stolen lenses to see

“So che siete bravi padri di famiglia, questo va bene in patria ma non qui.

Qui non sarete mai abbastanza ladri, assassini, stupratori…”

                                        – Discorso di Mussolini ai soldati Italiani in Montenegro

 

i am falling softly sweetly in luv with a robber, un ladro,

che hai preso me,

he took me in like a bowl uv cherries, a basket uv fruit,

i left out to spoil in the sun,

i simply did not know how to use,

a bowl uv cherries, i couldnt manage to eat,

because in the centre uv the red flesh so sweet,

was a hard dark pit

and i couldnt digest it,

but he my ladro, knew very well,

that the pit was the seed that could grow his tree

uv falling fruit like stars turned into money,

and so he took me, and buried me in dirt

before i died, a rotten fruit,

he shuved manure in my mouth,

and i learned to speak words uv filth,

and ate his purpose to make my fruit bring wealth,

the kind like a king that is dug under ground

 so no one will find out

that a tree was built so successfully on the grave

uv a great one

but this ladros tree couldnt stand stabily

its roots rotted under the lying sun

and the father found out what this ladro had done

and cast him away-

 but he forgot to unbury me

and slowly the tree began to grow, and wealth began to sizzle and expand

like a fruit in an oven turning brown,

expanding, opening to fit a childs tongue

and i grew up, inside a tree, that fed a lot uv families

so i guess the ladro was right

this tree he shuved the dirt into me

would make so much so much money

but i did not think i would need a ladro to show

me that the fruit unless USED will spoil

and is better off robbed to make a bitter sweet turmoil

i turn the page, flip over on my bed, in the winter dead-

finally to be rooted to feel—

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