displaying nudity, exalting beauty and personally and artistically interpreting original concepts of a femininity, that is not objectified, but naturally triggers fantasy and meets pure and sane desires.

These performances, often accompanied by high quality food and beverage services, have above all the intention of titillating senses, minds and all sources of pleasure and well-being by subtle theatrical scenes, taking place in perfumed and stimulating surroundings. It’s, in fact, finally scientifically demonstrated that their exhibitions have the power to activate and fertilize neuronal and sensorial mindsets and, just showing naked skin, dancing, moving, smiling, shaking, veiling and unveiling, they convey a reminder of our instinctual origins, turning back to the inner essence of natural life.