New poems: Ivan Pozzoni

 

THE EARTHQUAKE

 

I've been condemned, by Pontius Pilate's alter ego,

to aim, raise the hammer!, with a pointer on the right anda rifle on the left, to a lanky style,

to a bizarre stylus, osti!, i'll never become Dmitrij Sergeevič Merežkovskij,

to, stubbornly, raise the bar like Bubka, there's no risk of landing in the undergrowth,

all Russians, my new models, all from the steppe, all Sergey

i wouldn't want to wake up one morning and realize i'm gay

by dint of raising the bar and dealing with the “member”,

selling my ass every day to arrogant writers is enough for me.

 

What the fuck do you mean i have to write earthquake-stricken?

I have to move to a shack in the still-unreconstructed Abruzzo,

bribes, in Italy, are never touched, they're organized through home banking

even the healthy kickbacks, defying plane geometry, has become a trading phenomenon.

I tried to write a series of verses, shook the PC, and threw it out the window,

i turned it back on, finding it unharmed, and in Word i always discover the same old story,

a frozen writing like Orogel's maxi pouches,

with a flexible form similar to the expiration date on a bag of wurstell,

in distribution centers, once the bag expires, they change the label

mine is a caloric writing that condemns every gourmet to fattening.

 

Are my verses bizarre enough? Some compare me to Cecco,

some to Cécco Bèppe, the unredeemed anti-artist, some to Esenin, some to a lansquenet,

sometimes i struggle to equate myself with myself, a tuneless melliphonous nightingale,

could it be that my being an eagle makes me an earthquake victim?

THE ALIEN

 

Headlights flash at the exit of the Milan ring road

a screeching noise of impact on the ground burns the ground

it's not the usual flooding of the Seveso river that creates the sound of a hurricane

an alien has landed.

 

Ambulances and Carabinieri, drawn by the confusion, arrive on site,

the docking of an Unidentified Flying Object is not a usual upside;

the television infantry quickly arrive from the Cologno Monzese tower

the exclusive interview on Mediaset Premium would cut off any ratings.

 

"Doctor Alien," the freelance journalist elbows, "do you have belligerent intentions?",

in the hope of getting the alien to sign a waiver for free;

"My donkey" the alien replies, "do you think i would have landed in Brianza

if i had intended to achieve even a half-victory?".

 

"I am an alien, and i would like to send a message to your nation,

which, along with Greece, Portugal, and Spain, is a southerner in the European Union,

the BCA (alien central bank) is willing to promote stock options

— as you say—so that every bank in Italy, after recapitalizing,

lowers interest rates on current accounts, irritating the colon

of millions of italian savers to the point of creating them a recessionary diarrhea".

 

The thirty-year-old journalist, in a miniskirt and revealing low-cut neckline,

tries to interrupt the alien with a routine question:

the man, pointing with his middle finger, sends a thunderbolt at her, disappeared, gone,

as she was accustomed, from time to time, to disappear under some desk.

 

"Point two of the BCA" the alien continues "you will have to increase every form of flexibility,

that is, use a flex or a Bosch grinder on the smiles of those peddling unemployment

under the false rhetoric of opportunity: since the Craxi’s era, they have exhausted all credibility.

If you wanted to fuck it up Italy, you might as well have kept Ilona Staller in the Chamber

and stopped voting, like donkeys, for Merkel's microcephalic left-center-right followers

tackling the tip of the recession iceberg on the Transatlantic, Monte Titanic".

 

"Point three of the BCA" the alien concludes "if Berlusca arrives from Arcore, i won't even begin

i wouldn't want, among Mubarak's various granddaughters, to stumble into an hospice’s odyssey 

(in Cesano Boscone), or if Fonzie arrives from Firenzi with the face of an undertaker 

i wouldn't want to spend millions of alien-dollars on detergent trying to remove stains from a jaguar

you'll have to sell Alps to Switzerland, Tyrrhenian Sea to Corsica, and Adriatic to Albania

and empty the ocean of public debt with the spoon of gerontocracy".

 

Suddenly, with sirens blaring, a Croce Verde Pavese ambulance arrives,

two vigorous paramedic, careful to avoid middle and media, dress the Genoese alien in a straitjacket

he, immediately alienated, interrupts his conversation and calmly walks away. 

