Papasquiaro’s “Advice from 1 Disciple of Marx to 1 Heidegger fanatic”

exclaims the millionaire in solitude

                                                        & miserable at work

who just yesterday was laid off for not getting excited

by the short-circuits of the bureaucratic coffeemaker

What a moon!

                like 1 clipped nail

                        like 1 glob of sperm

                                suspended

                over the bristling back of the night

when you hear

the crunch of smashed nuts––crack––

the whirring the whine of the ambulance

                        that once again arrives too late

the murmur of lizards with leopard spots

mischievously climbing through vines in search of food

the last sounds of 1 picnic

                        where Desolation has been at it again

& has finished by announcing the approach of the wind

                                that stains & corrodes everything

Nevertheless 1 still walks around here like 1 happy sparrow

like Chaplin the day he first kissed Mary Pickford

someone goes by with 1 transistor radio

                                                        that seems like his second ear

Galileo discovers the law of the pendulum observing

                                                the saccharine swinging of those lovers

violently united & half consumed by the fog

believing the very foolish that Love by tooth & nail

                                                    will end up glowing in Technicolor

& this at the same m2 / at the same time

in which the North Pole & the South Pole

the thesis & antithesis of the world

                                meet

like 1 white-hot meteor & 1 UFO in distress

& inexplicably they greet each other:

I’m the 1 who embossed on the back of his denim jacket

the sentence: The nucleus of my solar system is Adventure

I call myself that but I like them to say The Protoplasm Kid

You’re the 1 who bites his nails while leafing through the crime section

his fingers lost in the stiffness of the news page

                        but

is it the news /

                those who report it /

                        those who read it like 1 necessary drug?

who Sherlock Holmes are the assassins?

Given the circumstances you don’t even trust your own eyes

what caliber of struggles pursuits disputes

                        are hidden under the roughest cloth

the fearful climb trees

the more agile prefer to walk around pointing

to the exact moment the atmosphere thins to the limit of endurance

& the airplanes start falling like 1 scene from a silent movie

where the arms of the dying spin like propeller blades

without explaining why the horizon is slobbered with fire

Although the sky––apparently––looks sober & clear

like 1 irreconcilable enemy of the Plastic Arts

& almost nobody notices the little lunatic who kisses licks bites his handless watch

while asking Will the earth be getting colder

                won’t we be going out of orbit???

certain that in 1 such case even Jerry Lewis would sincerely weep

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