BANSHEE

(Baby, we are not made to live in this society!)

Prologue: Smell of rotten algae. The noise of the sea when it crashes up the beach. The body of a girl is found
overwhelmed under the warf: the dirty and sweaty clothes, the turned out eyes. Beside, on the sand, a syrinx. ].

Scene one: A vision breaks into the haze of a dream at dawn.... A motocyclist on fire runs at inhuman speed in the midst of the canyons and precipices. He has with him an urn made of iron and diamonds, it is fastened to his breast with a ragged rags... ].

Have you ever heard into your deep sleep
the rumble of a motor not of this earth?
The hands on the handle, her face is a grey skull
with tungsten in the frozen orbits.

Among the cement tower of the atomic research station, along dark streets towards the silver river
hidden among the precipes...
...and in the urn the ashes of a young queen...

The old man who watches over the brink of the gorge
he shakes the mountain by his clenched fist
he has a necklace made by theet and beer can
and a dog as black as the pitch.

The neon signs of the petrol pump,
the blackish outunes of the motels,
across the silver river
that is hidden among the precipes
to throw there the ashes of the young queen...

Scene two: The motorcyclist unscrews the cap of the urn and the ashes go out whirled by the wind that whistles
among the cleft. The sacrifice is completed! The sins expiate! But the whistling of the wind changes into a far
sobbing and then into a desperate crying and then again into an inhuman and deafening shout. The shades of night draw a wide-open mouth without teeth, tormented and terrific eyes, a girl’ s face furrowed by the wounds of a razor ... The sense of guilty tears to pieces the stars and the moon melts at the bottom of the bottle...]

Epilogue: Road n. 5 across the desert: he is squatted on the back of a gas station with a bottle of nasty whisky
pressed on the right hand and a handfull of sand on the left hand. He has a changing universe in the eyes with a
galaxy of tears and a quasar of bleeding memories. He has the greasy jeans, the dusty hair ... He is drunk. Over the scene, the desert falls the curtain by a earthy sight and the night drags among the bones of the clochard seated among the public and covered by sheets of newspaper. The lights of the cars that lonely run across the road are intermittent reflectors, like in average, they are pointed at the empty stage. He has stayed bent. He looks like a statue in rags, but inside, his memories are at the storm and they shout: a boy, a girl, an heroin dose...