How the fuck did they confuse alien messages with a Beppe Grillo rally?

THE FATE OF SIPHACES

 

Titus Livius, against Polybius, takes pleasure

in explaining the fate of Syphax.

 

The chronicle: we recount the bare facts

as Govoni would do with his satisfied flowers.

 

The background: Scipio activates Massinissa and Laelius

against a Syphax forced to give his best.

 

For Syphax, in Magnos Campos, the bitter pill is hard to swallow:

being defeated at the Bagrada along with Hasdrubal Gisco:

Postero die Scipio cum omni Romano et Numidico equitatu Masinissamque Laelium

expeditisque ad persequendos Syphacem atque Hasdrubalem mittit militum.

 

With Syphax captured, the surrender of Cirta is certain

Laelius's knights win overwhelmingly in the away match

the defeat is Syphax's fault: nisba!

Sofonisba ends up in the middle of it

forced to swallow a cup of poison

as Socrates did in the Crito without being inferior.

 

Scipio C. Laelio cum Syphace aliisque captivis Romam misso, cum quibus et Masinissae 

legati profecti sunt, ad Tyneta rursus castra refert ipse.

Siface embarked towards Rome, caput mundi

incarcerated by a chain of gerunds,

Mazetullus and Tycheus were in Zama and Siface was in Tivoli

Hannibal had diabetic birds, that is, bitter cocks, and in Carthage they were really cabbages.

Morte spectaculo magis hominum quam triumphantis gloriae Syphax est subtractus,

Tiburi haud ita multo ante mortuus, quo ab Alba fuerat traductus.

 

Where do flowers look good? In a vase:

twenty-six verses weren't needed to destroy Parnassus.

 

UNEMPLOYED-BORN

 

I owed a handful of verses to a talented young man from Campania

whom, I will certainly disappoint by not using my recent corrosive rhyme

i would like to cement myself, in verses of armed conflict,

on the burning issue of the unemployed-born.

 

What is the unemployed-born?

I would like to be Jorge Francisco Isidore Luis Borges Acevedo,

i, who Acevedo and Acesento, and draw up a magnificent list:

the unemployed-born are:

(a) belonging to the Emperor (Equitalia), (b) stuffed,

(c) nowhere to be found beyond the Cortina d'Ampezzo, (d) cut from the flexible Bosch,

(e) of a generation that asks for nothing and will never obtain anything, (f) ...,

(g) stray dogs, (h) internships or massacres, which is the same,

(i) of the same diffusion as the Slovak authors promoted in a famous blog by [S],

(f) disappeared into thin air like the IX Legio Hispana, (g) where flowers are at home: outside,

(h) of the same consistency as a limited liability company, (j) without an i (i.e. Natural Animals Treatment),

(k) continually searching for a stable job (office),

(l) born is better than Pato, or is Pato better than born (ask B. Berluschina),

(m) who broke the vase, and, without the vase, where do the flowers fit?, (n) et cetera,

(o) inhabitants of time and not of the hospice.

 

I owed a handful of verses to Mariano,

Mariano, don't study: a degree is a mistake of youth,

Mariano, don't scream: "full and desperate with or without TV",

Mariano, don't slack off: all cows are not crazy and all crazy women are not cows,

Mariano, don't give up: it won't do you any good to change dozens of shirts.

 

Odin: Have no other gods before you. You shall make no idol or image for yourself: no Friends or Men and Women.

Dva: Do not pronounce the name of the Lord your God Ivan(o).

Tri: Sanctify all the days of unemployment.

Ĉetyre: Honor your father and mother, and their pensions.

Pjať: Do not kill yourself.

Ŝesť: Do not commit adultery, do not commit impure acts, in short, do not commit any acts.

Sem: Do not become a member of parliament or senator of the Kingdom.

Vosem: Do not bear false witness against your neighbor, and lie in any other matter.

Devjať: Do not covet your neighbor's divorce.

Desjať: Do not covet your neighbor's house, nor any of the things that are your neighbor's; in short, only rob—like our beloved nation—those you do not know.

