MOLOTOV COCKTAIL

«Fill a bottle with gasoline»
[I feed on life].
«Wrap a rag around the neck of the bottle»
[I think of a solution]
«Wet the rag with gasoline»
[I call out: no answer]
«Ignite the trigger»
[The indignant soul flares up]
«Smash the bottle between your hands»
[The death of craftsmanship]

The instructions, we now live without maps, are stamped in blood
on athenian ostraka, or on cheap Etruscan vases,
on the walls of Pompeii’s brothels, or on the plasters of the cells of byzantine hesychasts,
on the bill of exchange of venetian merchants, oron the trenches of the Great War,
passing down / passing down to us from era to era, from millennium to millennium,
from aedican troubadour to cybernetic storytellers,
and they continue to burn the (in)human, combustible and comburent at the same time,
consuming him in the flames of the inexhaustible fire of art,
that blazes, extinguishing you, without ever burn out.