MUM, I AM AN AUTISTIC
Mum, i’m an autistic, not a municipal transport company autistic
i know in your mother’s heart you always dreamed of settling down as a state employee,
without the worry of a time card to punch and unemployment
doing eighteen hours a week, three months off, with the anxiety of defiscalising repetition.
Ma, i am an autistic, bad luck has decided to crown, me, as a writer
no, ma, i don’t write therapeutic remedies, no invoice, like the doctor,
i have explained to you a hundred times that i deal in endiads and alliterations
i dialogue, every night, with ghosts and communicate with martians,
and, by now, like the Villa, no ma, not the baker of via Mentana
i mix latin, dialect and the average italian as a seasoned courtesan.
Ma, i’m autistic, i speak in distich, or in anapestic,
but go on, you understand, it’s not like i’ve become spastic,
at most flexible and elastic, says so even the troika,
thrown into life with a rocket like i was Laika,
victim of the artistic environment’s lack of communication
nailed, backwards, on my cenotaph the epitaph: “!Here lies an autistic man”,
since no one can catch me in any verse
or ma, don’t bother me, i’m a deviant.
BEYOND THE BRILLO BOX
My research on the form of writing rises above the Brillo Box,
i throw my verses in the strongbox as if they were in Fort Knox,
start-up, repetition, reproduction give a life sentence to the originality
of the centenarian editors of magazines now forgetful of all abrasiveness,
after all, you know, dentures should not be solicited by intelligent concepts,
by dint of accepting canine verses carmina dant panem only to their teeth,
if we, forty year-old teenagers, have to do Professor Birkermaier’s diet
for them, octogenarian children, it would be time to diagnose a shred of Alzheimer’s.
The current fashion of the granted critic is to bark against the successes of minimalism
milanese or Roman, inn istèss, and we, 1970s ghosts, in search of the coveted minimum space,
because to change the world we could useful the energetic vigour of maximalism,
reading verses in rollian endecasyllables, in 2016, one feels like the victim of an odyssey in agony,
and the punishment of our no-future generations is to make the avant-garde in their forties
intent on claiming a Lebensraum that does not end in Anschluss,
we Heermann condemned by flexibility to never blossom into arimanni,
find ourselves re-knotting catheters to old specialists in trobar clus .
What do we have to do in order to achieve our fifteen seconds of fame
show our asses on Barbara D’Urso, edit the cultural columns of L’Unità
or patent rhymes that you mere mortals wouldn’t even dare to imagine
barking dog does not sleep and asleep – as you would like us – does not help us bite,
is woken by the caresses of an emir the late-modern Sleeping Beauty by cocaine
available to suck US gal of black gold like a petrol pump,
ladies, transgenders and gentlemen annuntio vobis gaudium magnum the fairytale is over
the generations beyond the Brillo Box will have to nibble leftovers food under the laden table
THE BALLAD OF LUIGINO: SAVINGS BANK
Luigino, sixty-eight years old, was killed
strangled by a ‘save-bank’ decree invented by a state
victim, always interested, of the fear of sanctions established by the EU with an ordinance
and uncaring, on the other, when sanctions came for years on the absence of citizenship income,
a camorrist state that throws itself at bailing out banks
and citizens are left to hope for the intervention of the Malebranche group,
in the Malebolge of the italian credit system, as in the case of Banca Etruria,
130,000 idiots to save the bank, and nine or ten to share slices of watermelon.
An Enel employee, Luigino, not a senior manager of a subsidiary holding company,
go figure out the difference between an ordinary bond and a subordinated one,
that if one, without his knowledge, is liable for the debts of a large capital company,
at least he should have the right, once a year, to have brunch in a Ferrari,
the Ferrari, or the Jaguar, of the CEO expert in deceit
that, if he were Nippon, would turn a hanging into harakiri,
because the manager is European or American he has exchanged shame for courage
the courage to continue, under a new name, to collect medals of fraud and agiotage.