 

I owed a handful of verses to Mariano,

who won't accuse me of being an epigone of an epigone of a Zanzottian epigone,

it's just that at 3:31 in the morning, after a bottle of Sangria,

i'm as drunk as the unknown, unremarkable Lucanian poetaster who breathes aerophagia,

and if you challenge me in the ring of experimentalism,

you risk turning me into a ruthless advocate of super-capitalism,

you force me to write, Mariano, why the fuck are you studying philosophy?

become an expert in creative budgeting or a drug dealer.

 

CHECKMATE ON THE BOARD

 

The modern intellectual’s not intelle(a)ctual at all,

he won’t buy the books where his name’s on the wall,

he loathes self-funding, despises the game,

handles bitter money, if it even came;

between word and deed stands a sponsor’s gate,

all thinkers who talk, none who operate,

no thinkers who act, nothing to say,

all thinkers playing queer games at play,

with the assholes of hosts who gladly donate.

 

The publisher’s house is never his own,

it’s rented ground, badly overthrown,

where the tenant finds it wise to steal every frame,

punch holes in the ceiling in copyright’s name,

he calls himself humanist, whole and complete,

kept like a dog under the table for meat,

as if two shitty texts dashed off in a minute

could balance the risk that an editor’s in it.

The end-of-season sale will be coming soon,

the important thing is not to go on a sale in the coulee,

in Italy crushed by T.A.R.E.S. tax stress,

a fake republic with no trace of res,

the public hangs tight to the gas-pipe line,

dumb authors dreaming they’re Dumas divine,

micro-publishing smashed by IMU’s doom,

tenants of bankrupt houses sharing the room,

you’ll enjoy suffering T.A.R.I.’s,

and it’ll be bitter fucking business.

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literaturein Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2024, different versions of the books were published: Undergroundand Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente,Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni, Kolektivne NSEAEand Lo Stato Pontificiowith Divinafollia. It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 152 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste.  His verses are translated into 30 languages. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology) [https://kolektivnenseae.wordpress.com/], the legal "armed" wing of Italian literary late modernism.

Ivan Pozzoni: New Poems

MUM, I AM AN AUTISTIC

 

Mum, i’m an autistic, not a municipal transport company autistic

i know in your mother’s heart you always dreamed of settling down as a state employee,

without the worry of a time card to punch and unemployment

doing eighteen hours a week, three months off, with the anxiety of defiscalising repetition.

 

Ma, i am an autistic, bad luck has decided to crown, me, as a writer

no, ma, i don’t write therapeutic remedies, no invoice, like the doctor,

i have explained to you a hundred times that i deal in endiads and alliterations

i dialogue, every night, with ghosts and communicate with martians,

and, by now, like the Villa, no ma, not the baker of via Mentana

i mix latin, dialect and the average italian as a seasoned courtesan.

 

Ma, i’m autistic, i speak in distich, or in anapestic,

but go on, you understand, it’s not like i’ve become spastic,

at most flexible and elastic, says so even the troika,

thrown into life with a rocket like i was Laika,

victim of the artistic environment’s lack of communication

nailed, backwards, on my cenotaph the epitaph: “!Here lies an autistic man”,

since no one can catch me in any verse

or ma, don’t bother me, i’m a deviant.

 

 

 

BEYOND THE BRILLO BOX

 

My research on the form of writing rises above the Brillo Box,

i throw my verses in the strongbox as if they were in Fort Knox,

start-up, repetition, reproduction give a life sentence to the originality

of the centenarian editors of magazines now forgetful of all abrasiveness,

after all, you know, dentures should not be solicited by intelligent concepts,

by dint of accepting canine verses carmina dant panem only to their teeth,

if we, forty year-old teenagers, have to do Professor Birkermaier's diet

for them, octogenarian children, it would be time to diagnose a shred of Alzheimer's.

 

The current fashion of the granted critic is to bark against the successes of minimalism

milanese or Roman, inn istèss, and we, 1970s ghosts, in search of the coveted minimum space,

because to change the world we could useful the energetic vigour of maximalism,

reading verses in rollian endecasyllables, in 2016, one feels like the victim of an odyssey in agony,

and the punishment of our no-future generations is to make the avant-garde in their forties

intent on claiming a Lebensraum that does not end in Anschluss,

we Heermann condemned by flexibility to never blossom into arimanni,

find ourselves re-knotting catheters to old specialists in trobar clus.

