OIL EMANCIPATION

Introduction to oil emancipation

Faster than the dark - friend of asymmetry - cross-eyed perhaps, the web of the dark - cross-eyed with his hand on his cock - to look for unhappiness, or it would be better to say nothing - not to be happy - not to be sad - to appreciate and fight decay - listen to the landslide - the silence that submerges has the shape of mud - the presumption of a strangled mistress in her role as a hangman who laughs and does not come down - and does not come down from her gallows - Long live your face - boredom has the gaze of a sperm - perhaps the last shot in the barrel - of someone who has become - tragically ordinary - of someone who has chosen the path of the caterpillar - a supermodel walking around with a garbage bag, ordinary, sloppy and sublime - empty the tears in the toilet - a greasy vortex, the dark and still ocean, five in the morning - the air sucked in by the sun tastes of rotten lemon bitter mouthpiece and grappa stench of shit - tearing off your underwear and discovering yourself as a doll - cardiotester, gymnastics, diet and darkness. I wake.

Oil Emancipation

A)

Trembling, red-painted nipples - rigged up like mopeds, or like police cars - threatening and steady the trap looks at me, my severed paw, rough tongue, the whore's teeth, obsidian wigs, institutions & prostitution are wandering, vertigo and color TV watched from behind, on the wall ... and I am the shadow cone and also your mouth and shadow cumulonimbus on the foreskin and then precipice, crumbling rocks, waning charisms, Duci with dwarf arms simulate screams speeded up to 45rpm and rockstar peas but they look like underpaid fans and maybe yes, satisfied - the historic mustaches erupt democracy, audience pockmarked in applause: seriousness, responsibility, alignment and ecstasy - mustache that leave miraculous lipstick stains on porcelain coffee cups madonna \ crying - if you cry, if you laugh - only Gino [Gino de Dominicis, artist] made her laugh! One cannot continue to worship broken-hearted people or break them by continuing to deify them, no! No! No! The time has come to crucify buddha and see his idiotic smile turn into a scream - the exchange is the basis of nature and its processes - your trusted FIAT mechanic says so too - and the trial is either lost or won or X - the lawyer is just your expensive and, they say, living prosthesis - human and self-conscious tape recorder, silicone of criminal tits - subjective of street urchin on a scooter through the alleys - the only light of the headlight illuminates the tourist with wide eyes - you make me urinate champagne! - naked women take refuge at his feet - meanwhile in the countryside a carousel of chlorine from a swimming pool sterilizes a thousand hectares of land, and in the pool stay dry on dusty mattresses, two pseudomillionaires, with cigars next to dead whores at dawn on the bottom, between the blue lines that move the mosaic - byzantine? No, it is the hierarchy that swamps with gold and dark circles to its peak - life is rather caravaggesque in its resolution from these premises - emerging from the dark, deflowering in the dark undulating and without malice - just so much good spreadable pettiness  for your champion's snack - a football champion with dirty chocolate lips holds a little girl in his arms and, as Lenin, points to the future (with a booger on his finger).

      

B)

