I have always wanted to meet a real man or woman, and I have never found one. When I was young and went out to visit clubs, dances, brothels, I only found men or women who were not men or women but brutes and animals.
When we left all these joints, my friends and I, we all went around saying that Humanity is a natural disaster. That it has no remedy. That if the final Apocalypse does not come it is because there will always be someone to fix, and women will always be twenty years old, face up, face down.
Grumbling and scolding is what we have to mend. Men shit in cauldrons, and women listen to mass shitting in the corrals. Where good wine is drunk, there the girls are affectionate, and men mend their pants for the grilled toast of the moment.
Let us hear them in the cellar:
-My mother married me to a shepherd, because I went to mass one day and he raped me in the sacristy; which did not displease me because he is a messenger of God.
-Thinking that I had found a good girl, the other day I took her to the cellar, believing that she was a lady; but, when she lowered her trousers, the goatherd’s erect member appeared.
-How come you are, boy; you seem very angry.
-Since it has rained, I wanted to jump across the road, and in the middle I fell.
-Politicians are hopeless. They do not say a good word. They only know how to bray, thundering the House and the whole Nation.
-A bunch of hypocrites, thieves and liars they are, for whom the only bad thing is to bray out of season.
-They are as despicable as fools.
-Like priests, who are surprised to find the Donkey they lost when they pedophilia children.
-They wanted to make me a nun or a priest, but my parents surprised me by putting a dildo in my anus and vagina.
-I think it is a reasonable and convincing fact that Humanity is a natural disaster.
-Next to my house I have a small orchard and a strawberry tree. With my little orchard and the strawberry trees that it gives me, I don’t want any more!
-The Love that exists is only natural. I know that it needs an Aria, and I will play it for it as musicians do, and singers sing it and raise it to Heaven with pleasure and care, until Death comes, we hear it moan with pleasure, and we leave it so satisfied.
-Wait, Death, I want to say goodbye to Love.
-Mourners, cry as I do now; that Death has bitten my glans with its skull teeth.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un disturbo borderline
distribuisco gomitate tipo Greg “The Hammer” Valentine,
nemmeno se mi impegno riuscirò a aspirare al Nobel
deutoplasma irriducibile tra vacche nere d’Hegel.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho un delirio schizofrenico
rifuggo dalle masse e intingo biro nell’arsenico,
canto, fuori dal coro, come un mitomane a X Factor
disinnescando bombe, spaccio col metal-detector.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho attitudini da killer,
deambulo tra zombie, stile King of Pop in Thriller,
volando a bassa quota quoto quote di quozienti,
costretto a impacchettare sottotitoli per non-utenti.
Non riesco a integrarmi, ho ogni sorta di fobia
in coda appetisco il verde, come un virtuoso in dendrofilia,
mettendo a fuoco il mondo e sfuocati i tempi con lo zoom,
mi arrendo alla desuetudine della consecutio temporum.
I DON’T FIT IN
I don’t fit in, I have a borderline personality disorder
I give out elbows like Greg ‘The Hammer’ Valentine,
if I don’t apply myself I’ll never be able to aspire to the Nobel Prize
irreducible deutoplasma among Hegel’s black cows.
I don’t fit in, i have a schizophrenic delusion
i hate the people and dip my pen in arsenic,
i sing, outside the choir, like an X Factor mythomaniac
defusing bombs and dealing with a metal detector.
I don’t fit in, i’ve got a killer’s disposition,
i wander between the zombies, style King of Pop in Thriller,
flying at low altitude I quote quotes of quotients,
forced to pack subtitles for non-users.
I don’t fit in, i have all sorts of phobias,
in the queue i crave the green, like a virtuous dendrophile,
setting the world on fire, blurring time with the zoom,
i surrender myself to the obsolescence of consecutio temporum.
IL POLLICE IMPONIBILE
La tassonomia caratterizza l’homo sapiens dalla forma della mano,
non distingue l’ominide della Bibbia, l’ominide del Vangelo, l’ominide del Corano;
l’anatomia moderna s’è imbattuta in una scoperta attendibile:
l’italiano medio è dotato di pollice imponibile.
