NERO

 

Nero’s scared shadow multiplied in millions

and millions of copies precisely like the spores

of an extremely poisonous mushroom flows

through the blood of every democrat dragging

like a comet’s tail an unknown epidemic

that sows death in infinitely subtle forms.

The dictators thirsty for justice and for truth

in spite of all their crimes seem to be some stupid

children in comparison with these satisfied, jovial,

good-natured and doing good democrats. Nero’s

shadow in their head repeats per each second

the killing of the father, the killing of the mother,

of the sister, of the brothers, of the husbands,

of the relatives, of thousands and thousands

of illustrious men his hatred and envy reproduce

in segments as a worm’s, crimes that spread, sprout,

flourish are seen how they shine in the eyes of each

democrat greedy for wealth, money, honours,

jobs with myriads of informers with facial features

of pallbearer who shouts mutely: terror, terror, terror ‒

endless massacres. All day long they brood on death

under their wide, deformed ass without sacrifices

to gods, without prayers, rituals, libations, celebrations

and other manifestations fated to sensitize the sky   

the crimes take place just as works the program

of a computer manoeuvred by a cold-hearted, secret,

efficient magistrate they assemble in political parties

as do the packs of wolves, they are anointed with a sort

of rancid suet and as does Nero they occupy

all the public stage and they are the ones who produce

art according to their party and editorial line: they dance

(some like skeletons), sing, blow the trombones,

blow the brass, sculpt, paint, sing arias, write poems

and novels and other artistic stuff and only theirs are

valuable and only theirs sell well and no one gets

on the shelves of the bookstores except for adulators,

arse-lickers, and disabled and under every image,

word of theirs moans the crime. “We don’t leave!”

he shouts, “Let’s resume the roads of extortion

and of our personal enrichment, of the orgy over here,

today’s, laden with our shameless crimes that strike

root in our rib until the last Judgement that from now

on descends from the sky that beats the stubborn,

rebellious slaves, turns mine upside down, drags

mine over to the grave. She will erase the last innocence

and the last shyness. It stands written, let’s prevent

the disgust from coming into the world and our betrayals

be the Fatum himself.” ‒ and then they snigger and gobble

at copious tables. And thus gathered together in gangs

of criminals they build the Apocalypse with smiling

faces. The gods, the cherubim, although they seem

to be absent they wink at each other and smile.  

They tamper with their blood, they goad Nero on,

they open the road, the burden, the desert, the boredom

and the wrath, the poison and the democrats who are

truly the deadocrats worship a non-existent animal

and the mendacity gets heated in the blood and

the Justice lifts up her dry fist as if emerging

from a Zinc coffin and the world seems to be

so forsaken that she cracks and snuffs it.