 

What do we have to do in order to achieve our fifteen seconds of fame

show our asses on Barbara D'Urso, edit the cultural columns of L'Unità

or patent rhymes that you mere mortals wouldn't even dare to imagine

barking dog does not sleep and asleep - as you would like us - does not help us bite,

is woken by the caresses of an emir the late-modern Sleeping Beauty by cocaine 

available to suck US gal of black gold like a petrol pump,

ladies, transgenders and gentlemen annuntio vobis gaudier magnumt he fairytale is over

the generations beyond the Brillo Box will have to nibble leftovers food under the laden table

 

 

 

THE BALLAD OF LUIGINO: SAVINGS BANK

 

Luigino, sixty-eight years old, was killed

strangled by a ‘save-bank’ decree invented by a state

victim, always interested, of the fear of sanctions established by the EU with an ordinance

and uncaring, on the other, when sanctions came for years on the absence of citizenship income,

a camorrist state that throws itself at bailing out banks

and citizens are left to hope for the intervention of the Malebranche group,

in the Malebolge of the italian credit system, as in the case of Banca Etruria,

130,000 idiots to save the bank, and nine or ten to share slices of watermelon.  

 

An Enel employee, Luigino, not a senior manager of a subsidiary holding company,

go figure out the difference between an ordinary bond and a subordinated one,

that if one, without his knowledge, is liable for the debts of a large capital company,

at least he should have the right, once a year, to have brunchin a Ferrari,

the Ferrari, or the Jaguar, of the CEO expert in deceit

that, if he were Nippon, would turn a hanging into harakiri,

because the manager is European or American he has exchanged shame for courage

the courage to continue, under a new name, to collect medals of fraud and agiotage.

 

Luigino died with a rope around his neck

like the millions of wretches destined for slaughterhouse,

with a click from a bunker in Berlin or London the super-capital

erases an entire life by turning the consumer into a pig,

nothing is thrown away, of the consumer, the consumed-consumer is thrown away

in the Caliphate, at least,it takes three minutes for a westerner to be slaughtered,

not sixty-eight years, torn apart by the alternation of bail-out or bail-in, like slot-machines,

tel disi mi, bilòtt, inn tücc bàllwould have sentenced, with a serious air, my grandmother Ines.

 

 

 

 

THEY ARE ALL BULLSHIT

 

The new EU directives, Deutschland über alles,

direct the leaders of each member state to cure their herpes

of failing banks with the money of the good people,

who have nothing to do with bank boards.

 

The infamous bank bail-in has been in force since the beginning of the year

to be interpreted by holding the criminal code in the right hand and a dictionary in the left,

every saver - vile vintage breed - will have to empty flasks of En,

in the fear that the plutocrats will screw our ‘five pippi’ like Belen's hardcore movie,

shareholder, subordinated bondholder, ordinary bondholder, current account holder

willing to go pantyless with the nonchalance of the abused naturist,

will see their hubris lubricated in not contributing to the rise of credit consumption

while waiting for the breakthrough of their interbank deposit protection funds.

 

This of the European Union is a truly hyper-liberal trick

covering the banker's hole with the asshole of every current account holder,

everyone is capable of acting like a faggot with other people's ass

bailing out millionaires with the money of the unfortunate is not a job for scoundrels,

after having divided the cake they blame the stock market crash in Kuala Lumpur

and the savers to go the way of the Thousand in Count Cavour's cunning strategy.

Let us get the concept straight: if the Garbatella’charcutier goes bankrupt

will those who bought caciotta and mortadella also be involved in his debts?

 

 

 

 

THE BALLAD OF POLITICALLY INCORRECT

 

If you end up electrocuted on the road to Damascus

in today's conditions it will have been the logosof a russian missile,

i, fruit of a Madonna conceived by a Bergamo’s butcher

i write, maalox, emitting verses in reflux acid,

i’m not thirsty for fame or hungry for silk

with rough syntagms it does’t print a degree as a «poet»,

in Italy Fornero has increased the brain-drain

either those who remain are headless, or cling to the Bacchelli.