L’aumento esorbitante dei tassi non comporta una sparizione delle tasse,
nessun sessuologo animale è mai riuscito a uscire dall’impasse,
le tasse aumentano, in caso di abbassamento o crescita dei tassi,
saranno tasse ninfomani, lontane dal desiderio di ribassi.
L’Italia è la repubblica fondata sulle tasse, da Nord a Sud,
tanto che a rimettere le cose a posto ci vorrebbe un Governo Robin Hood,
l’italiano medio, ogni giorno, è in ADE a misurarsi la pressione fiscale,
arrivati al 50% chiameremo l’anatomopatologo a certificare l’embolia cerebrale.
L’Itaglia è terra d’inventori, si mette una tassa sull’ombra delle tende dei locali,
il massimo del cuneo fiscale (presa per il culo) è la tassa comunale sulle centrali nucleari,
che, in bolletta, ti trovi una tassa EF-EN sull’efficienza (?) dell’energia elettrica,
come cazzo riescono a convincerti dell’incoerenza è cosa comica.
C’è la tassa sul televisore, c’è la tassa sulla tassa, d’incostituzionale disappunto,
e scopriamo che la nostra spazzatura, soggetta ad IVA, ha valore aggiunto,
la tassa sulla morte, intesa come certificato di constatazione di decesso,
ragazzi, ditemi voi, se ci fosse stata ai tempi di Yeshua, Lazzaro come sarebbe stato messo.
La tassa sulla morte, maronna dell’Incoroneta, a morire serve un nulla-osta
ostia, il morto deve resuscitare e versare 35€ facendo la coda in Posta,
la tassa sulle invenzioni che non si applica all’invenzione di nuovi tributi
e ti accusano di diffamazione se affermi d’esser governato da una massa di cornuti.
La tassa sugli spiriti, in senso alcolico, la tassa sul rumore degli aeroplani,
il rumore degli aeroplani? Pensa alla tassa sul casino di un concerto degli Inti-Illimani,
c’è una tassa sui gradini, l’imposta comunale sui cani, la tassa sulle cabine telefoniche.
Ma andate a cagare, forse si stava meglio con le stravaganze fiscali borboniche.
THE TAXABLE THUMB
Taxonomy characterises homo sapiens by the shape of the hand,
it does not distinguish the hominid of the Bible, the hominid of the Gospel, the hominid of the Koran;
modern anatomy has made a discovery worthy of belief:
the average Italian has a taxable thumb.
The exorbitant increase in rates does not mean the disappearance of taxes,
no animal sexologist has ever managed to break the deadlock,
if rates are lowered or increased, taxes will increase,
they will be nymphomaniac rates, far from a desire to lower them.
Italy is a republic founded on taxes, from north to south,
for many who would like to put things right, it would take a government Robin Hood,
tthe average Italian is in ADE every day to measure the tax burden,
when the figure reaches 50%, we’ll call in the pathologist to certify the cerebral embolism.
Itaglia, the land of inventors, imposes a tax on the shade of shop awnings,
the maximum of the tax wedge (taking the ass) is the municipal tax on nuclear power plants,,
that, in your bill, you find an EF-EN tax on the efficiency (?) of electricity,
how the fuck do they manage to convince you of the inconsistency is funny.
There’s the TV tax, there’s the tax on tax, unconstitutional discontent,
and we discover that our rubbish, subject to VAT, has added value,
the death tax, aimed at the death certificate,
guys, tell me, if there had been in the times of Yeshua, Lazarus, how they would have put it.
The death tax, Holy Madonna to the Crown, to die gives the green light,
fuck, the dead must resurrect and pay 35 € queuing at the Post Office,
the tax on inventions does not apply to the invention of new taxes,
and they accuse you of defamation if you claim to be governed by a bunch of cuckolds.
