I find myself in a rage

Inhabiting the mythical sincerity
of a murdered poet (run over & over),
once seen as calculating and insincere

like a youth who doesn’t know anything about himself

Sides with the party but isn’t a member,
posits policemen are the true proletariat –
haunted by a father who saved Mussolini

except that he is new and rants against the old world.

Tries to express the viewpoint of the believer –
finds it hard to escape the self reflection
of the inner bourgeoisie, really, who wouldn’t?

Buys a castle in Viterbo, north of Rome,
illuminating the coprophagia of consumerism
in a film based on Sade’s 120 journées

I don’t hide this state of mine:

Poetry reduces to defense, compromise,
renunciation, naïveté that shrivels prestige –
how much reality can there be?

I never have peace, ever.*

* Pier Paolo Pasolini (Director, Poet, Philosopher)

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