 

Damascus, the metaphor of transition, the city of the Nabateans,

today victim of the conversion of hand grenades into money,

the multinationals of weapons study the marketing of the wounded

the multinational pharmaceutical companies study the marketing of the malnourished sick

the multinationals of the Northern European Union study to reduce the debt

to the southern nations of Europe that transform themselves into refugee camps,

the multinationals of this shit study how to cover this horrible hard film

outsourcing immense multitudes of homeless people in the streets of Milan.

 

The universal Catholic Church is struggling with the adoptions of consenting faggots,

so much so that the IOR bankers act like fags with the holes of our current accounts,

indulgence to hulls, smugglers and skilleds, and the italian catches it in the behind,

it would be enough to unload 300,000 fake syrians on the churchyard of St. Peter's Square

let the good Pope Francis support them all, with the sacred gold of faith,

because if Padre Pio had been on the throne he would have given us a manner rough,

kicking the asses of libyan prisoners, hotel expenses, who ask for wi-fi

and a citizen's income for the italian who sleeps in his car ruined by the usual puppeteers.

 

If you end up electrocuted on the road to Damascus

or a] you are Paul of Tarsus or b] you are the CEO of Esso,

in the Italy Toyland they blind you with the shares of Monte del Pasco

Pinocchio, oh, by dint of jerking off he has become a fool,

in the Paschi, horny maremma, they buttfuck you with the abigeat

and the creative balance of multinationals is never a crime,

if Monti sharks you or they steal ten rams from you, you don't get pissed off

from the raffle of those who grab you will be rewarded with a tax bill.

 

 

 

 

 

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literaturein Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2024, different versions of the books were published: Undergroundand Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni and Kolektivne NSEAEwith Divinafollia. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L'Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica. It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettivawins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poetsof the University of Bologne and is included several times in the major international literature magazine,Gradiva. His verses are translated into 25 languages. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology) [https://kolektivnenseae.wordpress.com/

Featuring Ivan Pozzoni

WWW

 

Il web è una cosa strana,

la libertà dell’ignorante regna sovrana,

dicevano i latini, dal mento volitivo, della lega anseatica, necesse est navigare,

e ci si trova imbrigliati nella rete come cozze messe a corrente da lampare.

 

Ci immergiamo, ogni santo giorno, nella melma del World Wide Web

senza bussola, come turisti nomadi intimiditi alla ricerca di un Club Med,

siamo incalliti e spensierati come membri di una neo-avanguardia

imbarcati, veri coatti, nelle cabine della Costa Concordia,

incuranti che a forza di navigare si finisca davanti ad un machete,

nella jungla sadomaso dei webmaster t’imbatti sempre in un webete,

disponibile a imbavagliarti in un rapporto di connessione / sconnessione,

convincendoti, senza fatica, d’esser tu il set da circoncisione.

 

Questi miei stupidi versi dove andranno mai a parare,

se qualunque palla finisce in rete senza possibilità di verificare,

senza opportunità di criticare, ti saltano addosso in branco, come neo-fascisti,

fasci in fasce con in bocca un biberon da insaziabili etilisti,

davanti all’uomo webete ogni ragionamento cade,

l’aristocrazia del web si incentra sulla marca di De Sade,

«lasciate ogni speranza» o voi che entrate, in blog

se avete il torto di non spartir merende col barone Sacher-Masoch.

 

La verità è che navigare è diventato un dramma,

senza aver attaccato all’USB del tuo Pc i fili dell’elettroencefalogramma:

chi non ha intuito che il www sia diventato un outlet,

sia condannato a osservar la rete come Boris Beckett.

 

 

WWW

 

The web is a strange thing,

the freedom of the ignorant reigns supreme,

as the voluptuous-chinned Latins of the Hanseatic League used to say, necesse est navigare,

and we find ourselves stuck in the network like mussels in the current of the lamparo.

 

Every holy day we plunge into the mud of the World Wide Web,

disorientated like intimidated nomadic tourists looking for a Club Med, 

tough and carefree like members of a neo-avant-garde, 

embarked, real roughnecks, in the cabins of the Costa Concordia, 

carefree enough to sail that everything ends up in front of a machete, 

in the sado-masochistic jungle of webmasters, you always come across a webheber,

ready to gag you in a connection/disconnection relationship,

by convincing you, with ease, that you yourself are circumcision material.

