Cantata of Hermetico, the faceless farmer, et al

I heard Hermetico tell his tale

and Hermetico was red-bearded, an lived down the corner of your shattered paper house: perpendicular lane of province and train of dreams which departed -100 years ago

and he was tall and hirsute, a giant among men -and he didn't know it.


I saw Hermetico opening his mouth

red and round like meatball, gold his tongue, sapphire every tooth

and the sibilant story flowed through his metallic incisives such wind that bites the wall down the corner of your shattered paper house: perpendicular lane of province and train of dreams which departed -100 years ago

and the wall was pale yellow, esquina -and you never ever saw it.


I turned to behold his mouth again, hysterical -arrobado; because Hermetico spoke at last

and his voice seemed to come from the surrounding stones of the path, and he looked like buried in the domesticity of the summer storm of the zones with moderate temperature: perpendicular lane of province and train of dreams which departed -100 years ago:






"Once, my friend, a faceless farmer there was 
somewhere on a coastal pais, around the English Channel

face he had not -mozzarella the skies, pebbles in his shoe
and how comes that he asks me some help to bring all his cows from Brooklyn?

Bring 'em on home, to the safe European pilule, bring 'em on home strong man

-and do it walking over those green, green oceans of mine yours

walking from Broadway to Calais
walking from Pasadena to Dieppe

-'You must be joking' -I said, disappointing

-'You didn't even say hello' -I insisted, liquid my voice

and my stare left an obolo in the jaws of the nonconsequentialism
at the gamboge country of Anyplace, where the sun always shines."







And these were the words of Hermetico, the simil-ogre of our villages -giant among men
because I heard 'n' saw 'em flowing from his red mouth moving -cartilaginous and wet

and I still heard 'n' saw more from his mouth
orange-spherical like Febo, cumin his tongue, bronze every tooth

and his name was Hermetico Giovagnolini, and his head was like a Balón Tango Adidas España '82:




"... So this is how, my friend, in seeing that he couldn't obtain help from me
my faceless farmer from Tourcoing whistled at the H2O of the afternoon

then, three minions appeared -mozzarella the skies, pebbles in their shoe
and how comes that he asks 'em some help to bring all his babirusas from Times Square?

Bring 'em on home, to the safe European toilet, bring 'em on home my good soretes

-and do it walking over those pink, pink oceans of mine yours

walking from Hollywood to Clermont Ferrand
walking from the Bronx to Biarritz

-'You must be insane, my master' -the subordinates said, deformed

-'It's too long the travel' -they insisted, undermined by the cirrhosis

and their stare deposited some alms on Who Cares Street
at the imprecise country of Nowhere, where all the men are winners."







And these were the words of Hermetico, the tamed Yeti made in the Eurozone -our indigenous Samson
because I listened 'n' peeped 'em radiating from his cylindrical lips lisping -étain en la pluie

and I still heard 'n' saw more from his jeta
green like Ugo Tognazzi, thermosetting resin his tongue, watermelon every tooth.