F.T. MARINELLI : Manifesto of Futurism
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Sneaks under shadows lurking in corners ready to rear its head folded in neat lab reports charting white blood cells over edge running wild. Or hiding along icy roads when day ends with sea gulls squalling through steel grey skies. Brake belts wheeze and whine snapping apart careening us against the long cold night. Official white envelopes stuffed with subpoenas wait at the mailbox. Memories of hot words burning razor blades slash across our faces. Fires leap from rooms where twisted wires dance like miniature skeletons. We stand apart inhaling this mean air choking on our own breath.
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
--JOHN the theologian

from Le Figaro, [Paris)
February 20, 1909

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F.T. MARINELLI Manifesto of Futurism
1. We intend to sing the love of danger, the habit of energy and fearlessness.

2. Courage, audacity, and revolt will be essential elements of our poetry.

3. Up to now literature has exalted a pensive immobility, ecstasy, and sleep. We intend to exalt aggresive action, a feverish insomnia, the racer's stride, the mortal leap, the punch and the slap.

4. We affirm that the world's magnificence has been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. A racing car whose hood is adorned with great pipes, like serpents of explosive breath-a roaring car that seems to ride on grapeshot is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace.

5. We want to hymn the man at the wheel, who hurls the lance of his spirit across the Earth, along the circle of its orbit.

6. The poet must spend himself with ardor, splendor, and generosity, to swell the enthusiastic fervor of the primordial elements.

7. Except in struggle, there is no more beauty. No work without an aggressive character can be a masterpiece. Poetry must be conceived as a violent attack on unknown forces, to reduce and prostrate them before man.

8. We stand on the last promontory of the centuries!... Why should we look back, when what we want is to break down the mysterious doors of the Impossible? Time and Space died yesterday. We already live in the absolute, because we have created eternal, omnipresent speed.

9. We will glorify war-the world's only hygiene-militarism, patriotism, the destructive gesture of freedom-bringers, beautiful ideas worth dying for, and scorn for woman.

10. We will destroy the museums, libraries, academies of every kind, will fight moralism, feminism, every opportunistic or utilitarian cowardice.

11. We will sing of great crowds excited by work, by pleasure, and by riot; we will sing of the multicolored, polyphonic tides of revolution in the modern capitals; we will sing of the vibrant nightly fervor of arsenals and shipyards blazing with violent electric moons; greedy railway stations that devour smoke-plumed serpents; factories hung on clouds by the crooked lines of their smoke; bridges that stride the rivers like giant gymnasts, flashing in the sun with a glitter of knives; adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon; deep-chested locomotives whose wheels paw the tracks like the hooves of enormous steel horses bridled by tubing; and the sleek flight of planes whose propellers chatter in the wind like banners and seem to cheer like an enthusiastic crowd.

Futurism online:

JH - and for ourselves? sound of our own words echoed into empty corners enough for us? Is the silent web a place to hear our screams? What say you?
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

REPAIR: Concourse or confluence of people at or in a place - Oxford English Dictionary

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Fear Manifesto of Futurism The Pool  
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The Pool
Once again a canvas patch conceals the drained pool's blue-green oval as if it were an injured eye whose own lid would not suffice though in its own way it's capable of fending off dust and grit, the chill that would stiffen its sclerotic coat freeze the retinal screen on which summers replay themselves, kids clinging to long yellow snakes, swandivers in peacock trunks, those who tread water those who splash it in passing faces. The closer winter's approach, feathers of ice spreading to plumes on the canvas patch, the further back the dreaming pool will reach - to a time when it was not yet a pool but another hollow dug in the earth exposing bones and cups, the tongue of a shoe. With the deep snows that make the canvas sag, diminishing whatever light there may be, dreams become more opaque with only faint outlines of an ancient struggle, causes, names, effects so long forgotten it's an open invitation to myth - contrary to late spring's ritual opening of that lid, the one-eyed pool doomed to squint and stare at the flat sky, feet of swimmers pounding its acrid fluids, chlorine stinging all its invisible inner folds.
F.T. MARINELLI : Manifesto of Futurism

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