 

My silly worms, where will they ever go 

if any ball ends up in the net without the possibility of verifying, 

no opportunity to criticise, if they fall on you in herds like neo-fascists , 

bundles in layettes with a baby bottle in their mouths as insatiable alcoholics, 

all reasoning falls before the webbeast,

the web aristocracy centres on the De Sade brand,

‘abandon all hope’ you who enter here, in blog 

if you're wrong enough not to share tastes with Baron Sacher-Masoch's.

 

In truth browsing has become a drama, 

without having to connect the USB of your PC to the wires of an electroencephalogram:

who hasn't guessed that the www has become an outlet, 

is condemned to observe the net like Boris Beckett.

 

 

 

 

 

 

EPIMILLIGRAMMA

 

 

Non ti devi incazzare se, a volte, ti nomino,

sai, t’ho reso immortale come un «ritratto d’anonimo».

Incide meglio il mio inchiostro che una ciotola di cicuta:

senza che nessuno lo sappia la tua fama si è evoluta.

 

 

EPIMILLIGRAMME   

 

You don't have to put yourself in color if you look at your name,

you know, I'll make you immortal in “portrait d'anonyme”.

My ink cuts better than a bowl of hemlock:

without anyone knowing your fame has evolved.

 

 

 

 

MANGIANO VOCI

 

se hanno carta bianca, i nuovi scrittori che cantano senza Musa

emulerebbero Géricault nella sua zattera della Medusa.

 

L’arte italiana è diventata un assalto al forno,

sbocciano versi a «cazzo» che neanche i membri di un film porno,

anche nel Poetryweb l’attore si confonde con il montatore,

rigurgitando testi tanto anacronistici da andare in copertina su Le Ore.

 

La democrazia lirica non deve essere una lirica da due lire,

indispensabile è studiare e non è vietato severamente approfondire

oramai tutti improvvisano, protesizzatisi con un bloc-notes,

come se invece che far cultura doves sero iscriversi a Tú sí que vales.

 

Per la scrittura sul www dovremmo mettere un test d’ingresso,

vietato toccare la tastiera sotto minaccia di sollecito decesso,

non occorre all’arte tardomoderna, Lucini docet, attempiarsi rivoltelle,

la malattia incurabile d’inizio secolo si chiama Adsl.

 

 

 

THEY EAT VOICES

 

if they have white paper, the new writers who sing without a Muse,

would rival Géricault in his Raft of the Medusa.

 

Italian art has become an assault on the pot,

more fulfilled in the ‘brothel’ than the members of a porn film,

so in the Poetryweb the actor is confused with a stallion

full of anachronistic texts fit for the cover of Le Ore.

 

Lyrical democracy must not be a two-bit lyric,

it is essential to study and it is not forbidden to go deeper,

all of them now strictly improvising, equipped with a notepad,

as if they should sign up for Tú sí que vales rather than culture.

 

To write on the www we should set up an entry test,

It's forbidden to touch the keyboard on pain of sudden death,

not suitable for late modern art, Lucini teaches, his revolver at his head,

the incurable disease of the turn of the century is called Adsl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

TOMBA D’IGNOTO

 

Cadavere n.2,

l’ombra dell’onda riflessa nella mia retina destra,

mani serrate ad afferrar sabbie mediterranee

indossate sotto bermuda rossi da surf.

Cadavere n. 7,

tentativi di urla smorzati alla bocca dello stomaco

cartine da hashish di Marrakech nelle mie tasche,

scarsi, i dirham, seminati tra borsello e calzoni,

mi condussero in bocca all’abisso.

Cadavere n. 12,

«Eloì, Eloì, lemà sabactàni»,

non ricordo chi l’urlava a chi

non essendo scritto nel Corano:

anch’io sono morto invocandolo invano.

Cadavere n. 18,

ritirata sulle strade tra le dune di Misurata,

in slalom assetato tra missili amici e nemici,

e morire d’acqua.

Cadavere n. 20,

benché i nomadi, come me, ondeggino

sulle navi del deserto, fluidità detonate,

mai s’abitueranno ad annegare.

Ogni tomba d’ignoto migrante

sussurra che è duro abbracciare

una morte che viene dal mare.

