Corso di progettazione del suono
(Frequenza bisettimanale)

Now that the magic has gone     I drift around the Cinque Vie
      every other archway hides     a full-blown strip out
   rubble cupped in unexpected     space and light
         heady scent of rustin negàa     lethally mixed with moped No.5
                                and after an hour     I end up at a table
                               where perhaps we sat     in Bar Magenta
                                and though it's barely 9     I weigh up the consequences
                                              a celebratory pint     reminisce then move on
                                                         afraid to let go     tired of the day-long trade off
                                                         the bar is familiar     but I don't remember
                                                           the betting booth     the Red Bull chiller
                                                              in the far corner     what looks like
                                      the Scrofa Semilanuta digging     a full Meneghin breakfast
                                                         while outside traffic     is building up
                                     church front beggars step back     into pre-morning's last opening
                                                   giving way to couples     with ipods ideas and morning routine
                                                  they step out arterial     their monthly swipe card ins and outs
                           now consultable on the intranet     since we outsourced the payroll
                          just about as far as it would go     to the huge angels opposite La Borsa
                                     they look down chipped     worn wings weathered faces expressionless
                                               the buy and sell     the freshly minted iron lung of greed
                                          betrayal trashing     this town's long since spent rebuildable soul
       office centres for future generations      of flying fuckless bypassers through
                                           who never felt         this long breath of history
                                     exhale and settle            preening on the plain

El nost Milan         April 2009