Transgressions 1 by Jackson

The Doll (Maquette for The Doll’s Games), 1938, Hans Bellmer

Walking in the snow
With the wind blowing across my eyes
My winter eyes, piercing through the flakes
That stop our hearts—I came up to the woman
Her cherry lips stuck out from her snow body
Jade eyes penetrating my skull,
There I stood in front of her
Her statue only slightly shorter than mine,
Yet there she stood like Jesus, eyes like Heaven
My eyes: infernal flame consumed
Her eyes: pure heaven
Her gentle nature looked down upon me like a cowhand staring at a calf
Without a mutter of a single vowel,
I wrapped my body around her like Cthulhu capturing a ship
I felt her cold, icy hands grab my back
Moving, with the grace of a pastor’s blessing
She dug deep into my skin with her obsidian nails—digging deeper and deeper
Her lips prepared for our unity of salvia & decomposing bacteria
As she opened her mouth, it was pure darkness
An abyss of unknown opened before my very eyes
It was the instant I saw it that I went in to kiss her cherry lips
As we kissed more and more, her nails dug deeper and deeper
Her hands, moving at a fast waltz’s tempo
Ripped and veered, creating a linocut out of my back
Yet as I kissed her more, a taste of meat flung into my mouth
With the drip of fluid much like that of a juicy steak flowing down my lips
I kissed, faster, faster, and faster
More and more meat came into my mouth
The sweet taste of juniper berries filled my mouth
Her nails dug so deep into my skin meanwhile that I felt my veins getting reorganized
Yet I did not care, for the taste in my mouth was so good
That the pain accompanied me merely served as a side dish to the pure taste on my tongue
As I moved my tongue through her mouth,
Savoring every piece of flesh,
Her hands stopped moving and her nails dug their grave in my back, leaving a mosaic
Slowly, every part of her body became one in mine
Her teeth, eyes, mouth, and neck became one within me
Then her stomach as I leaned more in to devour her insides,
Slurping up her intensities like noodles,
Reaching down more and more
Devouring her abdomen, I reached down
To feel her cunt, still throbbing—had red wine flowing down onto the ground
Staining the snow like the decay of an angel,
I devoured it too, then her legs, then her feet
Eventually, I came down to the snow
With its red wine all over it, I drank it
Until nothing but the tundra below remained
My back, still with her hands in, felt the wind attempt to form ice around the mosaic,
But twas in vain for the infernal fire
That coursed through my veins
Melted all snow and ice that came near it
As I walked back to where I came from,
Snow melted all around my body;
Suns formed in my eyes,
My body ached like that of Apollo.

Burning Love by Ezra S.

The triumph of love, 1978, Salvador Dali
I have known no one
who could understand
the beating sound of my heart
or my burning love
the way that you can

everything is yours 
my heart and my flesh
my soul, my mind, everything
i offer it all
in return for you

you are my blessing
you are like the sun
you shine through the darkest clouds
you bring me your warmth
you are life itself

Turbo Killer Pt 3 by John Smith

In their great reunion hall, the various responsible Goodies were all reunited around their circular table, under dim lights.
“We have no idea of what is happening, do we, colleagues?”
“No, we are facing a crisis. It has been a few months, and it became worse and worse. We still have no idea what this entity is searching or what she wants from us.”
“Who did send her? Is she an assassin?”
The vultures looked at each other, undecided and panicked.
“Let’s be clear, there is no reason for us to fight between ourselves At this moment.
This menace is external, and we should treat it as such…”
“Of course! After all, we struggled together to create our nation, this nation…we cannot just let this black swan to destroy everything…”
Another one pointed a finger towards him from the opposite side of the table.
“Stop being that pompous now. We all know what we did to get yourself where were are….”
The previous yelled, “ You should thank me and all the other members of our circle for making the same choice! What would you do in this situation! Let’s hear!”
The room then got filled with shrieking and feathering swapping around, becoming similar to a nest of hens.
“Colleagues, colleagues, we should remain calm! In any case…if we let fear dominate us, any hope to fight this terror that looms over us is doomed to failure. We should discuss the true nature of this menace and individuate a resolution. According to our actual informations, what do we know?”
“Nothing: there was no possibility to recognize the nature of this person, this entity…through security or technical consulting. It has been impossible to track the equipment, except for maybe a few items that have been clearly stolen from Lyla’s arsenals…but it seems this person appeared out of the blue. There is no other political powers that could want to destabilize our order or assassinate us and our agents and executors…unless it happened to be external from our stellar system.”
The vultures watched each other, scared.
“But then, it must be someone that remember us from before the war, before we entered hibernation and our stellar system remained isolated…there is a selection of hypothesis that we could evaluate…”
“We should evaluate if any of our old enemies are still alive in other regions of the cosmos first...”
“True, but have we got any other rational clue at this point…?”
“The sign…”
That sinister muttering interrupted the conversation and all other side talk at the round table; the vultures turned to one of their members, which had a thousand yard stare.
“It’s the punishment for the pact we took years ago…we knew this moment would have come…”
Many vultures shrieked angrily their feathers, “You should close your mouth, instead of accusing all of us of an unsubstantial crime!”
“What we have done years ago…we have done it for the peace and the welfare of this stellar system, and for no other reason…that is why we pledged our loyalty to the Putrid King!”
They all moved their pecks downwards.
“We knew there could have been risks…”
“You are saying we are getting punished?”
“We are protected by the sign! The sign of the Putrid King protects and guide our action for the good of civility and wealth.”
“What if the sign wanes or flicker…”

“Shut up!”
The Goodies were staring each other with sincere hate and resentment, other gazing at the shadows around the room.
“We mustn’t let this event shake our unity, in any case…”
“It seems some ring in this chain are weaker than others!”
“Are you starting to accuse people, now? With what authority?”
“You, you are all lacking respect to our assembly!”
Soon the hall became like a rumbling tavern, where the dignified Goodies started now brawling and rolling chairs between themselves like thugs; feathers, papers and other articles filled the air with the room, while
insults and offenses were shrieked without any remaining trace of etiquette.
“Stop, stop, stop!” One of them jumped over a table shaking his wings to reclaim attention, but got hit by a calculator to the forehead, falling down.
Two Goodies were strangling each other, another stabbed one with the broken leg of a chair, another one got an eye pierced; quickly the brawl degenerated in a violent altercation with blood splattered on the
carpet and the furniture.
Then at some point, the lights disappeared and everyone still standing was engulfed by darkness.
The cussing stopped and everyone looked around dismayed and terrified, uselessly trying to find a light to turn up.
“It’s here…it’s here…”
“Why do we deserve this? There is no reason!”
“Please help us, Putrid King…”
One of them leaned his head up, trying to turn on a portable torch; he believed he saw to eerie yellow light looming in the darkness. he lit one off the wall of the room, and his heart almost stopped when he saw it.
A tall figure, standing over seven feet, a dark shape cloaked in a large black trench coat, the only note of colour a red band around the neck and those glimmering eyes with a fiery, almost fire-like tendency.
One vulture shrieked as he spotted, in penumbra, a reptilian squared muzzle similar to that of a crocodilian with a grim smile of pointy with teeth, surrounded at the side of the cranium by bone horns and surmounted by a crest, creating the mask of a prehistoric extinct monster, in the place where the masked head was before; the skin, in contrast with the clothes, was of an almost shining electric blue, like lapislazzuli.
The entity was grinning.
“Why are you doing all of this?”
The entity hissed “All these words, these cluttering nonsense…it is so boring, do you understand? I am here to make you stop…stop saying gibberish.”
The entity opened her jacket and pulled out a long metallic object.
A rotating cannon erupted in fire into the darkness, reaping the survivors of the brawl.
Then the image flickered, and finally it disappeared.
“Oh please, yes, it is finished…I couldn’t watch more…”
The registration changed into a blue void, sign that the video ended.
The observer blinked, still staring at the screen uncertainly.
Then she pressed a button and as the screen flickered, the vhs was ejected from the reading device, leaving her in complete darkness.
She lighted a candle up, revealing her features: the young face of a female, intelligent hyena, adolescent with round trait; she was dressed in a modest nun attire.
“But what does this mean? And why the canoness did asked me to find this tape?” she thought, full of doubts “ This tape must have centuries…did that planet even exist? Who recreated this history…and which meaning could have? My Lord…it’s so violent, so obscure…I must consult the canoness about it…but what is that entity? A pagan goddess? An…an angel of vengeance?”
She pulled the vhs tape inside a box, closed it with a lock, then did the sign of the Cross.
Then, she trespassed out of the archive, closing the large door behind her.

