Parresia

By Edda Tassi

How much to tell the truth? When it's the right time to tell the truth? The price is very expensive. The time very long.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9780992019990

Book preview

Plancton

1

A happy boat ploughs the filthy waters

with the wrinkled fisherman

searching for pikes and fat trouts

under the walls of the dead town

to kipper them in the open air night.

While the neighbors dream money and glory

or to kill their relatives and acquaintances

easily with the infernal heat.

It transported on the waters

a nutritious , cloysing plancton

a greedy meal for many starving animals.

Some living shapes eat quietly

others gnaw their intestines.

Oh, Eastern , ecstatic foreign

looking for defeated empires

go to eat and to sleep!

There’ re the days inside the gates

of the dead, burning town.

2

Appear on the yard of the monsters

that speak with cawing voice

sending off a mail of insults

from their windows always closed

to the light of the morning sun!

You see it instead of people

alive once upon a time .

They experienced the elation of thought

the pride to be human

with the possibility to choose

to do simple , useful , good things.

They took as their wise advisors

darkness , evil , hate , envy insanity

that could cancel their clear origin.

They need nails and hammer.

You should enclose your country

inside a good barrel .

You will roll it far away

full of moans and curses .

3

Only with a green pencil

I mark the tracks of plancton

that nourish me gratis

as much as I like

since when I plowed the true nature

the wild gate little ecological

that maintains and destroys too.

Not new thought

short , rapid , wandering

useful on the istant or for nothing

without some digression

without some bewilderment.

The history is falling asleep

into a cup of chamomile

among movements , vibrations , intervals

as if it celebrated its last Birthday.

The plancton is the moving life.

4

What was of the Propylaeum

of the teachers leaned to the columns

of me , a philosopher about nothing

a geometrical quiver of little duck

a robot following the good origin?

Perhaps some wise advise remains.

"Take care of yourself

use with wisdom also the evil

dominate your bowels , be calm

start again from where you was

it’s real what you do !".

After? Some echo , precious marquetries

pietas for helpless people.

So much constant wonder

about the beauty of the Nature.

5

Wherever the stench of burnt paper

accumulated , wasted away , rotten

packed from curious machines.

To press , to find , to invent.

The recall of other teachers , of other arms

marks of intelligence , encouraging

for the bad days.

Buddha with his eyes as a swallow

smiles against the war.

If God , any God

is a constant , immense though

surely he’s angry like me

among the puppets of peace

among the envious assassins

among the bad men that don’t want

to know how much happiness costs

without the empty void

on pretending to be the best.

I cannot believe in a bad God

the God of disgusting nabobs

that want order everyone.

The stars shine close to people

that have the reflected light

on their eyelashes.

6

From the Tureen to the New Church

the smell of the soup

offered from the friars

to the starving pilgrims

evaporates wherever

in the time of God and of the plague.

People lived unaware

so becoming as a ghost

that came back in the night

to play a sweet , obsessive lullaby.

The anguish spreads among alive people

in perpetual race not to feel

the terrible smell that climbs

from the burning damp underground.

Just people will stop

they never back.

None will seek them anymore.

7

I sharpen my toe-nails

tick like the nails of a witch

born in the open air , a uncoutg goat.

My finger-nails are right

to sow pumpkins and potatoes.

The soot , the soil

the iron’s pose , the tobacco’s pose

come away until I become a true lady

ambiguous , languid , exotic.

She breaks every secret mirror.

8

Drunk , sated musicians

take off their sochs , their shoes

in the shores of Tiber

between mosquitoes and ticks.

They don’t play the symphonies anymore.

Their patriotic deity

takes off its tailcoat

drowning itself.

It had two fine moustaches

and the white collar as a bow.

The Apollo’s theater will open tonight

with its sinister extras in the darkness

while the plancton devours without stop

the little remaining water.

9

Move the forefinger

with your hand