Tourists and futurists gasp in Venice, while neo-Renaissance Florentine Olympians, Nazis & anal bartenders moan six-thosand lire for an artificial food from an electron microscope behind their marble face of smog and anglobarbaric - vulgarity of the Lower Empire, all the trunks with the "e" basically - do yu wante and sendwicce? - pagan fools invoke blessings - gout bought all their shares & joints while sacrificing oxen every day to their god \ stomach - Stomachious divinity - Venice and Florence try with all their stinks & dialects to chase the stranger - thousands of people who divorce simultaneously, anatomy and detachment, vivisection of hearts \ latrine - apartment blocks burdened by silence and hatred for animals, surrounded by pestilential racetracks, coin mints obtained from the facilitated and involuntary scrapping of your car, drunk and bleeding coinage, a face of flesh planced in profile, engraved and embedded in the sheets, more beautiful than the Nike of Samothrace, a unique bruise from the beak to the hair that detaches like flowers from the mud - black stems - centrifuge of miseries and forbidden children - the ambulance is carved in the bottom of the traffic jam and refined restorers prepare their spatulas to detach the human and already dead fresco from its cheap steel niche - more than a coffin it would take an envelope, perhaps those with bubble wrap or a tube for drawings - meanwhile, the sergeant scrounges a marlboro to the dead, drives away the curious - smell of pastry shops - orange darkness - tourists stride with legs as naked and twisted like albino olive trees the restricted traffic areas, the pedestrian areas, the mausoleums, the rich & poor thieves, their forgettable successes, a juggler, a fortune teller, some recruits in overnight pass, toothless and cellophaned short hairs, drift away convinced they’re gone to have fun, behind president of the republic’s back, who smirks from a photo, supplying old-fashioned uniforms; the parliament pretends to vote, LSD rains on Rome and the supporters burn like bonzes - wars are faxed at low resolution, small squares and pixels that accentuate the unreality - the informative imagery comes out 140 words per minute from human and liquid animated mouths on flat-colored backgrounds, drawn eyes, fake nose, tits, and sautéed beans - a decade of pan-fried leftovers with peanut butter and other American craps; a decade of photocopies with endlessly finished toner; a decade of casts of blocked ideas of invented novelties; a convenient decade: all the other decades for the price of one, a trench called eclecticism welcomes everyone from the sincere doubtful to the tiger shark and the Tigerman does not fight anymore against evil, but parcel out a lot; a decade like a meatloaf after the grueling gastronomic week of the twentieth century, the one that mounted turbo intercoolers to the donkeys with the barrow without anesthesia, which deodorized the proletarians and peasants with propane, which gave them ideals to fight for with "Baci Perugina" and a hundred floors of water and sugar houses where every fart is a village feast and hatred in the spinal cord counts every blackened red blood cell and threatens "The day will come…." and the day came - a tumultuous eclipse exploded the bubo of sun shattering the thousand twentieth-century plasters, the purulence flooded with fresh blood crackled overwhelmed, as by magma - Etna exploded ashes, flowers and snow - symmetries revolted like wounded cats and show dogs tore the masters' arms with gold watch, filed nails and tin trophy in hand - the walls bulged lard with faces of acquaintances and enemies to candor it, caps of carabinieri in the air like grain, the wisps in the eyes with quick setting blinded pilots of 'blue car” and the senator, prime minister and lackeys were beheaded on the run from a Royal Army helicopter paddle - a remnant of Fort Lauderdale actually, from when fighters were being swallowed by the Bermuda Triangle and Bermuda shorts were trendy shorts for a twist on the yacht twisting copper-leg and all this was decidedly sexual, prosaic and macho and the colors were less gray and the ocean for our cruises were a suggestive blue industrial menstruation, painted blue with the appropriate and harmful dye - in the Sixties everything was more rosy, even cooked hams - cigarettes were elegant, petrol had more lead than a gunboat, Mosche Dayan was a hero - even Kennedy - now we got our work cut out, tear off this chewing gum from our soles, all squashed as it is, melted with third worlds and teary eyes - we got our work cut out saying “we are too many” as long as spaceships for emigrating are inconceivable, as long as Einstein's ghost teases us and jokes "the speed of light is not reachable, can not be exceeded." But the speed of darkness? Have you ever wondered? The black matter… the oil ....

 C.