The tax on spirits, in the alcoholic sense, the tax on aircraft noise,
aircraft noise? We’re thinking of the tax on the mess of an Inti-Illimani concert,
there’s a tax on staircases, council tax on dogs, tax on telephone boxes.
Fuck off, maybe we were better off with the Bourbon tax extravaganzas.
WWW
Il web è una cosa strana,
la libertà dell’ignorante regna sovrana,
dicevano i latini, dal mento volitivo, della lega anseatica, necesse est navigare,
e ci si trova imbrigliati nella rete come cozze messe a corrente da lampare.
Ci immergiamo, ogni santo giorno, nella melma del World Wide Web
senza bussola, come turisti nomadi intimiditi alla ricerca di un Club Med,
siamo incalliti e spensierati come membri di una neo-avanguardia
imbarcati, veri coatti, nelle cabine della Costa Concordia,
incuranti che a forza di navigare si finisca davanti ad un machete,
nella jungla sadomaso dei webmaster t’imbatti sempre in un webete,
disponibile a imbavagliarti in un rapporto di connessione / sconnessione,
convincendoti, senza fatica, d’esser tu il set da circoncisione.
Questi miei stupidi versi dove andranno mai a parare,
se qualunque palla finisce in rete senza possibilità di verificare,
senza opportunità di criticare, ti saltano addosso in branco, come neo-fascisti,
fasci in fasce con in bocca un biberon da insaziabili etilisti,
davanti all’uomo webete ogni ragionamento cade,
l’aristocrazia del web si incentra sulla marca di De Sade,
«lasciate ogni speranza» o voi che entrate, in blog
se avete il torto di non spartir merende col barone Sacher-Masoch.
La verità è che navigare è diventato un dramma,
senza aver attaccato all’USB del tuo Pc i fili dell’elettroencefalogramma:
chi non ha intuito che il www sia diventato un outlet,
sia condannato a osservar la rete come Boris Beckett.
WWW
The web is a strange thing,
the freedom of the ignorant reigns supreme,
as the voluptuous-chinned Latins of the Hanseatic League used to say, necesse est navigare,
and we find ourselves stuck in the network like mussels in the current of the lamparo.
Every holy day we plunge into the mud of the World Wide Web,
disorientated like intimidated nomadic tourists looking for a Club Med,
tough and carefree like members of a neo-avant-garde,
embarked, real roughnecks, in the cabins of the Costa Concordia,
carefree enough to sail that everything ends up in front of a machete,
in the sado-masochistic jungle of webmasters, you always come across a webheber,
ready to gag you in a connection/disconnection relationship,
by convincing you, with ease, that you yourself are circumcision material.
My silly worms, where will they ever go
if any ball ends up in the net without the possibility of verifying,
no opportunity to criticise, if they fall on you in herds like neo-fascists ,
bundles in layettes with a baby bottle in their mouths as insatiable alcoholics,
all reasoning falls before the webbeast,
the web aristocracy centres on the De Sade brand,
‘abandon all hope’ you who enter here, in blog
if you’re wrong enough not to share tastes with Baron Sacher-Masoch’s.
In truth browsing has become a drama,
without having to connect the USB of your PC to the wires of an electroencephalogram:
who hasn’t guessed that the www has become an outlet,
is condemned to observe the net like Boris Beckett.
EPIMILLIGRAMMA
Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino,
sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto d’anonimo».
Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola di cicuta:
senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta.
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.
MANGIANO VOCI
se hanno carta bianca, i nuovi scrittori che cantano senza Musa
emulerebbero Géricault nella sua zattera della Medusa.
L’arte italiana è diventata un assalto al forno,
sbocciano versi a «cazzo» che neanche i membri di un film porno,
anche nel Poetryweb l’attore si confonde con il montatore,
rigurgitando testi tanto anacronistici da andare in copertina su Le Ore.