Right Wing Cancel Culture by Gio

Many on the right wing like to wail and whine about left wing cancel culture and censorship. We hear it all the time:

“I got banned from Twitter just for calling people n!gg!rs and f!gg!ts. My civil rights! My free speech!!”

But we simply cannot ignore the long tradition of right wing cancel culture. I would go so far as to say that cancel culture and whining about shit is what being right wing is all about. We all remember Hitlers war on “degenerate” art, the video nasties, the satanic panic. The list goes on. The right are the sworn enemies of artistic expression and innovation. Anything taboo, or controversial, or potentially uncomfortable (for them) is off the table. Not content with just not consuming the media they don’t like, they go one further and try and enforce their boring tastes on everyone else. They censor, they ban, they run smear campaigns, they blacklist, they cancel. It’s definitely worth keeping this in mind when they start whining when it begins happening to them.

I guess this article has been inspired by Elon Musks campaign to make Twitter a “free speech” platform.

First of all I don’t support freedom of speech as some kind of moral absolute. I think there is acceptable speech and unacceptable speech. If you aren’t able to communicate without using racial slurs, then you’re kinda a drag to have around and I don’t really care if Twitter bans you. If you think praising mass shooters should be acceptable speech, then I kinda think your a sick and repulsive person, and again I don’t really care if you get banned. I don’t think people should be banned just for holding unpopular opinions, but they should be able to communicate their ideas in a respectful and tasteful manner. If they are not disciplined enough or not intelligent enough to acknowledge the rules and work around them, then they are too stupid to exist on twitter. Sorry, not sorry. I used to be a Fascist and never got banned. How did I escape the banhammer? By not using racial slurs or calling for violence against X group. Twitter is a mainstream platform. Generally if you wouldn’t say something in public then you probably shouldn’t say it on Twitter either.

There currently are free speech social networking sites like Gab that exist, but they are very much far right ghettoes, that normal people do not like to go to and for good reason. Most people don’t actually want to be called a nigger because they believe that the holocaust happened. Free speech absolutism protects the right of obnoxious trolls to be a public nuisance for the sake of preserving a retarded liberal idea, that people should be free to say whatever they want, whenever they want. What makes Twitter tolerable is the most depraved people eventually do get themselves kicked for good. On Gab you never meet anyone interesting. It’s just Q-tards and Nazi white trash because that’s who free speech platforms are for.

The real question that arises is should we even care when right wingers get themselves banned? No. There is no open market place of ideas, there is only power. And those who hold it dictate what speech is acceptable and what speech is unacceptable. The left have controlled the social institutions for quite some time now, so right wing views are more frequently suppressed. But this has not always been the case, and we should not pretend like the right does not behave exactly the same when they hold onto these positions. It’s just their biases are informed by religious dogma rather than woke theory.

This is not unique to the right, I hate the cancel culture of the left too, but I haven’t felt like punching left lately tbh. With that being said, left and right cancel culture mirror each other pretty consistently. They’re both obnoxious moralists for sure. They both play the victim card, until they’re in a position of control and then aim to suppress all views that don’t line up with their morality or their ideological dogma. They both seem to love the sound of their own voice when it is complaining about being offended by something. And here at FF we think they are both boring prudes.

FF supports freedom of expression. Really I don’t think that any subject should be off limits. I oppose right wing cancel culture for much of the same reasons that I oppose the left wing kind. Both stifle creative freedom, freedom of thought and yes, freedom of speech. Obviously, we here at FF like modern art, horror movies, punk and rap music, and various other styles and genres that have run afoul with right wing morality fags. I do think certain things aren’t always appropriate for all situations, but I wouldn’t ban any of them outright. You aren’t going to listen to Cannibal Corpse with your grandma because it would be inappropriate. BDSM shouldn’t be promoted to children (ahem) but I don’t really have a problem with consenting adults engaging in it in private. You can’t say the N word on Twitter, because it’s inappropriate. If you said it at work you would probably be fired. If you said it at the bar on Friday night, you would probably get swung on. If you say it on Twitter, you will probably be banned. We just don’t talk that way in polite society anymore. Adapt or die out. I guess you could say it on Gab, where nobody cares, if you’re so inclined, but I should have the freedom to not have to be annoyed by you guys all the time.

Really, I don’t think that Musk is going to turn Twitter into a free speech platform like Gab. The circle of what constitutes acceptable speech will shift a little further right, and dudes like Jordan Peterson and Trump will be allowed back on the platform, meanwhile the far left will now be fair game for censorship and bannings, where before they weren’t really. But people on the far right will continue to experience this as well, for the time being. But it’s a slippery slope, and I for one hope to not see the right in a position of control over my speech ever again. They have a long track record of being even more authoritarian and hostile to opposing points of view than the left, and will be so again, should they get back into control. I am also more worried about FF being fucked with from a right wing owned Twitter than a woke left owned twitter, as in the two years FF has been around we’ve been attacked almost exclusively by right wingers. I kind of know the rules of what I can and can’t say with the woke left and I can work around the rules that I don’t really like. But Musk seems to be making this shit up as he goes along. I just hope he doesn’t implement the same free speech absolutism as Torba over at Gab. It would turn Twitter into an even bigger sewer than it already is.

Through the forest, and through the green by Ezra S.

The large forest, 1925, Max Ernst
the wandering boy trudges
through the forest, and through the green

boots covered in dirt smudges
slyly walking, through and between

the trees, towering pillars
of life and vitality

shading fresh, flowing rivers
mirrors of reality

the crows caw, the day goes by
he stares at the stars, into the night sky

his boots walk on, though the light dims
he is the soil, and the soil is him

Runaway Boy by Melontyp

“Screw you Mom!“ Proclaimed the little child proudly, while running away from his home. His Mother, sobbing more intense by the second, heartbroken by the fact that her only boy was running away, screamed that he should return immediately. The Teenager didn’t listen to her at all, and kept on running. He had a “foolproof” plan for his escape, he precisely ran away when his father was at work, on top of that he brought his favorite military jacket, along with some money, a 20 Euro Knife from China, his phone with air pods and his favorite internet Books printed on many A4 sheets on paper. He moved as fast as he could to the nearest train station and took the next train to Z-City. He sat in the modern train and couldn’t wait for his self-made adventure while he was fazed at the full moon.

The train was very fast and so at the train station, he already was looking out for trouble. He saw some policemen arrest some unlucky criminals that had multiple bags with guns and all sorts of different drugs. He sneaked as well as he could to grab one bag, behind a nearby car he stole a bag without the policemen looking and ran away in the nearest alleyway. He moved for quite a while, in a different alleyway, far away from the Z-City Train station, he examined the bag he just stole. He found a rusty Colt Python, along with some needles, pills and a black balaclava. The little brat thought he was a new age Cowboy. Third step of him plan was achieved, he got all the materials he thinks he needs to survive in the big city. While reading his “based” books, he figured out that he should form a gang, as it’s the ideal male society for him. But first, he has to make a name for himself.

