THE MURDEROUS PRINCE OF THE RIFF-RAFF

 

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The murderous prince of the riff-raff - the old, rare, stupid race

floating under the roots of mankind as does mud - reached high

on the scale of development on the cornice praised enthusiastically

by the ragtag and bobtail on Friday -, until that moment 

they have never seen a being more hideous than this one 

nor more fascinating with the fists lifted up in the air 

clenched by the viscous air he was raging at them to account 

for all the victims of the human condition and of history, 

for all the victims of the haphazard, for all the victims

of the superstitions, of the inquisition, of the tyrants and petty satraps,

of the beggars, of the nomads and of the slothful who broke

the universal harmony and induced the chaos as the daily bread.

Merciful infernos were detaching from his voice, which were throwing

hungry crowds in blood repealing the happiness of every brother

of mine who forsook the fields of work and ran to become melomaniac

gasping and weakly listening to the murder of the voice of freedom,

prey hunted by the slaughterer high on the cornice, keeping hidden

at his back the two-edged sword, the rope and soap, the gold and the rosin,

the sealed holy book, the worst manifesto of the Times, who was shaking ready

to fall a ghost threatening to jump headlong on the stones of pavement

to crush into pieces unless he sets the whole world alight, blows it up, hangs

the last enlightened by God with the last gut sticking out from the bitch’s ass.

Murmur in the riff-raff, in marrow the hatred making itself, giving reason

to itself with a dire hungriness – “an account shall be given!” - they howled

and a world was soaked in blood a century babbled in unimaginable dung –

but no one ever shall account for anything the dead are dead and 

will remain dead they can be scarcely glad when someone is ascending the scale

of development awakened in an invincible presence – from all the sad manners

of existence this one smote us, the direst, and when the tyrant died

he didn’t even have clothes for change and no hope for peace is looming

over here.  

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