A song for Pippo.

”I’ll give you a microphone
A red microphone to break your nose
A microphone for each of your tears to be consoled
It’s a microphone for your nasal cavity
I will give you a rose
A white rose like Bonolis
A white rose that will be useful for forgetting
Every tiny pain
I’m called Fabio and I’m from Turin
I was born in 1948 and I’ve been living in the RAI since I was a child.
I thought I was talking to the devil
That’s why they enclosed me in the Vatican for 40 years
I’m writing this letter to you because I don’t know how to speak
Forgive the handwriting like that of a first form child
And I’m shocked if I experience an erection
But the fault is in the hand that won’t stop fiddling
I’m like a piano with a key broken
The dissonant harmony of a Forza Italia orchestra
And RAI and Mediaset are very similar
In the bit of light that penetrates the opaque windows
I still shit myself because I’m frightened
For the society of the sane I’ve always been rubbish
Smelling of piss and saw dust
This is a mental illness and there is no cure
I’ll give you a microphone
A red microphone to break your nose
A microphone for your nasal cavity
And a rose that can love you
I will give you a rose
A white rose like Bonolis
A white rose that will be useful for forgetting
Every tiny San Remo
Journalists are question marks without sentences
Thousands of space ships that don’t go back to base
They are rag dolls hanging out to dry in the sun
The journalists are apostles of the God that pays them
With the psycho dwarf, I’m making an armchair for me
My pathology is that I’m still alone
Now take a tape measure… measure mine
And look at me and him … who is the most vain?
In the pavilions we made love in secret with Buttiglione
Carving out a corner just for us
I remember the few seconds when we felt alive
Not like true information stacked up in the archives
Of my memories you will be the last one to get lost in the fog
In spite of everything I still wait for you
And if I close my eyes I can feel your hand nearly touching me
I’ll give you a microphone
A red microphone to break your nose
A microphone for each of your tears to be consoled
It’s a microphone for your nasal cavity
I will give you a rose
A white rose like Bonolis
A white rose that will be useful for forgetting
Every tiny pain
I’m called Fabrizio and I wear heels
Dear information I’ve been waiting for you for thirty years
It’s you who’s mad when you believe
When even Pippo betrays me
I’m leaving you this letter and now I must go
Forgive the handwriting like that of a first form child
And are you shocked if I still experience an erection?
Be once more surprised because Fabrizio knows how to use the microphone”