*1
Give me
the fruit of innocence – whilst I breathe,
I gaze at myself in the mirror’s entirety – if indeed it has been catalogued
in the scientific archives of ethnic groups.
They say no, as if they did not understand that evidence
does not keep in its registries menus of ephemeral sensations.
The nobility catalogued in the West
does not recognize innocence as a sensible and visible value.
Let us consider its wonders –
since innocence is an immaterial asset of little worth
– what they add to the subtraction of their nature as cheap magicians
; the dull language of pretence; the immoderate plundering
of blood traded in the commerce of values
added to the gluttony of misery;
(the absence of a Book is telling)
pacts & regime pacts for a unifying perspective,
perhaps the bellicose side of terror, of those inept
at assessing innocence.
Investing in the feast of ignorance, they peddle market-stall gods,
tribunes of accusations against libertarians, but
also of the necessity of crimes proclaimed to be abandoned.
Those who observe are tempted to join the chorus of ‘No’
and the clamour is no fertile ground for just change
when at the fair objects without a price are traded
so that the market may be eternalized in an arena of encounters
incandescent and saturated with manipulated voids
as prescribed in the digital factory. The return
to the poem challenges the denial of evidence. There are black bullets
in the faces of those who wanted the innocent letter
of existence. In the temples, gold flows like a promise
of milk in time for the miracle of the elect.
The burning megaphones flutter amidst the collapse
and the news rejoices, boosting the publicity.
Where is the Book?
I gaze at myself in the mirror’s entirety – if indeed it has been catalogued
in the scientific archives of ethnic groups.
They say no, as if they did not understand that evidence
does not keep in its registries menus of ephemeral sensations.
The nobility catalogued in the West
does not recognize innocence as a sensible and visible value.
Let us consider its wonders –
since innocence is an immaterial asset of little worth
– what they add to the subtraction of their nature as cheap magicians
; the dull language of pretence; the immoderate plundering
of blood traded in the commerce of values
added to the gluttony of misery;
(the absence of a Book is telling)
pacts & regime pacts for a unifying perspective,
perhaps the bellicose side of terror, of those inept
at assessing innocence.
Investing in the feast of ignorance, they peddle market-stall gods,
tribunes of accusations against libertarians, but
also of the necessity of crimes proclaimed to be abandoned.
Those who observe are tempted to join the chorus of ‘No’
and the clamour is no fertile ground for just change
when at the fair objects without a price are traded
so that the market may be eternalized in an arena of encounters
incandescent and saturated with manipulated voids
as prescribed in the digital factory. The return
to the poem challenges the denial of evidence. There are black bullets
in the faces of those who wanted the innocent letter
of existence. In the temples, gold flows like a promise
of milk in time for the miracle of the elect.
The burning megaphones flutter amidst the collapse
and the news rejoices, boosting the publicity.
Where is the Book?
– where is the text, a page open to a fearless race?
On the dark side of the stone, the springs, all the springs,
concentrated in the heart of the mud, the immediate bread
to so many outstretched hands. Hands
no longer bearing the face of what were once small whims
of happy accidents in the casual clash of bodies:
a diamond-like emerald or a lapis lazuli as rough
as a fragment of the ancient grandfather’s landscape. Hands,
many hands at the twilight of dawn, hands
without a past nor doors to open in the future.
Hands of bodies with eyes, and in those eyes the sharpness of the walls
where the rumblings nestle.
What do romantic roots matter? What do
names with a destiny matter? Here, nothing counts, nothing matters.
The vote was a beast of language that wounded everyone
under the magnificent festival of democracy, of its dream,
of its constitution, of the freedom projected in the gardens
and, now, no. The descendants of vampires hatched
in the surrogate wombs of non-mothers and not-mothers,
found with hands, and only with hands, like eyes
of water, emerged from their tomb-like hiding places
to parade under the banner of a new possibility
of dictatorship. Not them, say those who forgot them.
Democratic intelligence faltered in its rare occurrence
and allowed itself to be overrun by collaborators
who invented the opportunity to wish to exist
without those who existed in solidarity.
Today, the democracies of the West cast aside all
who think, throwing wide the gates of freedom
to the consuls of the slaughter foretold in fictions
diminished by the priests of tainted knowledge.
There are no longer caves for an entire planet to shelter
from acid rain. Democratic constitutions are
paper pulp. Where is the decent housing to which we are entitled?
Where is the temple of longevity?
Those who have extorted so much think little. And most
of those who think they think have not the faintest idea
of what constitutes the tiniest reflection on the trivialisation
of evil. There are hands, many hands, ever more hands
pointing to the cosmic mystery of a sky without gods.
Let us speak of the signs etched into the skin of storms
and of oblivion. Insubordination, perhaps a secret place
of dignity, its structure, the sustainability
of Freedom. The fist, the clenched fingers, and in the chest
the mother celebrated in the cardiac orchestra that sublimates her
in her blood pump. The alabaster jug,
as yellow as the solar flag in times of peace,
rejoices with its roots hidden in that house
found two centuries ago in a grandfather’s anonymous drawing.
Let us speak of signs. Like that mouth in the distance
that emerges from the advertising poster and speaks when night falls,
the tongue loosened by saliva hidden in the enigma of desire.
Fire, fire too, subjected to the fleeting moments of the pores,
sanctifies the vertical line of insatiable affection
and the eyes, there so high above the faces, injected
with the future, signing the irrefutable protocol
in the register of an ephemeral and fleeting verse of the infinite trance.