da 999 rooms: Rooms of the night / Vanni Santoni
The future starts today.
The future is fresh!
The future will be repeated,
broadcasted & distributed.
The future will be obsolete.
The future is overrated.
The future ain’t what it used to be.
The room of the future.
The future? Just a season.
The future is here and now.
Oh please, always talking about the future…
The future is a chest of broken mirrors,
a boot stomping a human face, again and again.
in the interminable boredom of this sandbox
They say Kardashev III civilisations,
who can harness whole galaxy energy
may well live inside supermassive black holes:
sounds legit, demigodlike, arses-hiding;
me, I hang with children and witches all day
avec des enfants, mit Hexen I do dance
and the red plain gives no shelter, not even
under red rocks, no shadow’s like full shadow
says the wise, and the star makes a fool of me
(a carrion is for ants & for the sunbeams)
我 情不自禁 地 笑 个 不停.
the twirliest vessels got stuck
(try with a hymn, the docks laugh):
a flotsam of stimulants.
coffee vigil, unwanted;
of coke making creation
im-possible – just tending:
a thrill & a shame being not
speeds harsh honesty rustwhite
blade in nights slow of headaches
and flushes of aspirin,
the room is a bathroom, hot
showers may melt power back;
hours staring nude pictures
in series with no effect,
how come did i buy that print
(reminder: get matcha tea)
a god with a coyote head
Quite alarming, says the detective.
Heaps of symbolic objects
like rubbish sorted by scavengers
mounds of black bishops & queens
of huge dice and capitals and horns
tin cups, swords with no edge, staves,
a clearing where the dishlarge coins were;
black sacks of foul smelling clubs
hairy as flies, ropy hearts, shineless
diamonds, spades scattered
on the ridden sand, where the sun beats;
and towards the sea a pile
of huge menorah, like wavebreakers.
There the girl, the explorer,
walks by: looks like the beach of our prime,
yet if you were here you’d be
your body retrieved by fishermen.
You’d be that, in the damp dawn.
o troops of dread, wrath hounds
leaving my fair city
with a hanged man dangling
high from each lamp-post, o
most sad boulevard show!
yet nobody will see
the man flogged, crucified,
still, in purple and blue,
sole company a bed rack
in a locked room somewhere
a woman is washing
ash hair with a white
block of soap, one son lost
one son hidden, she sings
and her madness (she fries
thorns in a pan, at night)
clears a spring still all ice
calling an april of hemlock & fires
The hours of folly are measur’d by the clock,
but of wisdom: no clock can measure.
I am son of the earth and of the starr–oof
Priests, patrons, you are wrong, I do not understand your law–ouch au argh
(a punch, another; a kick on the ribs)
Nothing is vanit–
(a cane hit on the back of the head. A squall of kicks)
THEN BEAUTY CAME
then Beauty came,
or was it Kindness?
It doesn’t really matter:
what matters, is that the boys
(hurry up, boys! an’hush!)
got her and knocked her good
and threw her in a trash compactor
which got stuck.
Let us consider now where the great souls are.