He made his move, with a revolver in his pocket and a balaclava on his head. He strived to find some poor soul to rob and he found his victim. Some half-dead drug addict near a garbage container that probably lived in the cardboard box next to him. “Give me your Money” said the kid in his deepest while putting his revolver to the poor lads head. He gave no response, so the kid gave him furiously a kick in the nuts. Still, no response. He faintly heard some steps nearby, the steps where louder and louder until he heard a voice. “Who is this kiddo?” “I don’t know bro, and what’s he doin’ to John over there?” The little guy looked behind him, and there were two grown men wearing green clothing looking confused at him. This was definitely not part of his plan, both strangers hold their hands into their pockets. “Yo George, he doesn’t look like he belongs to any gang here” “Lets fuck him up.” Both Gangster brought their Glocks out of their Pockets. The wannabe Cowboy aimed at one of them and shot all his shots at both of them, while panicking for his life. In a loud scream one punk fell to the ground. The other one, unharmed, sprayed his Glock at him, while the youngster tried to flee. Some shots scratched him, but he ran so fast that the thug lost track of him. Running for his life for at least half an hour, he found an empty garbage container and hid in there. He lifted the cover a bit to see if anybody is nearby, but he indeed was safe from these low life thugs.

Out of nowhere he heard a voice calmly saying “Little child, what are you doing in a garbage container?” He panicked again and jumped out of the container immediately. He saw a man in long black robes, a weird cylinder shaped hat with a long chain around his neck and a long, well maintained, white beard. He said as deep as he could: “Not on step near, I will kill you.” While pointing his Revolver at the unusual looking man. “Why are you doing this? Where are your Parents?” The little boy started to sweat, with closed eyes he anxiously pulled the trigger, with no success, the chambers were all empty! The man asked in a calmer manner: “Tell me, why did you try to shoot at me? And what are you doing out there all alone?” The little teenager told him in an embarrassed manner:” I wanted glory for myself and I figured out that the best way is by making my own gang.” “No disrespect to you, but you seem like you’re twelve and who told you this?” The wannabe Mafioso pulled out his A4 Sheets of paper and showed them to the stranger. His old face became a bit angrier and had to say “Listen here, I know these kinds of Books made by these delusional people all around the world. I read them a lot when I was a youngster. I only realized that they were garbage, when I was beat down and almost drowning in my own puke in some rotten alleyway. On that day, an unfamiliar man came and brought me to his humble house. There, when I woke up, he showed me the one true way and from that on, I followed his footsteps.” The boy looked amazed at him and his story. “So, could you go back to your parents?” The toddler became angry just by mentioning his parents. He ran away again into the dark streets while sobbing and searching for the nearest metro, while the old man knew, the child will go back to his parents.

Script for Eisens video on Mafarka the Futurist (English Translation)


“New year, New me.”

That I don’t apply it to the best of my ability regarding the topic I am talking about or would like to talk about, this is because I am a person who can be defined as having a heavy ass and also because; as I said in the past: I don’t have the means to do it. Which I have to say, he really knows how to bring a person down. So if you can see this video it means two things:

-I succeeded: so you will see a video done well in terms of editing, audio and more.

-I didn’t make it and according to the ancient mentality of “what the fuck do I care” I made this video anyway driven by the passion of wanting to create.

Also because with the release of this video I not only want to mark the beginning of a “new” me, who wants to commit more to the channel and its contents. But on the other hand with this video will also open a new series on the channel that will help me in the process of giving from now on my full passion for the videos that will come out no matter how long they may be or how long it takes behind every single script. And I have decided to start this series from a work that I myself have had the pleasure of reading and that I want to share with you, and ensure that it will not be forgotten and that it seems I will have the honor of being the first to talk about it here on Youtube. Therefore,

Part I Futurist art and thought

Before starting to talk about Mafarka we need to talk for a moment about its creator, Filippo Tommaso Marinetti to give a smattering. Creator of the Futurist artistic movement which developed in Italy from the beginning of the 1900s up to the outbreak of the 2nd World War, Marinetti was born in Alexandria of Egypt to Italian parents, of Marinetti’s childhood there is not much information but it is known that his pre-adolescent period and as a teenager he spent it mainly in France where he took the Baccalaureate in Paris in 1893 and then went on to study and graduate from the University of Pavia in 1899 in the field of Law. Campo who then decided to put aside to realize his passion for literature and the playwright world mainly demonstrated through the publication of his poems and theatrical writings such as Le Roi Bombance in France and Northern Italy through his magazine, Poetry, where we will see the first hints of Futurism. But it will be in 1908 after a night of revelry and a car ride that ends with him overturning his car in a ditch while dodging two cyclists that the idea really begins to be born.

Marinetti’s thought can be defined as: Extremely progressive, radical, fierce, nonconformist.

Words that help us describe not only a part of his artistic vision but also help us reflect on what Marinetti thought of the Italian society of the time. A society too tied to the past and too attached to translations which, according to him, hindered his ideal of “Progress”. And these thoughts can be seen manifested in the 1909 Futurist Manifesto published by the French newspaper”Le Figaro”. The Futurist Manifesto not only gives us an explanation of the ideals of the movement but also aims to give this sensation of a definitive turning point; going to promote a totally radical change in the art world as it was conceived at the time:

“4. We affirm that the magnificence of the world has been enriched by a new beauty: the speed beauty. A racing car with its hood adorned with large pipes similar to snakes with explosive breath… a roaring automobile, which seems to run on grapeshot, is more beautiful than the Victory of Samothrace . “

“5. We want to praise the man who holds the wheel, whose ideal shaft crosses the Earth, also launched at a run, on the circuit of its orbit . “

“7. There is no more beauty except in struggle. No work that does not have a character aggressive can be a masterpiece. Poetry must be conceived as a violent assault against the unknown forces, to reduce them to prostrate before man . “

“11.We will sing the great crowds agitated by work, pleasure or riot: we will sing of the multicolored and polyphonic tides of revolutions in modern capitals ; we will sing of the vibrant nocturnal fervor of arsenals and shipyards set on fire by violent moons electrical; the greedy stations, devourers of smoking snakes; the factories hanging from the clouds by the twisted threads of their smoke; the bridges like giant gymnasts spanning the rivers, flashing in the sun with a gleam of knives; the adventurous steamers that sniff the horizon, the locomotives broad-chested, stamping on the rails, like huge steel horses harnessed to pipes, and the gliding flight of airplanes, whose propeller flutters in the wind like a flag and seems to cheer like an enthusiastic crowd . “

“Museums: cemeteries!… Identical, truly, due to the sinister promiscuity of so many bodies that are not they know. Museums: public dormitories where one rests forever alongside hated beings or unknown! Museums: absurd slaughterhouses of painters and sculptors who are ferociously slaughtering shots of colors and lines along the disputed walls !”

“And what can ever be seen, in an old painting, if not the tiring contortion of the artist, who strove to break down the insurmountable barriers opposed to the desire to express entirely his dream?… Admiring an ancient painting is equivalent to pouring ours sensibility in a funerary urn, instead of projecting it far away, in violent jets of creation and action . “

These words are none other than a part (and perhaps even the most moderate) of the Manifesto presented and published on the pages of “Le Figaro”. As can be seen, Marinetti and his companions speak of a break with and total disenchantment with the past, with the world of academies, from traditions that do nothing but hinder the individual. Going instead to promote the concepts of Dynamism and Aerodynamics, the adrenaline of speed and war, originality and a sort of artistic individualism, with the ultimate goal of also wanting to eliminate the concepts of Space-Time as we know them.

The Futurist ideal therefore proves to be the artillery blow against the “Passatism” of the Newborn Italy. And after the publication of the manifesto, the Futurist Movement over the years will not impose itself only in the world of pictorial art and in the field of sculpture; but it will also expand on the world of music with Noise, the field of architecture with Antonio Sant’Elia, the culinary, cinematographic, even the political world; but today we will rather focus on the Futurist literary world. We’re going to talk about one of the first works of Futurism written by Marinetti himself entitled “Mafarka the Futurist”.

