THE SYCOPHANTS

 

The demon of the sycophants has eaten

too many flowers of gypsy woman’s cunt

and of pig’s fart and in a moment, he slit

his own throat and left his whole horde

of ratfinks deaf, dumb, blind and

in the evening, they stroll crippled, limping

in the paradise of the sadness. Unspeakably

moved, they work together on the burial

of the demon’s enemies how weird they seem

to them those happenings through which

they passed when they held their hands

on the bloody throat of the demon. Now

the sycophants stuff themselves with triple

indemnity and so that they live like the sleepwalkers

they grasp little by little some of the gypsy

woman’s cunt flowers and of the pig’s fart blooms

in homeopathic doses because in the aftermath

of the demon’s death some are born, others grow,

others die but most of them assemble in the same

sarcophagus and they are neither born nor do they

die, the despondency is enough for them to write

cancerous poems.