ah, moralists.
ah, moralists.
and since everyone walks with hammers
striking left and right clouds and shadows,
I declare myself too, for not being less,
a purebred auctioneer;
everywhere I see, for not being less,
arbitrariness, stereotypes, molds, models, drawers,
little drawers, little ones, little ones,
that I also want, for not being less, the applause of
my contemporaries, of my countrymen,
taking advantage of the push of tin philosophies,
since everyone deconstructs
I also want to hammer, not to be less, of course,
the thing is very simple: if I can't write good poetry
I'll write things that smell like a reality show
and tear my cheeks with living tears
(and I will count with joy the swelling of followers
in my social networks),
Come on, who's following me! indignant damn
that with that enough and enough to be the poetic Derridá of
this pathetic twenty-first century.
something else: 2 + 2 will always be 4.
another thing: better forget it.
Another thing: displaying rabbits in the hand does not make us magicians.
fashions fashions fashions fashions fashions
you must always dress in fashion
it is not going to be a thing that the king walks naked
and the cutie is scandalized.
something else: always be fashionable
above all, above all!
in the fashion of thought
it is not going to be something that we stop to think seriously
and the time passes
the half hour of fame.
since Galileo said what he said
now we are all astronomers.
we are the centurions of the new empires
everlasting custodians of morals.
for poetry I charge half a real and a watermelon.
ah, moralists.
ah, moralists.
they want to end hell by setting it on fire.