• Filippo Marinetti

Poem of the XMAS


Get on the tanks aeropoets and here we go finally sent packing after so many shrill screeches of tires swallows maniacal critics alembics full of long-winded pessimism

Motor breakdown stop among Italians but you you twenty-year-olds you are by now the famous recalcitrant defaulters of the Ideal and I have to tell you that many times your absolution was attempted by accusing the oppressive pedantry of stamped paper bureaucracy rules censure formalities shabbyness and torturing passéism with which they bogged down the ebullient adamantine rhythm of your rising voluntary service at the heart of the battlefield

I shall not shout goodbye till we meet again in Paradise for up there you would have to obey the infinite most pure love of God whereas now you smart with the desire to command an army of reasoned arguments and so go ahead with the tanks

Urbanisms factories banks and plowed fields study with these solemn professors of sociology ants termites bees beavers

I have nothing to teach you world since I am purged of the quotidian the beacon of an aeropoetry beyond time and space

The cemeteries of great Italians untie their little rustic walls among the cowardice of the scirocco and let off angry sparks crackling impatience of powder magazines no doubt they will explode they’re exploding clawed cadavers and so go ahead with the tanks

You sappers breakers of the calculated step you gravediggers pigheaded in the effort of burying springs enthusiastic with glory tell me whether you’re satisfied now that you’ve pushed way down down into your ideological dung heap the fragile and delicious Italy that will not die

Go ahead with the tanks and don’t get distracted you curl up your daring body in tatters for cruel speed wants to hurl you at the sky before your time

A cemetery of great Italians explodes and calls out Stop stop Italian drivers you need TNT we’ll give it to you we’ll give it to you the best TNT extracted from the marrow of the skeleton

And let things be as they are may the word bone marry the word unknown and with the ancient rhyme nudge the nostrils of the Future excited by the blond hay of a record

We’re finally there and we get down onto almost sacred soil

Scabrous beatitude of wild hills firing

The voluptuous front line vibrates strings tightened which the projectiles strum and it is a thundering cathedral bent down to implore Jesus with the wrenching blows of lacerated chests

We will be we are the kneeling machine guns our barrels palpitating with prayers

I kiss let me kiss again the weapons riveted with a thousand thousand thousand hearts all pierced with vehement eternal oblivion


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