My Beloved Mastiff of Hatred

Of course, in gold, one single success will never turn the leaden coinage of a whole lifetime!

Alas, pride! Fortunately we can be brave also for being the first in hatred!

I know so many tricks that, even if I never used them, I could not, however, call myself “honest” anymore.

Have I to give myself the best grade for it? Or even a whole degree?

Or, why not? I could even affix the jeweled crown of a king on the remaining purple pulp of my own skull; acrid burning myrrh and incense to mask the corpse smell that runs between the perjurers of the monarchal voting.

Who was killed, it was me!

Yes! In the paradox, I’m sorry and happy at the same time, in tears of joy my murdered self cheers, accusing him, his twin ego, assassin and usurper.

I raised my hate and watch you, what a success!

I raised my hatred since the forgetful and confused dawn of my first days; like it was a puppy dog ​​picked up on the street in the early morning, before entering the kindergarten, one of those days with the sun covered by the monotonous rain, as insipid as the leek soup of the nuns.

Look what became of it!

At first I did not know if my dog was a purebred hate, so small I took it; I thought it was a bastard and common hatred, but look, yet here it is, beautiful, black and strong as a Cane Corso mastiff!

What a gem!

I’ve spent my life feeding my hate and I did not gave it scraps of life, as others do, but the best part of it.

Undernourished myself, I held out for all the disappointments, just to see it grow well, giving it trays of pastries and cream of aborted occasions, iced with “no”!

It was worth it, its rabid three heads with slotted metal organ-like and abysmal pipes howl for hunger and devour… everything!

I spent every penny and effort to procure for it human lamb in selected bureaucratic and repetitive works, state schools, trivial friendships, inertia, indifference, until the arbitrary and deep penalty for the first, common “Mr. None” passing on the street.

I preferred for myself the role of the sacrificed lamb, slain on the gray palette of a life as unhappy as a liturgy, as repetitive as a stuttered mass, in order to save the skin of my mastiff.

When the blade of the day by day and its objects (which I do not want at all) were slaughtering me, by the hands of the smug butcher on duty at the never resting slaughterhouse of becoming, I was aware of the sacrifice and, like any faithful dog, it was too.

And like any faithful dog, whining, it promised revenge and grew, grew and grew.

I gave it a wink, and I smiled bitterly to keep it quiet and not make it worry about me: “There is nothing bad going on, the razor of failure, you see, it cuts and it doesn’t hurt …” but it whimpered and grew even more.

To feed it properly, I then selected the worst and most paranoid women that the world has ever hosted.

I spent all my energy for it, depriving myself of everything, like a ancient, good pater familias, reaching the self cancellation of a zen pig.

Yes! Getting to the point of humiliation and weight loss, I was able to contemplate the muscles and the increasing agility of my fight animal!

I fed it with the food of love for mediocre people; I was in tears, I looked at it, admired it as only a parent can do, while it was pawing to get rid of its too short chain.

What a purebred noble beast!

Then as I held the prey in a firm embrace, it quickly dipped the muzzle into those tattered intestines, slimy and dark blood; with such an enthusiasm and eagerness it threw itself growling on those insatiable and hysterical wombs!

It devoured with rage and fury all that sweet pain of abandonment and lack of understanding, each forgetfulness, superficiality, all the vanity of reticent blood shaped words, typical blood words of suicides, consigned to stupid and deaf bitches.

I did not explain anything! The mastiff, as every mastiff, it knows what to do.

To extract the marrow, it broke with mighty blows of its molars the bone of the inability to communicate, on where I had wanted to crucify myself, in order to find it more food.

Even though I was there, no one saw me; oh, I was too thin! Overwhelmed by the pain of its callous and hectic greed!

It is the protagonist! My ferocious mastiff of hate! Look out!

Today it is always free, it runs agile and sinuous in the dense forest of witches, darting and bold, it bites and devours them as they were pigeons, leaving behind my cough and phlegm, the brain tuberculosis, which prevents me from following its animal pace of an athlete, and quilted of red petals my, by now too thin and ragged, handkerchiefs of old ideas.

But for it I wanted only the best! For it, I went ahead resisting the vertigo of the jump from the ledge, avoiding smoking opium, which stoned and tamed it! And now I’m proud of it and of its strength.

I prepared for it the dinner table, not filling it with holocausts and wars, false principles, history, ethics and social criticism.

I put under its nose not bowls of precooked food, newspapers and tv, the books of whoever, the cans of a standard education, the middle school and its plastic fiddle, and Anne Frank, a philosophy, or an array of the many to choose from in the supermarket aisle of modern life.

It got stronger, instead, licking generous doses of high-proof eggnog, hand wrought with the wooden spoon of cynicism, home made with the cognac of solitude, in endless evenings close to people prone to betrayal and slander, envy and mockery, and all ended over the hedges in the park, in brawls or in bottle fights under the stars.

I kneaded for it the flours of disappointment and contempt in perfect proportions, both (rye of intellectual and yeast of ignorant) they made it grow strong and beautiful, with a shiny coat, while I expertly shriveled and faded, becoming bald and unhappy as a leaf fallen in autumn into the battered and sacrificed garden of my victimization.

Even if it is pure spirit, it must weigh more than two hundred pounds now, and so I bet all on him in order to bite something that’s left of the world and of the day.

Whatever good happened to it to have between its teeth, as a good dog it expelled it with a rush of diarrhea immediately after it was swallowed.

Its irritable bowel always find an excuse to make every food abject.

In the meanwhile, from the industrious huge beehive encrusted beneath the sphincter of the world, a nutrient dense and invigorating honey constantly runs, and curiously it is greedy for it, even if it stinks of sewage.

Oh yes! Like every purebred dog, my hate has delicate guts and it cannot stand second choice meat, those served by waiters from the historic downtowns, or Italian lounges, with their typical elegance and gaiety of a concentration camp.

It wants true experienced pain, and true extermination of thoughts and feelings, titanic, but exclusive, wastage of love no one will ever know anything about.

It was hard and burning! I always endeavored to be replaced in others’ lives by the worse mediocrity, in order to leave it space for its games, and in the fiction of the playing, it was destroying everything for real, running up and down those vast meadows, abysmal lawns, in the green descending distance between me and anyone else.

At night, sleepless, it is still howling its growing anger to the moon, every night; it gives me its company and keeps me awake at the same time, with its long and monotonous night song, erratic and full of gratitude and love for me, his master, and no one else.

No one ever can hate as deeply as love can do! And vice versa!

In our loneliness we walked the streets of the world for decades, my hatred and I, without a break.

Sometimes I stopped on a bridge, maybe in Paris, for the bad habit, now lost, of smoking in the wind, where the smoke dissipates quickly as thin as a good memory, and he, huge, stood on the parapet and looked out, watching the river, at the dark water flowing, with his sad eyes that seem small poisoned eddies.

What a pride came over me! What an emotion!

How beautiful it was, my hate, my idol, its withers the color of rancor, the lighter spots that fade into shades of absence, the sagging skin of a bulldog snout that conceals ivory teeth, and a jaw with the steel grip of the oldest and most enduring remorse, or of an unquenchable biblical and impossible revenge.

You are huge! A volcano is nothing more than a pimple on the chubby cheek of a child planet compared to you! You are huge!

We made a God of our most terrible and mad passion!

No one will ever forget your bite, my faithful partner and my only joy! No one will ever forget even just your menacing bark once he heard it, sincere in its contempt, even when you seemed to play as a puppy.

No, you’ve never played, never joked, my love! You were very serious even as a child!

I have created a masterpiece of art, nourishing the faithful hound of my hatred.

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