The failure

I am among those ones that crept illicitly in the world, that subsist illicitly
I’m too long or too oblique or too concave to fit this human skin
The souls’ mixer hasn’t come to make a good citizen out of me

My brother turned into a stone
My lover into a frozen star
My friends turned into adults
My mother became a man

Only I remained unchanged
I preserved intact
my distress
my doubts
my fears
my sad habits

Some remains of a lyrical substance
alter my thinking

that’s why

I’m compatible but with loneliness
And with the sadness hidden in the core of things


Reality show

I remember the good times
When the poets still had prejudices to fight

Now the injustice is history
All revolt reasons have been eradicated

There is plenty of freedom
Everywhere is peace and quietness
Not a single misfit disturbs our respite
No outcast bemires with blood the sky of the great cities
No madman digs abysses in the public parks
Not even the dogs bark at the Moon anymore
They became realist
Now they know that it is just a chilly celestial body

In our days the lyricism is artificially made of dregs of sonic and visual material
Of the earthly remains of the old epopees
Or of the ashes of the ex condemned to death

The poets attend classes of professional reorientation
Some of them turned into hyenas some of them into accountants or lawyers
But they don’t suffer anymore
Their conscience has been relieved of the soul’s burden
They finally can be useful to society

The world became an agreeable place
The demons have been cast away
The angels – those ones remained – wash the dishes, sweep, husk potatoes, sing in the subways
Life is fun

The scraps of the ex utopias spread out radiations that still affect the weak guys
Those one ready to believe in something more…
But eventually

The cynicism will create immunity
The reality will defeat
Every hope


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