dear reader,
On the occasion of the centenary of the publication of the Futurist Manifesto in Le Figaro on , we propose the final composition of FT Marinetti. Shortly before his death in December 1944, Marinetti wanted to dedicate his last respects to the X MAS Prince Junio \u200b\u200bValerio Borghese. Also give them the Futurist Manifesto.
aeropoeti Get in the truck and away you go finally to hell after so many shrill whistles of wheels swallows criticomani alembic of pessimism windy
motor trouble stopping between Italians but you're twenty-the now famous draft dodgers of the Ideal and I want to tell you that often tried to absolve accusing the overwhelming pedantry of stamped paper bureaucracies bans censorship formalisms pettiness and Passat tortured with boiling adamant that bogged down the pace of your volunteers by the fountain-head battle cry
not you see you in heaven up there touches you obey the infinite pure love God as you now raging desire to command an army of reasoning and so on trucks
Planners workshops banks and plowed fields go to school on these solemn professors of sociology ants termites bees beavers
I have nothing to teach the world how they are each newspapers and a lighthouse out of time space aeropoesia
The cemeteries of the great Italian loose their walls cowardice in the rural south wind damage and crackling sparks angry impatience of powder no doubt explode explode dead claws on trucks so you
brakeman pitch calculated gravediggers you stubborn in the effort to bury springs eager to tell me you're satisfied with the glory of being able to hunt down the bottom to your compost heap and the fragile ideological delicious Italy
wound that never dies out and you do not distract Truck curls up your body to shreds bold means that the speed cruel sbalestrarti in heaven before the time
bursts of large Italian and a cemetery called Stop, stop flying TNT Italian you need us we give it to you we give it to you we we just extracted TNT from the bone of the skeleton is
And what is the word bones can be married with the word rhyme with antiquated whip turned on by the nostrils of the Future biondeggianti hays a record
We finally get off the ground and almost holy
Bliss of rough Vibra
angry hills fire in long strings stretched the bullets strum the voluptuous front line of combat and is a thundering cathedral lying to implore Jesus with cleft breasts torn
We are the machine guns kneeling in prayer throbbing rods
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