Get on your thickest boots
and come with me alive
we may or not arrive
to the cellar offshoots

Brothers open the box
with a knife filled with blood
like a coffin of crud
barrels of our jocks

It’s been more than one year
or aeons of our shame
It’s time to counterclaim
the demon sleeping here

Do not pretend to fear
the gossips and the state
Society has no weight
Everyone else is blear

They will tell you do not
open that old keystone
on the cask that we’ve thrown
This is the devil’s plot

We won’t listen to such
virtuous and tedious speech
We are so out of reach
from their police’s hutch

Spitting on temples’ floors
Debunking all their laws
We will again expose
the beauty of our sores

New red sperm will erupt
like life from demon’s wound
From the wood where he’s bound
kraters will be filled up

Down in the darkest cave
do you hear the perfume
of a cycle of bloom
like a nostalgic wave

J.-S. Desnanot

Andrea Mantegna – Baccanale con un tino, 1475

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