Black shirts and red flags, in clusters and in a procession. In the air, the putrid stench of rage, revolt, revenge, retribution, order and pre-formed morals of poverty and burdensome wealth. 
"A special atmosphere of excitement and delirium ... In this atmosphere reactions take on a disproportionate breadth, all sense of proportion is falsified, all points of reference are suppressed. The psychological shock becomes a need like drugs for certain neuroses; delirium is transformed into a normal state and gains a destructive autonomy".

The contrada, contaminated, screwed to the side of the evening, does not sleep. On the other riverbank, with the supported pontoon bridge, peace rests among burnt shrubs and uncertain hypotheses.
 
Lackeys in livery, top hats in the evening and busts still tied at the waist, shaping the slender forms of women, straw hats in the sun, lace, flat chests and bobbed hair for the Charleston. The crumpled baker’s cap on the road, the grey aprons of the wash house, the heavy and worn skirts of the mill, the trousers of the workshops, and passers by without a belt.

And individual mass fascisms on the pavements of Europe.           
The war did not melt the lead and steel of the cannons for the twenties. Fists are closed and eyes, still red, fix solutions to be fulfilled and objectives to be targeted.
"Fascism cannot be reduced – said Tasca – to the psychosis of war, but when you write the history of fascism, at the same time you also write one of the most striking and unnerving chapters of social pathology".
They advance like shadows and like spirits, like reactionary models for the masses and nest in the psychologically disturbed make-up of individuals. The muddy thought of the free, slides, unable to scratch and resist the flood.

Philosophy and poetry are not voiceless

The intermediate layers announced by white sunsets, shrouds of blood and shattered glass castles emerge from the folds of the unconscious. Work, love, knowledge lie dead in the rotting morals of the corrupt.
"Fascism – said Reich – is the fundamental emotional attitude of man dictatorially repressed by the civilization of machines and by his mystical-mechanistic conception of life".

To the brothels, to the wizards of love, to the lascivious caresses of the female who is no longer a woman, the worthlessness of sex, defeated and grumbling like echoless tin.
The curtains of repression lower in the cold alcoves. Familial orgasms fade melancholically after the hammer of the mystic plague. From the subtle nausea of death of owed embraces, to the days of fantasy and withered imagination. Glory is hoarse, the biological faith of races, a disastrous sign, the virile supremacy of races, an omen of impotence.

The middle-class and the proletariat, the palace tenant farmers and the spies of the neighbourhood, the ideology generals and the man-servants of militant criticism dance the same steps, in narrow and separate rooms. Two forward, one to the right, three backward, one to the left, no clapping, heads rigid with gazes fixed to lick their tails.

Each with his fascism and the flattery of eliminated frustrations.
For each person his own fascism and the illusion of carrying out his duty, an independent role to be carried out, a decisive mission to be accomplished.
Each to his own fascism and faith to be displayed without remembering. With days that cannot be numbered.

Short prayers and litanies.
In the dwarf sanctuaries of straw and mud, at the end of the day, for centuries the wax has been wearing away the hoarse voice of ritual to be summoned, the memory of the sacred ancient fasts to be celebrated. Amid vapours of incense for psalms and pentagrams of crowns on the organ pipes, for a ray of silver notes, for a new beginning in the future. 

Psalms will be sung once more.