Room 170

October 14, 2016

A lust for hand to hand fighting, a sense of carte blanche.
Room by room, it’s just like playing Halo, screams one behind,
isn’t it? Stabbing someone to death, smoking a fag.
Here we are, digital age, still using bayonets…
A fucking team of jokers: a way to remember
we are the good guys. Man, if I just put my hands on
one a’ them bastards… That prussian idea of maces,
morgensterns to finish off those floored by gas. Carbombs
at the market, at the temple, along the boulevard
at the food line, at a wedding, down in the alleys
rockets in swarms, people in garages with no water,
gray children extracted or weeping from the rubble.
Men in dark camo and cigarettes and sunglasses.
Snuffing an old woman and her stupid husband, what
was this moron trying to do? smooth as taking a pee.
Trails on the sky, a memory of the rose garden.
A pee on the dead woman, socks over hosiery,
not much blood on the sidewalk. Bags of state meth like salt
or rice. Some back home depressed or with a smack issue,
I know one who plays in a club just three hoods away.

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One Response to “Room 170”


  1. […] Segnalo altresì nuove stanze a pioggia (esce il Sogno della Camera Blu, entrano le Stanze della Notte): 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170. […]


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