Urbi et Orbi

Hi. I'm the Pope
the father who gathers all the lost tribes of Israel with hanging iPod of the Catholicité in his pious fist, as if you people were grains of Maizena, so I gather you, and I don't let you go go.

And I summon you all, little heads, in the Court of this Crimson King who bleeds night and the day enthroned at the blackest Vatican altar, surrounded by yellow cornucopias and lions, dyeing all the seats in his purple-ish sanguine essential.

Strange, strange, what's so strange? Haven't you ever seen a Pope drinking yerba mate?

Now you see him.

The strangest dreams may one day become crystal hard and clear for your happy smile.

And hi again, I am the Pope. 
As any other Bishop of Rome was, like those who in the past were, those Urbans and Gregories, and Johns, and Clements, and Pauls, and all those who embraced simony and the concubinate in the Middle Ages.

And hi, and yet hi again, and I'm el Papa, and I chamuyo, and I listen to the football matches out loud on a small digital radio, "Winco", with earbuds, and I go to the fridge walking en pata, and catch a fresh glass of "Americano Gancia", y me lo clavo de una.

Because, at the thin hour of the night, when the Sistine Chapel is full of Dracula, I'm still the only one who remains white and inviolate, precipitously vertical, unearthly.

Like a man who is fed by an energy come from beyond the ecclesiastical graves, which are oh so Egyptian and aniline-blanched here
in this city of hollow obelisks and phantasmagorias radiating over Europe, like a magnet full of enigmas and solar residue.


And how blue and starry is the Roman sky of August or July when the cupolas and polygonal domes of the Holy See are opened by means of hydraulic gears
and I seated there
sedent in the depths of my palazzos.

And how blue and starry were those Roman skies of August, or July.











I'm just an associative imagery, as seen in dreams or fever, I stay in focus, pass into each other, dissolve.

You've never seen me.... but still, still....