‘Los estados de la mente, las despedidas II’, Umberto Boccioni, 1911

Not any skin will do nor zany hide
To bound Old Zarathustra’s front and back
Rebutted simulacra dubbed le glauque
Not of this world the spine of Mass und Macht.

Mussolini remarks the buckskin: Black is black!
And Adolf hunts for something glacier green
He finds a softer shade for what they mean
And knocks hero-worshipers out of whack.

Crossed eyes can see the spin irrefutable
Wasting away in vastly spurious coil
Around the center clusters of Materia
Encased in plasmagnetic blubs of Hoyle.

The void –repeated, gorged, Blau Lebensmüde–
And then again returned to bleating boing
Is buffeted on its axis called “Fidelia”
Ten vicious-faced cherubim manifold.

Lenta cornucopia para alas de pájaros
tu impenetrable viaje por estrechos parajes
abarca transatlánticos, aborda tantos gajos

 han otorgado un baño de oro a los tejados
los cansados tejados, viejos, sucios y secos
que salpican de lluvia deliciosos espejos
todos los años nuevos, todos los anchos vados.

 No cesar de comerte –como quien por la punta–
los fragmentos que advierten las edades. No hay luna
en el escaparate sino en la falsa cómoda.
Serán estos dislates cantados como yuntas
juntadas a capricho, como Eau de Maguncia.

The Rococo bookbinders sing Traumdeutung beispiele
–mounted valedictorian auf boondoggle auf Schäne–.
Say: Gilded; Armistice; overrun; rhombus; rhodium;
Buchstabe aus Hochdeutsch in heavy-handed cyan.

Over the sea the Eagle spreads its showy tassels
the frontispiece is equipped with rubriquettes galore
the world is razzle-dazzled with factitious Picassos
the snoutgreen hue resembled the bullocks of James Joyce.

Oh burning book of fractal labiodental menaces!
Oh Wagnerian sensations donated to the artless!
Your aphoristic leather crackles with skeins of lapis.
Your song is like the howling of niches in the storm.

Bulimic paradoxa long recoiled und scrambled
the purest tongues of algae in aforementioned skin
perhaps the circumcisions depicted in the Bible
give us the approximations of the couleurs du Fin.

Flying the fiords meshugas revert their vitiligos
afraid of branding irons for the Secret Police:
Mussolini reclines mit dem Bande und… by Jingo!
Scanning Zarathustra’s facing pages won’t fling.

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