COLOGNO’S AMNESIAC
I visualised the boxes hidden in your USB drive,
a sort of will, you didn’t have Alzheimer’s yet,
having asked me to go and get them for you
before I wasn’t able to hear and fly.
What was there of your twenties bent over a doctoral table,
anxiously looking for a permanent contract,
the hopes, smiles and sacrifices of a soul in Adidas blue,
aware of fighting lost battles like the tenth MAS Flotilla.
What there was of your thirty yearslost in the corridors of a warehouse,
looking for alter-egos busy in sadistic hide-and-seek,
the enveloped bonuses, the career, with the desire not to end up broke
absorbed in not being led into the world like an autistic.
What there was of your years of collisions, between know-it-alls and lilliputians,
in the Flavio amphitheatre of web-hoppers with mouths like urinals,
where, to stay on the network, it’s not enough to be a famous retiarius
ending up on the walls of Domus Tiberiana like Ianuarius.
To find out who you are not, you have to noscere te ipsum on a digital medium
homothetically adjusting your shape with the misfortune of a fractal,
it’s not enough, as in Grimm, to consult the mirror of your desires:
Berlusca couldn’t walk on water, you weren’t a carpenter at all.
EPIMILLIGRAMME
You don’t have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,
you know, I’ll make you immortal in “portrait d’anonyme”.
My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock:
without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.
THEY EAT VOICES
if they have white paper, the new writers who sing without a Muse,
would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa.
Italian art has become an assault on the pot,
more fulfilled in the ‘brothel’ than the members of a porn film,
so in the Poetryweb the actor is confused with a stallion
full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of Le Ore.
Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric,
it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go deeper,
all of them now strictly improvising, equipped with a notepad,
as if they should sign up for Tú sí que vales rather than culture.
To write on the www we should set up an entry test,
It’s forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of sudden death,
not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his revolver at his head,
the incurable disease of the turn of the century is called Adsl.
THE MP
Then in seventh grade and already sentenced to a house of correction
then a messenger for a seat at the Montecitorio,
son of a housewife and a lawyer from Sorrento
he finally found himself a member of parliament.
He walked backwards and forwards through the Transatlantic Lounge with emotion
in search, in the end, of a munificent salary
hoping to find the Cicciolina in the bedroom,
or, at the very least, in the baths, to bang some heroin.
By lassoing a hostess with the skill of Buffalo Bill,
staging mock brawls à la Bud Spencer and Terence Hill,
he went, in three hours, to a day without doing anything, and he took root in the visiting room
supporting decrees raised for boutique interests.
One day fortune exhaled its trumpet blasts,
the recognised headquarters of the Camorra fell victim to a bomb
planted by the Anarchic Movement for the Defence of the Unemployed
and the deputy, with a bang, died.
MONA FRIDA SMILE
I thought I was embarking on a life of battle
bombarding the world with the QWERTY of my keyboard,
righting the wrongs of late-modern society,
the shadow of a valve removed from the mould of the cave.
By simulating attacks by the ECB to defy Re Cecconi
by having put up with the slander of web trolls like Girolimoni
and capitulating to the impracticality of rebuilding after the earthquake
of Italian metric art, find myself cleaning out the colophon, a new enema.
Joined at the moment when you wonder what it means to study and never arrive at a Bompiani,
the transmission of writing lies in the dead hand of the barons,
with the feeling of inadequacy of being a Barattieri at the Adua
suddenly comes the serious expression of a Chihuahua.
Mona Frida smile, Mona Frida smile
and life turns into Cirque du Soleil,
where the animal’s role is reciprocal
in the anarchy of a Saturnal wag.
Mona Frida smile, Mona Frida smile,
you want to shout ‘Heil!’ to Berlusconi,
habemus Fridam, bark loudly at St Peter’s
and salute the Members of Parliament by raising your hind leg.