Cosimo Pacciani
La City dei Tartari
5 Agosto Ago 2013 2351 05 agosto 2013

Mantra for a Country

I hate being here
Next door to a location
Where I stored all my unbeatable defeats
You drove me to that place again
Despair and Despar supermarkets
The decay of skin and tone
Masked by the chemist's cream
You got my soul tattooed
A plein-air debacle
Of my arty-farty lenience
I fight the poison of days
Months, years, decades
Of silent violence
The violence of not-doing
Not-thinking properly
Not-sleeping well
Bad digestion or bad management
The country is inhabited by savages
Once again
Monks and saviors hide behind closed gates
Into their comfort of vintage civilizations
Savages and forests
Cement and rusty steel
As also what is expected to be enduring
Eternal and shiny
Finds a way to get soiled
Exposed to unnatural destruction
As unnatural the place is now.

Generations don't grow
They get permanently younger
Of a new kind of youth
They get tarnished
Like the family silver
At sunset, the light gets across
The country
It shines through fields of mixed seeds
For the bread of the savvy middle-class

Summer feeds the mind
But not anymore the heart
Kids play in the sun
Covered in sun lotion
But nobody protects them
From the brighter future
Ahead for each one of them
For each one of their mates
For each one of their friends
When they will leave this place
Your son doesn't talk to you
Because he doesn't feel
The authority
Masked by your Allstar shoes
And a singleton penchant

Your nephews will fly or sail away
To distant islands
To the four corners of this hopeful world
Where they will build a hut
On a crowded beach
And start a new life
Selling corporate lemonade
And time-shares to Russian wannabes

I hate the feeling
I keep all your promises into a box
And, from time to time,
I read them loudly
Into the night
With my eyes closed
As I know them by heart
As I know them as unreasonable

This trail of tears finds me
Once again unprotected
Each drop a star
A tree
The twisted coast
The road designed
By my ancestors
And our slavery to romanhood
To traditions
To the fake sense of hospitality
A house I recognise
From my childhood
The country mutates
Its moral grounds shaken
By 2000 earthquakes

The highways are full of holes
And fast cars
Trying to pinch me from behind
Trying to get somewhere else
As quick as possible
As safe as reasonable
Still ragey
Still feeling into a steel and resins cage
Which I will call conventions
I will call devotion for old saints
I will call it belonging
To the wrong club
A plaid for my old leg
I beg you
A silent valley to look at the sunset
That sense of jealousy for the birds
Sitting on the telephone lines
That sense of betrayal every time
The plane takes off
From these conurbations of souls
I hate this location
I don’t care if the hotel has more stars
Than a gothic fresco
I don’t care
Or I mask my angst
For the big swindle I see under my own eyes
With this sense of surrender

It will vanish
It will pass
Like a judas’s kiss
On my right cheek
The eyes still staring
Onto the memory
Of these colourful adverts
For local fairies
And country parties
The country is a Fiesta, a Sagra
A celebration of this passing nature
Of our destiny
Though I will eat my pici
And I will drink my last supper’s supertuscan
Surrounded by the void of desire.

The night will absorb us
It will digest our troubles
And the new morning
Will provide us this failing sense
Of potential change
Of renovation
The monster of the past
Will become a mountain of scrapped metal

Day by day
Year after year
I question all my desires
To make it work
To make up again with my genetics

Another stoned morning of little sleep
Will find me begging for an answer.

Notwithstanding all my sins,
Your failings
Our unmatched aspirations
We are still in love

Are we, Homeland?


William Basinski - The Trail of Tears from Nocturnes

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