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146
Beyond the limits of urban landscape
J.: “A tragic bimillennial winter,
loaded and swollen by a foggy pathos,
hoary beard and ancient rhetoric
petty, reactionary, malicious anger,
flabby and asthmatic old song, it does
not fall silent for a moment, nor gives
a break the dull and deaf fanfare
of the baroque bandwagon of the sun
as it expresses dumb satisfaction,
the skin very shiny and taut.
While the flesh helplessly wanders around,
dreams, gets drenched and drips blood,
is covered in shame, lies lifeless,
rotting, down on the shining floor,
wasting the clarity of well-defined
clean empty space, delineated
by the geometrical lines of rooms:
these rooms of mine, and these words
silly-jingled (so satisfying),
well furnished (so satisfying
to gnaw every second, go
along and then remain in a song,
ad libitum continuation of a key)…
we remain the illegal immigrants of life,
always hidden in the darkness of the holds
of the great, luxury ocean liners
in the
paresseuse
shadow of serviettes
and curtains of chic first class restaurants;
bites of rats, eternal ambition of the seconds,
pass and pass, and go along…
now stop do not be so greedy,
let him do his dirty job
with the accuracy of microchip,
according to the order (satisfaction)
that traces shipping routes, draws
series, sequences of exact calculations,
iteration and reproduction,
with precision and accuracy
(without passion and any more illusions)
but with an exact destination)”
Now Johnette has something in mind …
J.: “Crossroads of vertical and horizontal lines
and intercontinental airlines,
precise metal lanes,
solid steel tracks for Titans
along very long intersecting lines;
just an insect, a small point
and then it is useless to calculate
the difference that runs between
the normal incident line
when two airplanes collide
perhaps a Concorde and a 747
in a concordant orange embrace
on the greedy sea the vast ocean
(circular hug on the boundary
of reason, of the world, of the sense
that defines us and forces us
beyond any logical precision)
then they can populate the sleep
and even in the city, downtown,
corpses re-emerge in rivers
they look at us from under the bridges while
we go enjoy ourselves and have fun:
their faces distorted in agony,
their bodies misery of pain. At the end
in our faces the traits of the grimace
of suffering will be carved: we will
look at each other suspiciously,
and we will have to strive, and prove
to ourselves that we are all still in
and that their death does not affect
a world of well expressed values…
while al night sirens will howl
flashes of blue, yellow, or red
among the green, even greener at a late hour,
(small lights in the dark) and then we will have
to look at the dark night of time”