Dedicated to Mario Tronti
He’s tired of feeling like a bastard child…to poetry and the workers movement…surrounded by mini-messiahs…hold the martyrdom…priests of the workers cathedrals…who won’t stop talking about themselves…twee poems about nothing…standing there like an angel, watching…the wreckage drifts further away…poetry is a street fight, where rhythms and stop signs are weapons…and history, history most of all…he’s not yet got the wisdom to welcome death…am, so to speak, on a kind of border…what is he against? Everything…rage,rage…Nanni come back…Marx whispered in his ear the science of class hatred…A question: what’s behind the moon? A sickle…organic intellectuals are nothing without anonymity…refusal is an exhausting act…we’ll get used to the acid burn of it…A mix of straw and shit…A question: what’s outside the factory window?
