Whitman, Allen, even a little bit of Hank.
I always liked american poetry, spanish poetry too, and something of the Latin American one, the only thing left of my generation’s brain and soul.
The poets of the next generation one have set fire to the brain and hypertrophied the soul.
But they’re not that bad, not even the latest ones.
For them soul and brain are one and the same.
I don’t particularly love italian poets.
Dante’s existentialist and opportunist resentfulness is genial,
Ungaretti wrote great songs and Montale was ideal for trying to seduce a woman.
I never like futurists and the first true italian poet of the new world is certainly Ferretti.
My classics are Baudelaire on top and Rimbaud right after.
But I discovered many of them, of which I don’t remember the name. I grew up with memorized poems and in no time I went to music videos.
At a certain point you made them yourself in your own head. A young capitalist’s pastime.
Ferretti was the most painful voice of capitalism.
Where does a capitalist live if not in a world surrounded by other capitalists?
We struggle for money and money is the measure of everything.
Feelings, grief, they follow the same logic of capital, a logic of profit, of settling down, or loss.
“Cold Case” comes to mind, the american TV show, where they show a character from 30 years ago in black and white, and then the same character in colors, now old.
I think of those human beings who don’t even have the time to be photographed, and to see the same photo when they’re older.
They certainly live a life, that maybe lasts only a few seconds.

Right now it’s a beautiful Sunday of July, in the middle of a pandemic.
When something is accepted it automatically becomes normality, even if it only takes the time between the priests on the news and the shadow of the meteor right before the crash.

But it’s time that destroyes everything, after all.
I was wondering with a friend how humans in the future will look like, we agreed on a being without limbs and a minimal body.
Basically just a head containing a massive bio-mechanical brain, reproduction controlled by a machine.
No more itching, carpenter’s hands, funambulists or mountain trekking.
No more of touching skin or drug dealers roaming the block.
No more of all of those things, you know?
When we used to mate like crazy or we bashed on each other heads, in a cave, for a banana.

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