Written in 1909 during the creation of the manifesto “Let’s kill the moonlight”; “Mafarka the Futurist” will show itself to be different not only from the themes and narratives of the other Italian novels based on the concepts of the psychoanalytic Neonata written at the beginning of the 1900s, but this distinction continues to be present even 100 years after its publication, not only from the point of view of the themes that the work presents but also in its language and its scenes that we could define … “particular” which will not only prevent the publication of the book in Italy which will become banned from its publication but will also lead to a process that will involve Marinetti himself, but this process will be discussed later in the video, because first of all we need to talk about and analyze the work and its messages.

Part II The Mafarka-El-Bar saga

The First chapter takes place in an unspecified place in Africa, on the warfield a fighter, Mafarka-El-Bar together with his army managed to oust the kingdom of his uncle Bubassa in a coup, and accompanied by his brother Magamal are ready to celebrate victory; but, for the brothers, the war is not over yet, because at the news of the fall of the Bubassa kingdom, his allies from neighboring kingdoms are coming to his aid. And in all this Mafarka learns of a mutiny by some of his captains and they are in the act of a mass rape; Mafarka arrives on the scene and drives away those who betrayed him with blows of the whip. And this is how our adventure begins…

This chapter opens and presents itself very directly to the reader, who I would read here on Youtube BUT even if I don’t make money from these videos, I still want them to be here on Youtube or at least easily accessible on the site. Not so much because I don’t own a copy of this book; rather due to the fact that the work as I said earlier can still shock people’s sensibilities even nowadays: Rape, verbal and physical violence, description of war scenarios and so on are constantly present in the Novel written by Marinetti , even the title of this first chapter is not saved (not counting the constant use of the so-called “N-word”).

Surely if he wanted to make an impact he succeeded and he succeeds despite the age that this novel presents. In the According to And Third chapter of the Novel there is mainly narrated the feat of Mafarka in eliminating his uncle’s allies. Where in the according to he uses cunning by disguising himself as a crippled old man he slips into enemy lines, and spending the day getting the enemy army drunk and telling a comic story centered on himself and how the Devil after buying a horse from Mafarka and being extremely ill with the latter he decided to make Mafarka eat the member of a horse without his knowledge making it pass for a refined fish, giving him such a powerful desire that it is indomitable (which by the way; I want to point out that it is ironic that the member is named “zeb”).

And for anyone who thinks I’m kidding him let me read you pages 30 and 31 of the novel:

《‒So,’ added the false doctor, raising his voice, ‘the devil paid without it haggling, three thousand piastres, then he leapt into the saddle and charged out of the city at full gallop. But he soon saw, with horror, that the animal’s mane and tail lit up at the wind, so that it spread the fire everywhere, as it passed through the alleys of the villages, whose houses are belly, almost touching with theirs musci arabie…Then, the devil wanted to swim rivers; but his stallion was not quenched, though the waters were deep!… In the forests that he crossed at a gallop, dug a hole burning like the jaws of a furnace!… It was the month of April, when the beasts feel the need to copulate between them… and that stallion met no mare that he didn’t immediately want to cover. All intoxicated by the smell of wet vulva, it waved its lashing mane against the hips of the female who shuddered at the burning by delivering terrible kicks… Thus, the Devil, although he was an excellent rider, he was thrown off the saddle three times… The third time yes broke his arm!》

《Fuoribondo to see himself so battered because of such an expensive mount, the Demon returned to Rimlabur and ran to invite Mafarka-El-Bar to lunch. Then, cut itzeb to the stallion, had it cooked and ordered that it be served on the table, on the appointed evening, in the hall of his palace, whose windows breathed in either the green breath and the salty coolness of the sea. The cooks stuffed itzebwith curdled milk, and condition it so well with violets and cinnamon, that a warm and delicious smell voluptuously intoxicated the whole house. And, in the evening, she served them, tickled by that smell, they eavesdropped on the doors of the hall of the convict, clicking her tongue and rubbing her breasts to overcome the too sweet itch… “Here is an admirable fish!” said the devil to Mafarka, crossing his legs in front of the mat on which shone lozebtransfigured, in a beautiful engraved gold tray.》

Then the story continues with Mafarka who, having eaten the fish, becomes horny, becomes the servant of the Devil,and I won’t read the scene because the parts where it involves sex are extremely uncomfortable and finally Mafarka also takes the Devil’s palace by threatening him by saying:

《” “》.And amid hilarity of the story and drinks of that evening Mafarka decides to reveal himself to the enemy soldiers and be chased by exploiting the sunset of the day and the not too lucid state of his enemies to make sure that he manages to divide the army in two and that they clash between of them by eliminating both the army and their leader. And victorious by his strategy, he decides to return to Tell-El-Kibir which is essentially the former capital of his uncle’s kingdom. And this is how the second chapter ends. The your palace belongs to me!… Go away! If you don’t leave, I’ll break your buttocks”》

In the third chapter the matter takes place not too long after the end of the last one in the city Tell-El-Kibir where Mafarka is warned that Faras-Magalla – i.e. the last of Bubassa’s allies – has decided to send “all the hungry dogs of the desert ” against the city itself, obviously Mafarka at the news decides to prepare to defend against the horde that is about to arrive by preparing the men and calling the “war jars” or a vehicle or machinery capable of throwing large stones which are also mentioned in the 1st Chapter. The rest of the chapter takes place with the defense of the city against the horde of hungry dogs by the army organized by Mafarka and Magamal. This up to the last acts of the chapter where one of Mafarka’s soldiers,

The Fourth chapter is quite short, to put it simply; Mafarka celebrates his victory with an orgy of virgins, but during all of this he wonders and worries about his brother and the two have a small argument, to then resume the orgy. Nothing more, nothing less. And with the first four chapters finished we are already at ⅓ of the Novel, and, before continuing with the other 8 remaining chapters we take a moment’s break from the summary to focus for a moment on the characters encountered so far, or if I have to be honest I’m just two characters that can be analyzed since unlike all the named characters and many others they are extremely present; or our protagonist Mafarka-El-Bar and his brother Magamal. Starting from Mafarka: outside of his exploits and his skills in the military field, not much is actually known about the past of the hero of Tell-El-Kibir, or even so much about why he decided to carry out the coup d’état against his uncle if not a clue in the 5th Chapter, I remember that the book already begins in the middle of the conflict, or at least in the phase of the taking of Tell-El-Kibir itself.

In addition, a detail that has been rather omitted during all this summary, which is badly noticed by reading the Novel, is that Mafarka is not a “model” protagonist; as far as his dedication to the city he liberated and its people can be seen, admire him to such an extent that every woman feels honored to be in his arms and every man feels ready at most to die for him without thinking about it twice, Mafarka all this does not seem to interest much of his people, at least up to a point. In fact, his behavior is better defined as “strict but fair”. But on the other hand, despite being quite material or severe with people, it seems that our Machiavellian protagonist mainly cares about one person; his brother Magamal.

Magamal: Mafarka’s younger brother and also one of the few if not the only secondary characters in the novel, seems to be an EXTREMELY important figure for his older brother, and this can be seen in all the chapters summarized so far. From welcoming him and treating him very kindly in the first chapter to caring for him in the third and fourth chapters. And from what little we read about Magamal he seems to be a much more emotional character in general than Mafarka and always ready to want to get be worth even more than he is to his older brother. And he too, like Mafarka, we don’t have very much if not almost nothing about his past as his brother.

And so this is the only information we are given in four chapters? An imperfect protagonist who feels love for his younger brother? Well … yes. But as said before we are only at ⅓ of the work and its messages and representations will be better explored at the end of this adventure. You see this little analysis that I wanted to do, see it as a smattering of what will come next, and trust me, it took a while… But, speaking of the work, I think it’s time to continue.

