Alberto Masala

to Rafael Cancel Miranda – handcuffed to the wall - Marion jail
to Frank «Big Black» Smith – and all the others in Attica
to Sekou Odinga – his torturers’ ashtray
to Alejandrina Torres - Phoenix, Arizona jail – raped by the fist of her jailer
to Susan Rosenberg - Lexington – light every 20 minutes – months without sleep
to the women raped in Georgia state prison and in Dublin federal prison
to the victims of torture in the cages in Pelican Bay, Florence, Guantanamo, Abu Graib…
to the victims of torture in Bolzaneto – in Asinara – in all the police stations and jails
to all the desaparecidos
to the inmates of death row

I speak about inmates

about the desire that tells of scars
not my own not my body’s
I speak about my people

now it’s hot here too

and other crows are flying foretold
by a tongue cruel with lies
through rubble and ghosts of violent poverty

now it’s hot here too

and the north sliding further north
makes south of all our scripts
while the south does not stir under the sun
bearing the risk of colours guilty of life

it is an endless fire

a decisive human hypothesis

dreaming denying its dreams

it comes towards Europe
facing your comfortable armchair
your western remote control
soon overwhelmed imploded
in that inward whirlpool of digestion

we are an eternity of doubts

survivors against the wind

we pass like a herd
between two philosophical columns fetishes of thought and nihilism
that imprisons antagonistic instincts
in its enclosures of regularity in the predicted order
like animals skin of other enemies
not to run the risk of infections

and we never buy enough

I come from the world
the slimmed down angel in the west
too often without a paradise

resistance only

either move on or stay
accepting disadvantages from borders
external to our song

I still wear an accent resistant to use

I write it over my voice
this imperfect saying and while I speak
each word falls on former telling
like a burning sun flaming with literary nausea
baked earths

plein soleil de mes rêves condamnés

à la mathématique des multiplications

thus the heart claims from rhythm
once more sensations of heresy
and is nourished and finds its veins
presents itself again appears tiger
anarchic gleam anarchic breath that will not be silent
but instead brings, shouting, its challenge
eternal clamorous with an absolute end

it is loaded with the victims it carries cursing

listen, poetry …
I say heavy, this flying high with tangled wings
and without rest in the present nightmare
on mountains of remains of the superfluous
satiety human leftovers trash
filth that history takes care of

to whom are we writing this anger?

how can we still speak to you of love

if we can’t even ask

pardon of children

I do not even have a god who will bless
America’s ambitious suicide
in this definitive civilization
shouting of superior race

I dedicate the roots to blades of grass

and the unarrived sex to the inmates

but in a larger sense of all the jails

and meanwhile I write on the bars of the cage
a hope delayed reaction

and if the soul wishes to give name to its doubts
if is of interest to her… here, take it …