In the year Two Thousand and Eighteen of Our Life
I, the unsuccessful ipsnosferic scribe,
mute talent eternally old,
"older than...", perhaps never born
uselessly surfacing from nullity
of a null adorned with uselessness
Because, as it is known, life is a gift,
then why not prolong pain and abyssal sorrow,
and sufferings for others and for ourselves, never too drunk on vanity?
I say Farewell
to your endless disputes
often played on a wire
between iron logic and polite doctrinal babble
within the freedom of interactive opinion
enclosed by a comfortable barbed wire
and I say Farewell
to absent preachers, theorists of a noble future
empathically generous with suggestions
and other useful advice, but meanwhile very careful
to live correctly their
to the gamblers of destiny
noble and obliged, always winning by pure chance,
because it is the destiny of the wrong lineage
and, as is known, you can do nothing to become a winner,
except turn your silent doubts
to those who say they are the weavers of those coincidences
I say Farewell
to your bullish teenage-like anger
extended in the rebellious elegance of pointing
your tattooed finger at everything that is evil
apparent candidates for the archaeology of the Always
eternal future rediscoverers
of the "eternal return of the always the same"
I, provincial apolid
from a vague place and a distant time
because water has no shape
and I haven't lost these two cardinal points in vain
I keep the surface, leave you the depths
sail your seas,
I lack the fundamentals, and I say
Farewell
to the ideologists of consistency,
to the presidents of the exam commissions
of conscience,
and to the teachers of "who the fuck cares: patience is needed"
to the special indignants
proudly defectors from shipwrecked opinions
to electoral triumphs
bowed in eternal reverence to the power
of those on duty again because no one voted for them
without ever taking a stand
because everything is relative
and "you can't lump everything together"
and since we're at it and we like it so much
let's restore it even in the Constitution
to those proud of their lands
so hospitable as to invite you
affably to leave, never to return
to the lovers of the Homeland, the bell towers, and their climbers
who preach the deviation of rivers and the movement of capitals and Cities,
and they have no more room for anyone else,
except the occasional benefactors of relative Humanity
In the year Two Thousand and Eighteen of Our Life
I, an useless virtual projection
of a tired and victimized me
aware that everything flows, even just apparently
even under apparent immobility
I hope at least that in a moment of quiet
it has been useful even just for a moment
my uselessness.