 

IGNOTE TOMB

 

Corpse No. 2,

the shadow of the wave reflected in my right retina,

hands clenched to grasp Mediterranean sands

worn under red surfing bermudas.

Corpse n.7,

muffled screaming attempts at the pit of my stomach

Marrakech hash maps in my pockets,

scanty dirhams sown between my purse and trousers,

led me to the mouth of the abyss.

Corpse No. 12,

‘Eloi, Eloi, lemà sabactàni’,

I don't remember who was shouting it to whom

not being written in the Koran:

I too died invoking it in vain.

Corpse No. 18,

retreating on the roads between the dunes of Misrata,

in thirsty slalom between friendly and enemy missiles,

and dying of water.

Corpse No 20,

although nomads, like me, sway

on desert ships, detonated fluids,

never will they get used to drowning.

Every grave of the unknown migrant

whispers that it is hard to embrace

a death that comes from the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHI CI CAPISCE È BRAVO

 

Se non mi chiamassi Nibbio, chi ci capisce è bravo

vorrei scrivere versi degni del Dolce Stil Novo,

nessuno si rivolti nella tomba, stile volta Gabbana,

sconvolti che alla Fata alletti assai la Durlindana.

 

Aletto, era una furia in un’Eneide da film porno,

sulle cime del Pornaso scrive versi d’alto bordo,

non riuscendo – come i Giuliani- a batter metri in anapesto,

le riviste le rispondono: «ripassi nel 200 avanti Cristo».

 

Se non mi chiamassi Griso, chi ci capisce è bravo

Malena Mastromarino, eletta col Pd, recita in Uccelli di Ruvo,

la lista Forza Italia rigurgita olgettine e olgettini,

Rolling Stones millanta che a troie ci manderà Salvini.

 

Saviano, Edizioni Mondadori, romanziere della Mala Vita

raccoglie assegni in bianco con due svolazzi di matita,

beati i mestieranti, di essi è la repubblica dei valentuomini,

scarto sotto scorta, finge di credersi Salvemini.

 

Chi ci capisce è bravo, in questo mondo di fake news,

forse nel 2070 trionferà cassoeûla con cuscus,

Berlusconi avrà trent’anni, il Papa sarà marziano,

i romani, col canotto, fuggiranno a Città del Vaticano.

 

 

 

WHO UNDERSTANDS US IS GOOD

 

If i were not called Nibbio, who understands us is good

I would like to write verses worthy of the Dolce Stil Novo,

no one turn in his grave, Gabbana vault style,

shocked that the Fairy would allure Durlindana much.

 

Aletto, he was a fury in a porn-movie Aeneid,

on the peaks of Pornaso writes high verse,

failing-as the Giuliani- to beat meters in anapest,

the journals answer her, “review in 200 B.C.”

 

If you didn't call me Griso, those who understand us are good

Malena Mastromarino, elected with the PD, stars in Birds of Ruvo,

the Forza Italia list regurgitates olgettine and olgettini,

Rolling Stones mills that Salvini will send us sluts.

 

Saviano, Mondadori Editions, novelist of the Mala Vita

collects blank checks with two pencil flutters,

blessed are the tradesmen, of them is the republic of the worthy men,

discard under escort, pretends to believe himself Salvemini.

 

He who understands us is good, in this world of fake news,

perhaps in 2070 cassoeûla with couscous will triumph,

Berlusconi will be 30 years old, the Pope will be a martian,

the Romans, with the dinghy, will flee to Vatican City.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 IL PARADISO DEI BIMBI DIMENTICATI

 

 

Paradiso dei bimbi dimenticati,

ci giocano i bambini morti addormentati

nelle macchine roventi, senza sollievo,

vittime di crisi mnemoniche da affaticamento lavorativo

che non fanno scordare budgets, riunioni o certificati.

 

Giocano le bambine in un’incessante estate,

indifferenti al sole che le ha disidratate,

libere di librarsi in maree d’aria

in barba ai brutti momenti trascorsi in crisi respiratoria,

senza dover sentire caldo e sete.

 

Paradiso dei bimbi dimenticati,

ci giocano i bambini morti addormentati

strangolati dall’insicurezza delle cinture,

in accalorata attesa di riabbracciare, senza rancore,

chi li ha assassinati.

