Illustration: AI
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.
ALL BEHIND THE TELEVISION
Horror television, error television
remember the shops selling horror sponsored by the television,
the audience goes up if a freelancer with ankylosed neurons
interviews dozens of disaster victims in their cars at night,
and if i were the interviewee, by God, I'd call in a policeman,
or at the very least, I'd kick the freelancer's ass again.
Television of tears, television of addiction,
uses the brand label as a dividing line
between fragments of film, between scraps of programme,
the Romans in Rome based the strength of their obligation on the sponsor,
we attribute to the sponsor the power to make inhumane people decide
to give more value to a typhoon or a massacre of Afghan children.
The television of death, the television of pain,
the studio to be avoided by the faint of heart,
every news story on TV is a terrorist act,
capable of turning Jeffrey Dahmer into Hare Krishna,
the salute to the island of Giglio was an exceptional scoop,
the only fault of the improvised actors was that they couldn't swim.
Tonight, everyone behind the switched-off televisions:
in fact, by putting yourself in front, you won't get anything.
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.
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