Sex, consolation for misery!
The whore is queen, her throne a ruin,
her land a piece of shitty field,
her sceptre a purse of red patent leather:
She barks in the night,
dirty and ferocious as an ancient mother:
she defends her possessions and her life.
The pimps are swarming around
bloated and beat
with their Brindisi or Slavic moustaches
are leaders, rulers:
in the dark they make their hundred lire deals,
winking in silence, exchanging passwords,
the world, excluded,remains silent
about those who have excluded themselves,
silent carcasses of predators.
But from the world's trash
a new world is born,
new laws are born
in which honor is dishonor,
a ferocious nobility and power is born
in the piles of hovels
in the open spaces
where one thinks the city ends
and where instead it begins, again, hostile,
begins again a thousand times,
with bridges and labyrinths,
foundations and diggings,
behind a surge of skyscrapers
covering whole horizons.
In the ease of love
the wretch feels himself a man,
builds up faith in life,
ands despising all who have a different life.
The sons throw themselves into adventure
secure in a world which fears them and their sex.
Their piety is in being pitiless,
their strength is their lightness,
their hope is having no hope.
Sesso, Consolazione Della Miseria, Pier Paolo Pasolini