Poetry today almost always has the shamelessness of the exhibition. It flies from the screens of smartphones and sometimes in an excess of filautia, the insatiable phagocyte itself. But fortunately there are still poets who can whisper their thirst in their ears. And they do it with the stubborn gush that draws water from the bottom, with the calm of the resin that strengthens the bark to the trunk.
Antonio Trucillo is certainly one of these: anomalous, unclassifiable, riotous to the literary clamor, rejecting everything that seems indispensable: self-portraits in snobbish-intellectual salons, public readings, articles and little articles of any kind (Francesco Iannone)