La democrazia lirica non deve essere una lirica da due lire,
indispensabile è studiare e non è vietato severamente approfondire
oramai tutti improvvisano, protesizzatisi con un bloc-notes,
come se invece che far cultura doves sero iscriversi a Tú sí que vales.
Per la scrittura sul www dovremmo mettere un test d’ingresso,
vietato toccare la tastiera sotto minaccia di sollecito decesso,
non occorre all’arte tardomoderna, Lucini docet, attempiarsi rivoltelle,
la malattia incurabile d’inizio secolo si chiama Adsl.
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.
Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d’avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettiva vince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporanei dell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).
Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literature in Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Underground and Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L’Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poets of the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review of Gradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).
“You were born from the Rays of God’s Majesty when the stars were in their perfect place.”
~RUMI
God I return to you in the lights of a star…shining bright with the light of love. Love from the beginning I return without darkness for I have seen the wonders of my soul. The hidden treasure of your spark within me. The world has not covered my soul in sin or emptiness leaving me without you in my heart. Your truth that speaks in me in the wee hours of the morning as the world sleeps forever more. I find my soul among the stars circling the outer rim of Saturn’s moon. I’m that star to the right of your heart. O God never to become dim for you created me to shine forever more.
“When you lose all sense of self the bonds of a thousand chains will vanish…” ~RUMI
Where can I go O God where you do not exist? I have not traveled far enough to not feel your Holy presence within my soul. Delightful thoughts about the beginning of time together. Reaching for the clouds, as I lay in the fields of joy wishing to see the skies once more. Before the clouds cover the moon and the sun fades into the distinct mountains of Vermont. Once we had a conversation, as I sat on the porch wondering about my life. It was a conversation about my beginning without end. My heart listened intently as you spoke of salvation and redemption. Christ the messiah came alive within me. No more doubt nor sin to confuse my aching soul. For I had received the communion of life with these three words: You are forgiven.
On Monday, we all resumed school and everyone promised to study well. On that week, we all wrote our first test which was to test the seriousness of a student when they have gone away for holidays. Like water in a basket, the first, second, and third weeks came and passed. On the fourth week, a new student was enrolled in our class, a female student.
We have a classmate called Ummul Khayr who acted as if she knew the girl before. They were classmates in the formal school she attended.
On Tuesday morning, the new student introduced herself to the whole class. She was friendly but a bit proud.
Fatima was the kind that felt proud of herself in the classroom which I hated. So I spoke to her rudely about her arrogance but it led to a serious odium between me and her in the classroom. Fatima and I never spoke to each other in a good manner but we were always being rude to each other. We always had to fight in the classroom every single day since the day we had a misunderstanding with each other.
The first term went by without counseling with each other but we would always find new abusive words to stab each other with. The second term came again and went by but still battling also the third term. We were given a holiday for the end of the school year which makes me think about the issues. I asked myself: Should I stop this rubbish fight? or what will I do?
After the resumption of SS2, I tried my best possible ways to dodge the girl problem but all went in vain till the day I slapped her but still regretted my actions.
The first term passed by and we resumed as “not friends not enemies” and I really enjoyed myself like that. The second term was so special to me because I met the love of my life. In the middle of second term, the school embarked on a excursion to “BILKI BAB”. On that day, I just don’t believe myself when I realized that “NURAINI AND FATIMA” were chatting and smiling with each other.
I have a classmate called Salihu who saw us talking to each other. He announced it to the whole class member and wrote on a paper that “Nuraini and Fatima have started playing love”. some of my friends told me that is there a wish and Salihu said he had a dream about it before.
On our way back to school after the excursion, the bus was full with the story of the new Romeo and Juliet. We continue like that until the speech and prize giving day of my school. The school gave one month holiday that distracted our relationship. So as a newbie poet I wrote a poem and placed it on my cupboard.
Fatimah You are like a weapon that budged the gap between me and odium You are the bridge that bridges my ribs to build a household of love in my heart You are halal theft who took my heart without permission You are a kind kidnapper that kidnapped my feelings and emotions You curtained my heart so that nobody has access to it again Let me tell you, Fatimah My heart is your palace Where you can do anything you like inside, Twerk yourself as fun My heart is a palace that the kingdom In it never ends but you are only the queen forever.