Luigino died with a rope around his neck
like the millions of wretches destined for slaughterhouse,
with a click from a bunker in Berlin or London the super-capital
erases an entire life by turning the consumer into a pig,
nothing is thrown away, of the consumer, the consumed-consumer is thrown away
in the Caliphate, at least,it takes three minutes for a westerner to be slaughtered,
not sixty-eight years, torn apart by the alternation of bail-out or bail-in, like slot-machines,
tel disi mi, bilòtt, inn tücc bàll would have sentenced, with a serious air, my grandmother Ines.
THEY ARE ALL BULLSHIT
The new EU directives, Deutschland über alles,
direct the leaders of each member state to cure their herpes
of failing banks with the money of the good people,
who have nothing to do with bank boards.
The infamous bank bail-in has been in force since the beginning of the year
to be interpreted by holding the criminal code in the right hand and a dictionary in the left,
every saver – vile vintage breed – will have to empty flasks of En,
in the fear that the plutocrats will screw our ‘five pippi’ like Belen’s hardcore movie,
shareholder, subordinated bondholder, ordinary bondholder, current account holder
willing to go pantyless with the nonchalance of the abused naturist,
will see their hubris lubricated in not contributing to the rise of credit consumption
while waiting for the breakthrough of their interbank deposit protection funds.
This of the European Union is a truly hyper-liberal trick
covering the banker’s hole with the asshole of every current account holder,
everyone is capable of acting like a faggot with other people’s ass
bailing out millionaires with the money of the unfortunate is not a job for scoundrels,
after having divided the cake they blame the stock market crash in Kuala Lumpur
and the savers to go the way of the Thousand in Count Cavour’s cunning strategy.
Let us get the concept straight: if the Garbatella’charcutier goes bankrupt
will those who bought caciotta and mortadella also be involved in his debts?
THE BALLAD OF POLITICALLY INCORRECT
If you end up electrocuted on the road to Damascus
in today’s conditions it will have been the logos of a russian missile,
i, fruit of a Madonna conceived by a Bergamo’s butcher
i write, maalox, emitting verses in reflux acid,
i’m not thirsty for fame or hungry for silk
with rough syntagms it does’t print a degree as a «poet»,
in Italy Fornero has increased the brain-drain
either those who remain are headless, or cling to the Bacchelli.
Damascus, the metaphor of transition, the city of the Nabateans,
today victim of the conversion of hand grenades into money,
the multinationals of weapons study the marketing of the wounded
the multinational pharmaceutical companies study the marketing of the malnourished sick
the multinationals of the Northern European Union study to reduce the debt
to the southern nations of Europe that transform themselves into refugee camps,
the multinationals of this shit study how to cover this horrible hard film
outsourcing immense multitudes of homeless people in the streets of Milan.
The universal Catholic Church is struggling with the adoptions of consenting faggots,
so much so that the IOR bankers act like fags with the holes of our current accounts,
indulgence to hulls, smugglers and skilleds, and the italian catches it in the behind,
it would be enough to unload 300,000 fake syrians on the churchyard of St. Peter’s Square
let the good Pope Francis support them all, with the sacred gold of faith,
because if Padre Pio had been on the throne he would have given us a manner rough,
kicking the asses of libyan prisoners, hotel expenses, who ask for wi-fi
and a citizen’s income for the italian who sleeps in his car ruined by the usual puppeteers.
If you end up electrocuted on the road to Damascus
or a] you are Paul of Tarsus or b] you are the CEO of Esso,
in the Italy Toyland they blind you with the shares of Monte del Pasco
Pinocchio, oh, by dint of jerking off he has become a fool,
in the Paschi, horny maremma, they buttfuck you with the abigeat
and the creative balance of multinationals is never a crime,
if Monti sharks you or they steal ten rams from you, you don’t get pissed off
from the raffle of those who grab you will be rewarded with a tax bill.
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 2024, 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, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni and Kolektivne NSEAE with Divinafollia. 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. 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), 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 is included several times in the major international literature magazine, Gradiva. His verses are translated into 25 languages. 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) [https://kolektivnenseae.wordpress.com/].