 

THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN'S PARADISE

 

 

Forgotten children's paradise,

there play dead children asleep

in hot cars, without relief,

victims of mnemonic crises from work fatigue

that make them forget budgets, meetings or certificates.

 

Little girls play in a relentless summer,

indifferent to the sun that has dehydrated them,

free to soar in tides of air

in spite of the bad moments spent in respiratory crisis,

without having to feel heat and thirst.

 

Forgotten children's paradise,

dead children asleep play there

strangled by the insecurity of belts,

eagerly waiting to re-embrace, without rancour,

those who murdered them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ivan Pozzoni è nato a Monza nel 1976. Ha introdotto in Italia la materia della Law and Literature. Ha diffuso saggi su filosofi italiani e su etica e teoria del diritto del mondo antico; ha collaborato con con numerose riviste italiane e internazionali. Tra 2007 e 2018 sono uscite varie sue raccolte di versi: Underground e Riserva Indiana, con A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Qui gli austriaci sono più severi dei Borboni, Cherchez la troika e La malattia invettiva con Limina Mentis, Lame da rasoi, con Joker, Il Guastatore, con Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, con deComporre Edizioni. È stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria Il Guastatore – Quaderni «neon»-avanguardisti; è stato fondatore e direttore della rivista letteraria L’Arrivista; è stato direttore esecutivo della rivista filosofica internazionale Información Filosófica; è, o è stato, direttore delle collane Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) e Fuzzy (deComporre). Ha fondato una quindicina di case editrici socialiste autogestite. Ha scritto/curato 150 volumi, scritto 1000 saggi, fondato un movimento d'avanguardia (NeoN-avanguardismo, approvato da Zygmunt Bauman), con mille movimentisti, e steso un Anti-Manifesto NeoN-Avanguardista, È menzionato nei maggiori manuali universitari di storia della letteratura, storiografia filosofica e nei maggiori volumi di critica letteraria.Il suo volume La malattia invettivavince Raduga, menzione della critica al Montano e allo Strega. Viene inserito nell’Atlante dei poeti italiani contemporaneidell’Università di Bologna ed è inserito molteplici volte nella maggiore rivista internazionale di letteratura, Gradiva.I suoi versi sono tradotti in francese, inglese e spagnolo. Nel 2024, dopo sei anni di ritiro totale allo studio accademico, rientra nel mondo artistico italiano e fonda il collettivo NSEAE (Nuova socio/etno/antropologia estetica).

 

Ivan Pozzoni was born in Monza in 1976. He introduced Law and Literaturein Italy and the publication of essays on Italian philosophers and on the ethics and juridical theory of the ancient world; He collaborated with several Italian and international magazines. Between 2007 and 2018, different versions of the books were published: Undergroundand Riserva Indiana, with A&B Editrice, Versi Introversi, Mostri, Galata morente, Carmina non dant damen, Scarti di magazzino, Here the Austrians are more severe than the Bourbons, Cherchez the troika. et The Invective Disease with Limina Mentis,Lame da rasoi, with Joker, Il Guastatore, with Cleup, Patroclo non deve morire, with deComporre Edizioni. He was the founder and director of the literary magazine Il Guastatore – «neon»-avant-garde notebooks; he was the founder and director of the literary magazine L'Arrivista; he is the editor and chef of the international philosophical magazine Información Filosófica; he is, or has been, creator of the series Esprit (Limina Mentis), Nidaba (Gilgamesh Edizioni) and Fuzzy (deComporre). It contains a fortnight of autogérées socialistes edition houses. He wrote 150 volumes, wrote 1000 essays, founded an avant-garde movement (NéoN-avant-gardisme, approved by Zygmunt Bauman), with a millier of movements, and wrote an Anti-manifesto NéoN-Avant-gardiste. This is mentioned in the main university manuals of literature history, philosophical history and in the main volumes of literary criticism. His book La malattia invettiva wins Raduga, mention of the critique of Montano et Strega. He is included in the Atlas of contemporary Italian poetsof the University of Bologne and figures à plusieurs reprized in the great international literature review ofGradiva. His verses are translated into French, English and Spanish. In 2024, after six years of total retrait of academic studies, he return to the Italian artistic world and melts the NSEAE Kolektivne (New socio/ethno/aesthetic anthropology).