We resumed SS3 in which I became shy of her. So I wanted her to first speak to me but no response.
NOW I bought a chocolate and wrapped it in a lovers’ package gift container, I dressed up in a very ironed suit and walked to the front of the classroom. I brought out the gift and started writing with three colors of markers on the whiteboard.
I once stood at the edge of a rusty, old bridge, looming over the abandoned train station below. To this day, I still wonder why I was drawn to that station, and why I wanted to end my life there. I come from a refugee family, a family that knew nothing about life in exile except how to eat, make money, drink, and work until you’d smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes. My parents were too old to work but too young to truly enjoy life. I had a twin brother who died just seconds after we were born. Maybe that’s why my mother always saw me as “the special one”—though never in a way that felt special to me.
My father cared about my health, but he cared more about the money I gave him from whatever jobs I could manage. Sometimes, he’d spend it on lottery tickets or buy my mother expensive gifts for no reason at all. On my birthday, all they talked about was my dead twin brother. I never felt their presence, their support. Eventually, I stopped going to school because I had no friends, and I lacked the knowledge I so desperately needed. Everyone from my high school moved on to successful lives. Even Linda—the only girl I ever truly loved.
It was love at first sight with her, but life dealt us both terrible hands. She survived a horrific car crash that left her with brain damage, but her parents weren’t so lucky. Afterward, Linda moved in with her blind, widowed grandmother and dropped out of school. She ended up working as a stripper at a well-known club, lying about her age with a fake ID.
I’d go there sometimes, buy an ordinary beer, and sit pretending I was waiting for a friend. I avoided making eye contact with anyone except the bartender, a divorced woman who seemed as lost as I was. She and I would have fun together occasionally when her kids were with their father in another city. My life was never important; I felt like an unwanted child in God’s land. My days were dull, each one bleeding into the next unless I was too drunk or too depressed to notice.
Then one day, the bartender took her own life. They found her hanging in her living room. No one knew why or how it had come to that. Her children were oblivious, but her ex-husband heard the news and eventually sent them to an orphanage. They were too young to understand that their mother’s death was linked to her battle with alcoholism.
After that, I developed a new habit—going to the abandoned train station to think about ending it all. I felt like there was no one left for me. Who did I have to live for? I wasn’t old, but the grey hairs were already creeping in, along with endless negative thoughts. The bartender had been the only one who knew about my visits to that station. After she died, I felt more alone than ever. Sometimes, I would stay at her house, and she’d treat me like a boyfriend, a lover, even if it was just for a few hours. But after she was gone, the silence became unbearable.
Linda noticed the change in me. I became quieter, more withdrawn. She started talking to me again, trying to reach out. One night, I told her everything that had been weighing on me. I even told her that it would be my last night at the club. When I said that, she started to cry, and so did I. I ran out, not wanting her to see me break down, and I ended up at the train station again, ready to end it all.
But then Linda appeared, wearing a man’s autumn jacket. She screamed my name, ran toward me, and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.
She whispered, “I love you. Hug me tight and let the world fade away. Your embrace is my refuge, where I feel truly alive.”
With a broken smile, I replied, “When I see you or talk to you, I don’t have to work so hard to be happy. It just happens.”
We kissed under the night sky and took an Uber back to the club, where Linda handed in her resignation. For good.
The near-death experience (NDE) came to me when, one afternoon, I went down to the beach of San Vicente de la Barquera, in Cantabria, when the beach was empty, the sea was rough and there was a red flag.
Drunk as I was on Hijoputa (son of the beach) brand honey brand, I went into the water, when suddenly, the waves caught me and dragged me towards the center of the sea, without being able to reach the sand of the beach due to the tiredness and exhaustion of my limbs that did everything possible to save me.
