The MIL TEAM, the milady of the evening bar, the familiar melody of the wood-panelled lift of your disappointed aspirations, the brotherhood of gentian lickers and the paladins of tomorrow’s disappointments wish you a happy, plump and candied heart!
Mouths still askew from having over-licked the hidden gentian of the vanished ancestor, breath still heavy with the ashen memory of exhausted cigarettes, helmet-sickness pointing to the dawn of a worried area, worm-eaten but reassured by the smeared reflection of our shaggy image declaiming barefoot songs of madness to the rhythm of the streets waking up at 6 o’clock in the morning, we’ll surely doubt the facetiousness of the past but it doesn’t matter… We won’t give a damn about our first tooth, and we’ll be tracing straight ahead the paths to come that our soul, damned but aware, will be able to recognise just as we feel the ardour in the centre when we meet up with our heart’s sister (or brother).
Like brats who are always naughty, with subtlety on the lips, we’ll go and fight with our anachronistic ethics slung over our shoulders against the freedom fighter’s predicted anaemia, moralists on principle, the semolina mixers, the wind-breathers, the self-satisfied scorners, the useless auxiliaries, the bacillary quibblers, the labour inspectors of finished work and the cheats in general. Easy to spot: they’ll always have their bodies bent over, their ambitious snouts digging into the mire of their narrow minds and misplaced hubris, oblivious to the fact that their buttocks, the product of their self-abasement, will always be at the mercy of our studded shoes.
Ay Caramba!!