You are listening to my bats:
this solo mode is vanquishing,
this naked trance and leaking voice,
our ancestors without passports are on stalls
in commune with plants and animals
always retreat to reveal the new tide beneath the feet,
knowledge to bright whirlpools…
I must wear ancient clothes to suit my moral codes
to bash hopeless dim skulls in brilliant labyrinths
Augustus, Gaius Octavius was a boy like me.
Elastic people are littering every forum, every farmer’s market…
They chose their words to articulate their prisons well
situated on the side of a neat collision with scientific wandering exiled to media meteors
Blessed by the rear of a hippo saint, your next chosen elective will never have the balls to declare:
O, vandals, what fucking relationship do you have with Roma?
From Capitoline to the Capitol Hill…