For me this was a lucid event, because I saw myself compromised with Death, since I knew that physically I would die if nobody came to rescue me, swallowing all the water of the sea with all its filth.
With almost no detectable heartbeat, and no breathing due to the water and algae that swallowed me, I traveled through a tunnel, observing a bright light, meeting a mythical being: Genghis Khan, who told me: -I’m meeting the neighbors; accompanied by Musk and Trump, who talked about the Big Con (big scam), and Frankenstein and Dracula, all of them united by mutual gravitational attraction, who were happy to see me alive, and talked about the NDE (Near Death Experience), listening to Genghis who told us:
-We live here now. Here and there, we live in a constant struggle between the Economic Damage Threshold (EDT), referring to the population density in which the costs of incurring in a genocide equals the benefits of not controlling the sale of weapons; and the Threshold of Action (TOA), referring to the population density in which a control action must be carried out, even by killing, to prevent the EDT from being reached.
I got away from these four firecrackers, addressing Genghis, the fertile man, who fathered more than a thousand children with his main wife, with minor wives and concubines that he incorporated into his flock thanks to his conquests, father of humanity, the “star cluster”, who had a goshawk peeking out of his fly, the most alert among the dead.
In the most plausible and arrogant way he grabbed me by the balls in the style that Musk and Trump do with women, forcing me to compose, in the shortest time possible, a poem, which I wrote with seaweed ink and a seagull feather on the back of a Nice of the north (Thunnus alalunga), but not before he told me:
-In the afterlife, the souls of mortals float in the infinite void like wandering stars; the ones that illuminate the most are those of psychopaths and serial killers, occupying the best places in stellar space. Those of other mortals are the turds that float in swamps, ponds, rivers or seas, and cling to water like ticks.
I was dumbfounded. And, when I tried to break the hawk’s neck, he ordered me:
-Come on! Write the poem.
I answered him, making a mistake in my words, because instead of saying: “Yes, my star cluster,” I said: “Yes, my star joke,” without him getting very angry because I was about to drown completely.
This was the poem I composed for him:
GENGHIS KHAN RESURRECTED
Genghis Khan, remembered Mongol
“Mongolo”moron, psychopath par excellence
Great Khan, great dog of Yinchuan
From the Republic of China
Admired serial killer leader
From Eastern Europe
To the Pacific Ocean
And from Siberia to Mesopotamia
India and Indochina
He has been incarnated in some humans:
The favorites, the chosen ones
Since the times of the Printing Press
As we see it
In the History of the times
In our emperors, kings, tsars
Dictators, presidents and heads of state
Whose label is mass extermination
And famine
As announced to us, in his day
A dwarf King Kong
Who died for our sins
On his deathbed.
Already as a child, Chinguis Jaan
That was the name of the guy Genghis Khan
When he was going up some stairs
He got dizzy and fell to the ground
And his group of friends told him:
-Chinguis, don’t be so mean
Be very brave
You were born to rape and kill at random.
He believed it wholeheartedly
Growing up among murders:
That of his brother and his best friend
Rapes of women
Whom he raped three times a week
Cutting off their clitorises with his sword
Making necklaces for himself
And for his warriors who killed the most.
He liked, well, what he loved the most
Was cutting off heads and watching them roll
Screaming these: -Bastard, murderer
You do nothing but nonsense.
His hatred of the Moors was infinite
As is shown today in the nations
Who elect at the polls, or outside of them
Serial killers to govern them
Before, for the desire to steal their jewels
And, today, to steal their oil.
He built pyramids
With corpses and mortal remains
As are seen today made
On the ruins of Palestine
Lebanon, Syria, Ukraine and other nations.
They say that, one day
He went inside his tent.
He peeked through a crack
Seeing one of his warriors coming
Who was approaching him
Fucking his most youthful mare in the ass.
-What did this great murderous Khan do?
He cut off the head of his youthful mare
Putting his brand new sword
In the backside of the warrior
His brand new sword, on the fly.
A fact that was praised by their conquered peoples