Falling in love with a sweet nocturnal oil, she spent all the sunsets on the faint X-ray of a lamp, a match that as soon as it was struck emitted a red cartoon of decadence of the sun with the words "I lived for art ..." - an ephemeral balloon of flame and lit the stinking light of life looked at him without giving in to the temptation to finger him, once he burned his fingertips, grilled fingertips, great gourmet stuff - he was without fingerprints therefore analogue, unparalleled approved diva, an evaporated, a vanity, a cock who he reads signs and mysteries in every chronological knick-knack, in every temporal shred - lightning seemed like nerves that night, marbled it like capillaries and how they exploded and then dark - the similarities of organic things, I wondered ... veins and lightning ... I wondered if the Conscious life is not just the sum of unconscious and single-celled lives with cops breaking the ass of Protestants, like good Catholics, but with a hard grin and blue! art makes it possible to carry out terrorism without deaths or injuries, perhaps wounded to one's ideals and one's interests, the terror of an epoch its advent, the epoch of common privilege, the future - art must make these enemies suffer must upset the morals, religions and banks, mix them up like polenta, otherwise everything gets together - art must be labor, the spontaneous labor of a woman in childbirth, it must conceive - even at the cost of rape it must fertilize - the art that makes yes with he is diligent and collects his prerogative as an accomplice, who misleads among spiritsualisms cleansed of every edge and pungent end, without amorphous angles and streamline to shell aerodynamics in a small sky of permissible and deputy codes ... that stuff there must be passed to the blender, become a mousse, an acrylic cream, a flat color of background against which pits, cancers, lumps, fats, muscles, stones, nerves will emerge - the stuff that doesn't homogenize, the stuff that gets corrupted - being the stuff it is - listless intelligence coaxes, asks for time, she struggles as red as a fifty-year-old whorehouse in the gym - her loafers heart dances the rumba - she's shiny unlike the fringed brains of john vein's fringed cowboy jacket, still dusty from riding in the desert - another 6,000,000,000 individuals have the same, original huh? a unique piece ...

The puerpera is covered with fried crustaceans, the cravings squeeze and rinse it, the creature demands food, the peephole of the maternal navel opens and like a suspicious housewife observes the representative who wants to sell him the world: he decides to abort himself - every mom is like a submarine, indeed its opposite - the (amniotic) liquid is inside not outside, as well as the spicy periscope - the little one watches through the peephole - billions of baby rats, babies flee in terror from an exhibition - what could possibly have them like this terrified? sure that the exhibition is sister to the monster, but they still have their eyes closed ... sometimes the stench is enough, the smell of fear makes you do unthinkable things Mickey Mouse: he is dressed cool in pants and skeit shoes - the little one decides to go out - he is shy and slimy like a snail his antennae are dragging along the sidewalk, his mother doesn't notice anything - but he has run away - he is all soupy and motionless jelly nut anxious silver teaspoon swallowed in it - bullet - slowly dries up becomes parchment becomes summer dog shit - pulverized, some parts still grated on tasteless and superb pumpkins, but it is useless - a despicable case of abortion where the mother has not noticed anything and thinks she will find her son elsewhere in a hysterical pregnancy at the end of the period when an oily and screaming pouch will gut her amicably and ask in the pre Babel of Babies "where is my soul? Why did you slip it off your shaved thighs like a trickle of menstruation? what a careless you are! that dead stuff is oil dear mom, you were rich! do not burn it unnecessarily before new moon nights those moonless and starless nights, when the darkness is so dense and relentless that the torch becomes necessary - only then light the torch that burns the dark to get the light, the black matter which makes up 90% of the existing wants this type of torch - not the moody summer and winter nights and the clear twilight - I speak of cosmic nights of the abysses of the earth and the throats, the inside of organisms and mothers with dull eyelids in sleep deep, the ocean depths; the night on the Atlantic and the depth bombs that implode there without releasing any form of light, the black ... they are one with the stuff that is in the midst of the stars, with that background to which we are all hung and highlighted , on the black, the passepartout that light denies and the dimensions swallows - and proclaims itself the only bloody ideology, the only religion, the only and therefore the negation of every multiple interpretative mockery, unique because in this dense sensory deprivation man can only be silent - the play of light deceives - the oil is constant and unexplained it is a certainty to find the black amalgam of the cosmos even here on earth, in a semi-solid, fluid form always ready to become rock or ether - undecided divine manifestation of the rightness of the rich, the his Texan hat, his mocking smile, his essence under his boots. How could you marry such a monster? "The impassive cowboy devours the earth, drinks a dark beer.