The Fifth Chapter takes place a few hours after the end of the Fourth where Mafarka heads there to his father’s fortress, Ras-El-Kibir called Gazr-El-Husan or as named by Mafarka in the previous chapter”The Belly of the Whale” where he organizes a banquet to which the locals have been invited to celebrate the coronation of Mafarka. And, in between the banquet, the music and the exhibit of exotic fish present in the giant aquarium on the walls of the hall while a person shows up at the banquet; he is Bubassa’s young nephew, Sabbatan. Despite the hatred, Mafarka still invites him to eat his fill. And it is here in this atmosphere of hilarity and fun that a jester appears and begins to play what appears to be a game based on riddles, all right until he ends up in a pose:

《… Then came the turn of the butterfly fixed on the parchment with a pin, which he resembled the poet, a victim of his own vanity… But already most of the guests were beginning to be distracted, since almost everyone was drunk or drowsy and half-reclined on the tablecloths, so that the bizarre buffoon concluded announcing, with mysterious birdcatcher gestures, that he was about to ask the more difficult question. To then, great commotion around the tables. Some woke up to a noise of banging pots against each other and from which fruits fell and preserves flew. Others, landed from drunkenness, they complained of being trampled on. The circle of listeners narrowed. — One day a starving wolf cub was taken by a shepherd, who fed and cared for it for a long time. Finally, the wolf ate his benefactor… What does that mean?》

And it is here that with this story Sabbatan makes the connection and accuses Mafarka; but he replies:

《”You’re lying, mangy dog!… I haven’t eaten my benefactor!” I am a son of a king, ed sole legitimate heir to the crown of Tell-El-Kibir… You say Bubassa loved me? Oh! Street! … He loved me as the yoke loves the ox, as the spear loves the fish! But, on the other hand, what do you say laments?… Did I kill him, perhaps?… In reality my goodness was too great, and you have the right to reproach me… you, my guests, great citizens of Tell-El-Kibir, since it was he, Bubassa, who endangered the homeland! I’ll settle for banishing him. “In the belly of your fish?” murmured Sabbatan, held by the sides by some friends his. — Yes, in the Belly of my fish… And why not?… Was I not, myself, exiled to the Belly of Bubassa for all my youth? Luckily, I came out like a beautiful diamond swallowed… I came out with the nocturnal excrement that escapes from his intestine relaxed… Truly, he was a little affected by it in his health!…》

And it is after this discussion that we see one of the many “hardcore” scenes in the novel: that is, the moment when, as also a sign of demonstration for Sabbatan; two people, ie Ibrahim-Gandakatale and his son Aciaca are thrown and closed in the aquarium to then suffocate and be torn to pieces without too much hesitation by the fish in the aquarium. And after this scenario Mafarka asks to bring something to liven up the night and one of his servants brings two extremely charming women called Libahbane and Babilli. And Mafarka, extremely fascinated by the two women, decides to play a game with them which consists in choosing according to them the most manly man through the aid of their nostrils in total darkness, one of the two girls approaches Mafarka and it is there that he notices something wrong with the women and orders them to be thrown to the fish. But in all this rearrangement from the little bustle of the banquet a slave approaches Mafarka to give him terrible news concerning his brother.

And with this news the Sixth Chapter of the Novel opens in the midst of Mafarka’s hurried return to Tell-El-Kibir to the palace of Magamal’s wife, Uarabelli-Ciarciar. But near the entrances of the palace Mafarka meets a huge crowd present there intent on praying and in concern because a beast seems to have entered the Royal Palace. Seized by sheer concern and fear that the worst could have happened Mafarka forces his way with extreme force into the palace and walks there to find his brother and his wife in his room. But once Mafarka arrives he is present to a somewhat grotesque scenario:

《Mafarka advanced into the darkness of the bridal chamber. All around, on the columns, sphinxes and granite chimeras raged motionless, entangled in their braided beards. And it seemed to the king to hear the formidable panting of their lungs distended with effort, as those carved monsters they raised themselves on the levers of their hooked paws, trying to free themselves, with jerks of the kidneys, come on their constraints, to leap forward. He slipped on some kind of mushy mush, and didn’t understand. But a warm, sweet smell of human seed and putrefaction bit him in the nostrils, and his eyes, accustomed little by little in the dim light, they guessed the flaps of a female corpse, scattered everywhere, around he, ominously, as after a scourging. Then, wincing with anguish, he cried out to the slave, who advanced carrying his torch of flaming resin. The bed was smeared all over with a kind of scarlet mud, and it looked as if it had been torn apart by a struggle diabolic. Tufts of hair, vertebrae and bones ran between the blood-soaked pillows they looked as if they had been chewed by the teeth of a furious tiger. And Mafarka, with fluttering heart, and like a dream, stared for a long time at those miserable remains, from which exude a black odor of lust. Nothing else, nothing else remained of the divine Uarabelli-Ciarciar!…》

Immediately after this scene our protagonist sees in front of himself the fateful beast of which the people outside the castle were extremely afraid:

《A blackish monster that once resembled a gigantic slug and a colossal one nocturnal bird. But that monster had the contortions of a gorilla hanging from a branch, col body drawn up and with the head sunk between the shoulders.》

And it is there that Mafarka with extreme dismay discovers that the monster that had worried the city and that had devoured Uarabelli-Ciarciar was none other than Magamal himself after being driven insane by a bite from one of Chapter Three’s dogs. And here we also see how strong was Mafarka’s love for his brother:

《—Ah! My brother! My very direct brother! You don’t recognize me anymore, and you’re about to die! … Your blood was poisoned by the dog’s bite, and you mauled the object of your love, poor Uarabelli, your fiancée whom you adored!… Oh! No!… Don’t rage against you like that same as the statue of remorse!… Oh! I want to die too!… I extend my arms to you, for hold you here, on my heart!… What will I do with my life, without your smile?… How will I be able bear the memory of your desperate agony?… Oh! your hands! Your poor hands bhips!… Don’t bite them like that!… And don’t tear your chest apart, writhing like a serpent!… I am here to give you rest, to quench your hunger and your thirst!… Here are mine cheeks, to spite your teeth! …What do I care about the glory and the crown, since I wanted to conquer them only to give them to you, how do you play?… And you are about to die, without giving me your last glance… without pour me all your sadness in one last kiss… without confiding your last tears to me like a treasure!》

And with this speech, Magamal’s body suddenly detaches from the column and collapses to the ground. Indicating that Magamal is dead once and for all. And it is there at the sight of his brother dying, with all the anguish and sadness that Mafarka runs away from the building screaming. And with this conclusion we move on toSeventh Chapterwhich opens practically at sunset after the fateful event; with Mafarka watching the sunset looking at the citadel he looks towards the quay a black and forked sailing ship, and looking at it he takes action, leaving the palace of Uarabelli-Ciarciar with a mysterious black sack made of hippopotamus skin on his shoulders heading hastily without being seen on the ship for a location we are not yet aware of. Arrived on the ship and placed the sack, Mafarka lies down next to it, and towards him Mafarka looks at a boy with Banjo and Flute who starts playing a melody that Mafarka seems to have already heard in the past, and caressed by the music and the atmosphere of the sunset on that journey that was about to begin Mafarka begins to doze off and begins to have an internal struggle about how he feels at that precise moment:

