“I know, but I have no proof”,
Pier Paolo Pasolini looked aloof
and that was his sentence,
the epitaph of an existence
that nobody take us for goof.
“I don’t believe, I know”,
Carl Gustav Jung’s frontal furrows show
in depth his Psychology and Alchemy,
it took him dreams for fighting his enemy,
all the gnosis you can dream of and no shadow.
(For such a kind of intuition
one needs three and more than a name,
a bigger-than-you game,
a vast erudition, a sense for premonition, a strong opposition,
what for a synchronicity
that cultural voracity,
apostasy and apostolicity).
“I want to believe”,
whistleblew of X-Files, a thieve,
he infiltrated the Federal Buerau of Investigation,
underwent several severe, more and more than a mere litigation,
he wanted to unearth discoveries, disappearances, disclosures and make-believe.
Agent W. was trained at Quantico till she was out
like Fox Mulder, the paranormal psychologist, who was gaga about
the sister lost on the vineyard and the Man Who Smokes,
he had no many blokes,
in a desert famous for fallout he had his own hideout.
She was abducted by FBI from that New Age commune,
deserted in a desert, to an alien virus immune,
failed at becoming a doctor,
became of agents an instructor,
she’d abandoned Manhattan without a project, in search of Dion Fortune.
“In UFO We Trust”,
united by that lust
because “there are more things in heaven
and earth and Mars and our State is of cabalists a coven”,
so X-files they dedust.
Government’s method was always the same,
discreditate, blame, discreditate, blame,
every witness of a close encounters of the Third Eye
would say to his reputation “good bye”,
that was the frame, what a shame, such secrets would people inflame.
So Fox and the foxy-lady agent
came up with a special ingredient,
a micro dosis of gnosis in a series
to let arising unidentified queries,
and at any event reality was no more that spent, in the air flying objects let a
scent.