《—I have abandoned the Struggle!… O sails of my desire, my vampires, will you then fall asleep forever?… Actually, he felt his body gradually collapsing under the rain of it melodic sand, and so fine, that it rose from the flute and furtively fell back to bury it. The calm of the evening was gently dissipating. The sailing ship was now skirting the high rocks I will do it, passing close to the lights, calm and luminous foreheads of sages, bent over their meek reflections as attentive and submissive disciples. And Mafarka, while keeping silent, asked them: – What are you listening to? Why are you trembling?… Submit?… To whom?… To what?… And the fate?… It must be built?… But what to do, when the materials are bad?… Fell apart? …Down there, the city, along the sea, now looked like a rusty iron bar, the which grew as the light was annihilated. But the negro’s flute rekindled the fires made of his lugubrious notes, which again moved the soul of Mafarka towards the reflections of the waves. He felt himself slipping gently, with those rosy flashes, in the transparency of the waters. He entered those little houses of crystal liquid, in the limpid circle of those familiar lamps, among the reverie of calm, prudent and religious faces, to flee the hurricane that it upset, outside, the leaves of his thought! “Over there,” they said, “don’t you see the fascinating barn owls of those whirlpools?… You will find them.” a soft and slow death!… Come! You can sink into our arms, and vanish like a reflex! But, abruptly, his thought leapt forward barking: — Why, why, Mafarka, do you let these dreamy shapes and images creep along and complaining, about the relentless stiffness of your lucid will?… You don’t already have to cultivate love and suicide, but rather pain, which is virile and fruitful!… Accept sadness and the bitterness with which evening waters space! Feed your heart with nostalgia! Give it give eat all the clouds and all the stars!… Let him chew and chew them, but with hardness of the rocks that bite the bleak reflections of the sky! Beware of obeying the twilight!… You are and will be a slave to this dead man you love, a slave to your mourning!… You are a victim of victim of the dogs of the Sun!… You must perpetuate in your soul the echo of their funeral cries, challenging the boulders of your future with their silvery and fetid slime!…》

And in this internal conflict between Mafarka’s resentments and the peaceful air of the nocturnal climate and music, an individual called Massabanera together with two other sailors advance towards the now sleeping Mafarka, but once he approaches Mafarka it is there that Mafarka understands that something goes wrong and jumps and starts defending himself from the three sailors who are: Massabanera, Raleh and Sabbatan that we have already seen in the Fifth Chapter. At the vision of Sabbatan, Mafarka has a moment of euphoria.

《—Oh Look!… Sabbatan! And Mafarka cackled with delight. It was Sabbatan, therefore, who had prepared him that pitfall, on the high seas! “You are not lucky, my friend! You will follow your two companions! Ah! Ah!… If you don’t feel like it already freeze your marrow, you are indeed very brave, and worthy of challenge… My strength is mine dexterity give good results… You see it!… And he pointed out to him the two corpses, stretched out on the deck, in full light. – Courage!… Come forward!… And like Sabbatan he hesitated: – On! Let’s finish it!… Look! I want you to taste this hippo skin! Mafarka lifted his brother’s body again, which had become more compact than a boulder, and shooting: — It’s Magamal, it’s Magamal, who will smash your June!… Magamal! my very direct brother! Forgive me, if I go like this flapping your poor flesh macerated in pain!… But I must also crush them, our enemies! Help me, then!… let’s fight again, a side by side, as on the walls!… And you help me with all the weight of your body!… Oh! there your anger!… I feel it grow with mine!… Thanks, thanks, brother!…》

And in the fight Mafarka and Sabbatan end up leading each other to the side of the ship clinging to a rope and it is in that moment that Sabbatan falls and Mafarka emerges victorious.

Entering the Eighth Chapter Mafarka arrives at his destination, i.e. “the Kataletoro Hypogeum” and it is there that, mooring to the shore between the palms and banana trees, Mafarka notices two “nuclei shadow”, i.e. the spirits of his father and mother, at this sight Mafarka takes the sack containing his brother and dives in to then run to them. And it is here on that the rest of the chapter unfolds in a discussion between the heartbreaking soul of the Mother in front of the sight of the now dead Magamal and the guilt of Mafarka, and this is where we get an interesting line and Mafarka’s new focus:

《It’s you, who asks me: “Where is it?”. So you no longer trust your son?… Alas! you do not you love more than Magamal! But even if it were just one word… you could have said it to me! …Now don’t get impatient, my mother! You will see him, you will see him soon!… He is here, among mine arms!… His voice resounds in mine!… Oh! they are not words, they are not symbols!… Un son will be born of me… a son of flesh and blood!… But he will be immortal, you know?… Immortal, oh my mother!… And from the bottom of eternity, you will be able to contemplate him always alive in front of you, and always radiant with youth!… So stop your crying!… You mustn’t cry anymore! Serbian your tears for the day of my death, which is approaching!…》

And it is with this promise and with a speech on the renunciation of the struggle and his title of king of Africa in order to follow his “Want much more” that the spirit of the parents take the sack containing the body of Magamal and disappear, ending with Mafarka admiring the great gulf of Agagaroh.

The Ninth Chapter opens with Mafarka inside a quarry hearing someone calling to him. Leaving the quarry, Mafarka sees this purple and ebony sailing ship accompanied by three other sailing ships and all of them are loaded with men who have come to offer Mafarka the supreme command, but Mafarka refuses the thing, also starting a speech defined as the Futurist speech. The core of Mafarka’s discourse in this chapter gives us an explanation not only of how history progresses but through it we have a more direct vision of Futurism, having two meanings: – The literal one: Since in this speech Mafarka is extremely against the choice of sailors who decided to find him only to stick to him calling them a ” “, that despite having the choice to do whatever they have decided to look for him to be his servants, but Mafarka doesn’t care about this, on the contrary, it is precisely the idea of growing old on a throne with the scepter in his hands one of his fears, and he decides to “return” it since he already enjoyed enough and that’s also why he left and retired to the quarry concentrating on his goal of creating his son who Mafarka said in the chapter will have the greatness and power of a divinity that nothing and no one can stop. breed of dogs and beaten slaves – The “Meta” one: Although this speech is addressed to sailors, as previously mentioned, it also gives an explanation of what Futurism points to and from the criticisms and questions that Mafarka makes to sailors, it can also be interpreted as a criticism of the ignorance of not wanting to have ambitions, the absence or false presence of a sense of originality and individualism which is nothing but defeatism or vulgar conformism. And this thing can be read practically throughout the entire chapter since it focuses only on this speech and also a small discussion between Mafarka and the sailors. Mafarka representing the will of the Futurists, who point to something inconceivable such as the ascension to something more metaphysical in the case of Mafarka and the sailors who tend to represent the average person, the everyday individual, or simply following something blindly without fully understanding it. And after this double meaning speech, Mafarka bids farewell to his brothers in arms and retires to continue the creation of his son. And it is from here on that we see the latest change in Mafarka’s behavior.

In the Tenth and Eleventh Chapter his determination can be seen in his son’s now almost complete construction through the use of the Smiths of Milmillah and the weavers of Lagahourso. The Chapter Ten opens with two girls called Habibi and Luba who have gone with baskets of food and drink with the intention also of spending a moment of lust with the one who by now has become the “Great King of Africa” for the population. Mafarka spotting the two girls approaching him warmly welcomes them and then suddenly frowns and drives them away because by now he is too busy with the obligation to finish his creation, finish the so-called “birth without the use of a woman” by him quoted. But his battle against lust and earthly pleasures does not end here since in the following chapter, having returned to the Ippogei to admire the panorama, an extremely sensual figure with a “pearl mother” face and an extremely attractive body. He turns out to be Colubbi, ” and came to drive away Mafarka from his goal, but despite the temptation Mafarka tries to drive away the independent woman from his seductions. But, he actually momentarily manages to escape due to a great uproar of rumours coming from the area where Gazurmah is being built and Mafarka rushes there to see what happened. Arrived at the source of the screams, another grotesque scenario appears before you: Due to the great tension and hatred between the Smiths of Milmillah and the Weavers of Lagahourso who in the course of construction did nothing but make the Weavers worse out of hatred and also spite against the Smiths they tilted the cage of Gazurmah to crush all the Smiths. Obviously Mafarka (Pissed off like the worst beasts) takes the whip and decides to punish and force the Weavers to fix their son’s cage and wings. And to make matters worse, to add to the worst, (including the fact that Colubbi returns to haunt Mafarka this time using Mafarka’s nostalgia for his youth) a hurricane is approaching the island, and Mafarka’s solution is simple, and here I want to quote the book for the umpteenth time: Blue depth of your adolescence

《With his formidable hands he uprooted three hundred giant trees and arranged them in bundles, a hundred apart cubits from each other. Then drawing sparks from two pieces of granite, he lit those funeral pyres.》

And continuing one page later…

《A whole wood, a whole large population of gigantic trees was thus sacrificed in that orgy vegetable, to anoint and perfume the agile thighs of the winds with resin and to appease them with a thousand kindnesses》

And, with this blow that would make any environmentalist faint, Mafarka manages to turn the hurricane off the island, which overwhelms three sailing ships. And after doing all this the Colubbi problem still remains.

And, we finally got to the Twelfth and Last Chapter of this novel. The novel opens with Mafarka admiring and praising his son who is now finished building, a humanoid and winged creature which, as described by Mafarka, is perfect since he will not have to submit to the laws of nature, space and time. Admiring his child, Colubbi interrupts her moment by claiming that she is Gazurmah’s mother. And here begins the last confrontation between Mafarka and Colubbi, which sees Mafarka victorious by finally posing as Colubbi once and for all. Once the confrontation is over, Mafarka decides to show his finished work to the mummy (and spirit) of the mother, making Mafarka realized after the death of his brother. And finally, as a last act both to finish the work and to free himself once and for all, through a kiss to the creation of him, Mafarka transfers his soul to Gazurmah. The latter, now fully animated, violently throws the now dead body of Mafarka and takes off. And the last six pages of the novel tell of Gazurmah’s goal and accomplishment in dethroning the Sun and making it his slave along with the other elements such as the Sea, Wind and Earth and that he must conquer the capital of the “Scarlet Emperor”.

《Thus the great hope of the world, the great dream of total music, came true finally in the wings of Gazurmah… The flight of all the songs of the earth was sublimated in theirs extensive inspired rowing!… Divine longing for Poetry! Desire for fluency! Noble advice of rivers and flames!… And Gazurmah went up. The uplifting, sweet melody of her orange wings had captivated a flock of condors, which followed him in the sky, long scarf continuously knotted and jointed》

And this is how the work ends…

Analyses: This story is certainly a unique experience. A leader who seems to crave nothing but glory, decides to stumble upon an ascension pilgrimage to something more Metaphysical. Giving up all that he has gained, the pleasure of the present and the nostalgia of the past and even his own body in order to achieve something much greater. Which distinguishes it not only from the twentieth-century stories that speak mainly of the individual as inept or the exploration of his conscience, Marinetti through this novel goes against the tide and announces that man can and is much more, an entity that can subjugate from the most mundane concepts like nature to something much deeper like space and time through nothing other the pure will and ideal in of something better. Which also has an impact against many philosophical concepts; from the spiritual ones where the ascension or the achievement of another existential plane can be achieved with patience and self-improvement up to the philosophical concepts influenced by the newborn Nihilist current where man or his existence is not worth very much or even nothing announcing Futurism not only as an alternative to the artistic world and antiquated Italian society but also as an alternative against the mentality of thinking and passive philosophy by bringing to the table a resolve of one’s problems in a straightforward way. In addition, we must think that this work not only respects and puts the standards of Futurism in the message behind the work, but even in the description of the surrounding world and in the narrative of the heroic deeds of the King of Africa. A work that does not follow a pattern of ups and downs but it starts in the middle of the moment and it always evolves into something more. Although this work is quite short, we are talking about not even 200 pages, it certainly knows how to contain some nice surprises… But the surprises do not end here because obviously how could Italian society ever have reacted to such a book

Part III The trial and acquittal of Mafarka the Futurist After the translation and subsequent publication of the book in 1910 in Italy, towards October of the same year Marinetti was required to appear at court for the charge of outrage against decency. The accusation was due to the first two chapters of the novel he created, mainly regarding what they narrate by describing scenarios and situations that the average Italian of the time could find extremely uncomfortable. Going to also lead to the temporary censorship of the book in the meantime of this legal burden. Among other things, the whole process was transcribed and represented in a book called “The trial and acquittal of Mafarka the Futurist”. Unlike the Novel itself, the process is certainly easier to explain, in short: The Case is divided into two days, and in these two days there were also present other than Marinetti, the literary critic and journalist Louis Capuanato represent the defence against the novel, explaining to the court the meaning of the book (Mainly the one explained at the end of the 2nd Part). Going to end with the acquittal and the republication of the novel and with Marinetti who through this matter managed to gain easy publicity both for his work but also for his movement (which I assume he would have done the same even if he had lost).

Surely the court case, however brief, can make us reflect on what can actually be considered art, or to be more precise whether the method by which it is communicated can be understood? Certainly here we go on the field of personal opinions. And for my part, having read the work and looking at the court case, I think Marinetti’s work manages to communicate the message he wants to give. And that the accusation with which the work was then stained is nothing more than a mere misunderstanding based on a first impact reading. And this event while I was writing my considerations and thoughts about it brought me back to a case that I would not define similar but almost. That is the case when Goblin Slayer was released back in 2018 and even in that case there was a stir around the web because of his rape scene in the first episode, but fortunately unlike the case of Mafarka the Futurist there was not a court case about it, but people’s reaction to it was pretty much similar, outrage, And linking to my original point; I believe that, yes, the means of a work can help to convey the message, or if we want to see it a little more superficially they can also only develop the plot or the character, just think of other literary works such as “I have no mouth and I must scream” by Harlan Ellison. Or staying in the anime and manga context; Miura’s Berserk or even Go Nagai’s Devilman where violence is part of the work and through that the plot and the characters develop (for better or for worse) and where many times it is asked if it is actually worth it or why you do. Even outside of the deep meanings I can say that the violence within a work can also help to remember that not everything is perfect and it also helps us to keep our feet on the ground. Obviously this speech is not going to justify in any way unjustified violence or violence done just to do it, please the last thing I want is for another Redo of Healer to be created.

Final Thoughts So, after all this tumultuous journey and me investing months of reading and researching this script, can I recommend this book to you? Well, yes, but with one exception. Avoid the Adler version. I’m sorry to say but the book is adapted a bit like the ass, where sometimes I saw dashes where there weren’t any need, dialogue jumbled and not to mention that sometimes for some reason the letter “r” was replaced by a “1”. Interesting edition but a little bad. So anyone interested in this book I do not recommend this publisher. And moreover, for those who want to understand the messages of the work and want to see an interesting case with an artistic theme, I also recommend “The Trial and The Acquittal of Mafarka the Futurist”.

I finish by quoting the last part of the process

《_As soon as, from the first sentences of the reading, the Futurists had guessed that the poet Marinetti was acquitted, a hurricane of applause broke out. It was a real tide of enthusiasm, in which the author of Mafarka the Futurist, raised in the arms of his friends, was carried in triumph. The cheering crowd accompanied the cheering Futurists through the central streets of Milan, shouting at the top of his voice: Long live Marinetti! Long live Futurism!》

Thanks and Marchetta For anyone who has come to this part one way or another I just want to say this; thank you. Thanks, thanks and thanks again. Thank you so much for watching this video, thank you so much for getting me to the milestone of 350+ subscribers, thank you for waiting so long and getting this video that I wasted all summer making. I can’t be ungrateful in your (or yours if you’re watching it with someone) patience and willingness to listen to this video. Although I know that my videos come out every Pope’s death and that not many see my videos and everyone concentrates on gnawing at the video about Mortebianca, I am still happy and determined not only to continue what I do but also this new format. And speaking of thanks, I would never have developed or shaped this idea in such a profound way without the help of the Blast editorial team. And what is the Blast…. Well, whatever your deep imagination can think of, your undiagnosed schizophrenia, or even just a webzine off the political compass. Check it out, it’s not worth the time. And another channel that I want to sponsor, are my friends on Youtube and Telegram of FuturismForever, a channel based on art, writings and avant-garde style. Take a look at them too and maybe even say hello. I’m Eisen, and we’ll see you with a new video, my dear video viewers.

Somewhere by Shocco

Pioggia al mare, 1929, Carlo Carra

Somewhere under all the neon. Somewhere buried by sirens and strobes. Somewhere inside a barrel that cups a chin the way an amour would. Somewhere.

I left it somewhere baked in sunlight and saturated, with skies that seemed a lot bluer, when I was just a kid. I left it somewhere in the soft sheets of lovers’ beds. I left it somewhere under the foam of the break of waves against my body in the ocean. I left it somewhere adrift in the oblivion of space, drifting along to be a star to twinkle for some yet-to-be-determined eye once upon a time.

I know it’s somewhere far, far away from all these lights and sounds. In some distant memory of something that seems so attainable and yet, I feel that it isn’t. I go back to the beach. I can even do so in midsummer, when the water’s myrtle and the stretching dunes are like a magic carpet under my gently treading feet, but to do so today would not feel as it did in yesteryear. Today it would be a winter’s march when the water, sky and sand are all varying shades of grey.

I make love again, but I do so without ever loving. I can lock my fingers with another, but I’d do so without ever really feeling them. I can look into their eyes and never get lost. I can press my lips to theirs and not have the sweet sensation of romance that is the unchecked advance of the thundering drums of the heart.

To be Human, that’s all I want. To really feel, and live. Not whatever things have been for too long. Let me cross the river, and rest under the shade of the trees. Let me rest my harp on the willow. Let me please Cato. Let me just lay on my back and look up at the sky. I know it’ll be a pretty one, irregardless of what it looks like. Maybe it’ll be a blue one. Maybe there’ll be clouds. Maybe it’ll be grey and rain will caress me. Maybe it’ll be black. Maybe it’ll be painted with the stars and galaxies the Dutchman saw through his tears. I just know that the last exhale will be a relief. The last time my eyes dilate. And it won’t be from cheap vulgarities, sex or drugs. It’ll be Heaven.

I’m tired. I’m tired of hearing old people say I’ve got Genius and that I’m gonna be something. The system doesn’t want somethings anymore, or maybe it never did. It wants a hellish host of nothings. I’m tired of just trying to ignore what I see and be a Bacchanal. The High can only blind so much for so long. Prove to me I can be Human again. Show me that I haven’t snorted it
all away. Make me orgasm without touching me, on a real laughter and smile I’ve not erupted in too many years, too many experiences to recount. Since I was a kid.

What’s it even mean to be a kid? I was a Man by 10. I’d already been had, though nobody asked me about it then and no one has since. My chief concerns became bills and future opportunities. Every now and again, that childlike innocence would break through. Some stupid, little thing would make me laugh purely and wholly. But it always evaporated fast, until it eventually just stopped happening at all.

Tell me, that when the suited bureaucrats came, and stripped me from my mother, that I did not drop it from the hands that’ve grown to type these words. Tell me what they took me for. Because of the pills she took? Because she powdered her nose? I don’t think that’s why. You’ve made this Frankenstein, now tell me why you made me live. You gave me life, now show me how to die.

Will I even die? I’m not sure if I’m even alive. After all, who really is?

We Need an Organization by Crux/Avanti Rossa

The beauty of the world is hidden within the walls of Mammon, and controlled by those who hold in their hands the mechanisms of the state and with it the perpetual Hell we live in. A hell created to punish its creator, I do not wish to dwell in hell and I don’t think the rest of us do either.

I don’t care what the geriatric says, or the Stalinist, or the Liberal. A world built on the corpse of tradition that fetishizes the ruins of dead gods doesn’t appeal to me. I do not want to live in their world nor do I want to live in the current one. I want to be free to build my own world, a world of freedom and humanity, a world that rejects the old and embraces the Future.

This is the Futurist and Communist world.

What we need is an association of Communist Futurists who do not shriek at the sight of blood, a proletarian association that embraces the barbarians that the bourgeoisie have made of us, one that does not wish to reform the institutions the owners have built but to tear them down and throw them off the ship of modernity and build our own.

Futurism based on Marinetti, Symenko, and Mayakovsky with Communism based on Marx, Engels, Lenin and Trotsky, The Duopoly of Revolutionary ideology. Why should Futurism limit itself to the boundaries of class society? To the grip of nationalities and commitment to abstract loyalties? Communists have limited themselves to these same abstractions as well. They lost sight of the great dream of freedom and replaced it with the spineless figure of settling, they do not wish for victory but mere concessions. Cowardice has corrupted Marxism and the only cure is to be found in Futurism.

We cannot settle. We will not settle. We want nothing other than complete victory, the world united and under the working-class. A world built to be destroyed and replaced by one that embraces genuine individuality, freedom, and brotherhood. A classless society reaching for the stars. 

Violence is not the solution as the Maoists and Accelerationsists propose, it is the reaction. It is the kindling that can either light the fire of revolution or suffocate any respect that the proletariat has for a revolutionary organization. During the October Revolution the Proletariat did not fear to open fire on the Kerensky government’s cronies. They did not stifle themselves, but instead held their guns up proudly and proclaimed their independence. They did not require some government agency to protect them. Violence is the tool for empowerment. The problem with violence is that, when conducted poorly, it demeans the working class, as Leon Trotsky masterfully put it.

“In our eyes, individual terror is inadmissible precisely because it belittles the role of the masses in their own consciousness, reconciles them to their powerlessness, and turns their eyes and hopes towards a great avenger and liberator who some day will come and accomplish his mission. The anarchist prophets of the ‘propaganda of the deed’ can argue all they want about the elevating and stimulating influence of terrorist acts on the masses……life again settles into the old rut, the wheel of capitalist exploitation turns as before; only the police repression grows more savage and brazen. And as a result, in place of the kindled hopes and artificially aroused excitement comes disillusionment and apathy.”

Violence is a tool for the proletariat and the proletariat alone to take back power and to remove the veil of immutability of the bourgeois state. as such, it is a form of art. 

To the cowards this will seem seamless and edgy. To the adventurist this will seem to be a call for individual terrorism. Neither are correct. I believe in edge so long as it proves a point. Iit is not in the Interests of the Futurists to pursue individual terrorism for political ends. An organization of Futurists should represent truly proletarian artistic expression, not the values of bourgeois morality and “subversiveness”.

The American “Futurist” organizations that exist now are a pitiful attempt by the whores of tradition and Neo-Nazis to bring back those sick of the promised fables of the glory days of the past. They fail to differentiate themselves from their previous failure: the “Atomwaffen Division”. A true Association of Futurists must violently reject all of this faux futurism and their Traditionalist opportunism.

We need an organization that upholds and encourages the creativity of the worker, the vision of the future that does not pertain to the whims of the bourgeoisie, no longer isolated. We need an organization that brings together the Futurists in the US to the Association for organizing and expression.

“Avanti Barbari!” will be its slogan and its goal will be to realize the music of the future being brought in by the wave of revolution. Its poetry is basking in the light of the fire of destruction and the shouting of the barbarian horde crushing the capitalist traditionalism that controls our world.

Untitled by Jackson (L’Fontaine)

Piazza Del Duomo, Carlo Carra
Walking past urban lights,
Desperately clinging to the willow tree, 
In the warm-cool September nights, 
Watching flowers wilt to the tempo of  ¾, with no plea
And yet, these flowers, with their blooms long past
Have in their dying, wilting moments, a darkening of color 
Which, long at last, with the reflection of neon glow blast
Upon the flower, shrouding its hue, becomes squalor 
And the willow tree in my hands, weeps–its lances 
Stab through my hand, spewing blood upon the ground 
Collapsing in front of me, the willow tree stammers 
And lets out a groan of pure, pure agony upon belowground 

The indifferent city lights shine upon the dying willow
Triumphantly, as if it's been waiting for its death since eternity.