The old poets and the new poets too
have aged an awful lot in the past year:
after all, sunsets are so terribly boring now
and disasters, a horse of another color.
In streets I'm getting to know by heart
countless bodies are making the eternal music of footsteps
— a sound, let's face it, poetry can never re-create.
So why all the fuss?
So that its dusty echo can pile up
in this, once the courtyard of kings!
Don't talk to me about mystery, night owls,
you lovers of golden olden days
for whom the world, it seems, has got to stop:
Has anybody solved the one about the navel?
He's not saying that to be gross,
and I'm not trying to call attention to his dubious taste
but did anybody ever really solve the mystery
of that charming little hole?
The way out, much more important
than playing two-sided politics to survive,
load of so much energy stored
in its knot turned inside out?
A DONKEY'S DROOLY DITHYRAMB, HALF-ASSED
GEOMETRY: OBLIVION IS PRACTICALLY THE ONLY SOURCE OF PERFECTION.
AND REPOSE, THE WORST KIND OF ELEGY.
We'd be better off with a round of beer,
a voice loud with nostalgia
calling out for the sea breeze,
a cautious reference to Lucy's tits,
a savage gesture to wipe out any wrong show of respect
HURRAH! WE CLAMOR FOR A HOMELAND OF SALUTING INFANTRY,
A COUNTRY SUMPTUOUS AND PURE AS THE GLASS OF MILK
A SCHOOLGIRL JUDGES HER AWFUL COMPLEXION BY:
NO COMPLICATIONS, A CLEAN CONSCIENCE, DUTY
TO OUR INNOCENT RACE ALONE.
I TELL YOU HE'S CRAZY: YOU CAN TRUST HIM.
Astrologers are fakes.
Excuse me: I meant astronomers.
YOU ARE EXCUSED FOR NOW, HOLY DUMB OX, CALM DOWN.
Anyway, the times are a-changin',
that's a solid fact, like birdseed:
when I was a Catholic (before 1959) sex was a joke
and hang-ups about the scientific spirit
spoiled everything for me.
Not all its failures were delightful accidents
in the good old chemistry lab,
defeats of my talent in favor of the solenoid,
mix-ups over the function of Santorini's risorius muscle.
INDEED, I PREDICT SERIOUS UPROARS OVER AESTHETICS:
BEFORE THE BEGGED-FOR GOULASH
THERE SHALL BE MANY RESOUNDING WORDS:
BUTTERFISH, THE GOLDEN ORIOLE'S BRILLIANCE, ETCETERA.
I insist: I don't recall a better round
than right after the Spiritual Exercises
or better chicks than those we made after 11 o'clock Mass.
I WAS BORN A SOCIALIST:
IF WE ADD TO THIS THE TIMES I READ JOYCE ON THE SLY,
MY RIGHT TO TELL YOU THE FOLLOWING REMARK IS CLEAR AS DAY:
IDEAS THAT ARE MUCH TOO STALE.
THE SALVATION OF SOULS, HERALDRY:
YAWNING IS SOMETHING VERY ELEGANT.
Well: that's something else: the taxicab is a great
the only difference between it and summer is the sun and other
personally, I have great respect for it, in spite of
GOOD FAMILY MEN OF THE WORLD, UNITE!
YOU HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT YOUR NOT WANTING TO!
Temperament is another crucial invention:
I like it better than calling cards
because it's noble like ice-cubes in an English club,
so much more pleasant when there's a storm brewing in the
Oh Lucy, why do you list me
among the insects you love?
All you have to do is drive a pin
big enough for me through my neck
and mount me among your chrysalises
with a cute little white label: Saturday.
The warm air between your clothes and your tender years
is the ointment I've picked, O mistaken pain,
because rings of invisible smoke appear in your eyes
as if you'd suddenly confessed to being the daughter of some
Eternal pilgrim that wisdom has wistfully abandoned
I pursue your truth, beautiful and false.
POETS EAT TOO MUCH ROTTING ANGEL MEAT
AND IF I STAY AWAY FROM THEM, SOME DAY SOMEONE WILL SAY I WAS RIGHT:
FOR ME CHURCHILL, THE GREAT SMOKE-SUCKER OF THE CENTURY,
A SOCCER STAR LIKE PELÉ,
A SHEPHERD OF SOULS,
A LADY JUDGE,
SOMEONE WHOSE AXIS DOESN'T HAVE A SMILE LIKE A CORKSCREW.
In dreams I grow tall in your soul, my love,
and spring does not depend on winter's running away:
my cowardly nature is always chasing after some solution
and on the date set for your bloodletting
it will make sure the night falls in clouds
and all knives have sunk to the bottom of the sea.
HAVING AN AXIS IN LIFE IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN THE WORLD,
THE WORLD HAS ITS OWN AND
THAT PROVES IT:
AH, POOR ROLY-POLY, WHERE WOULD IT BE WITHOUT ONE!
I THOUGHT MY HEART HAD JUST STOPPED!
LETTERS THAT HAVE BEEN READ,
JEWELS THAT DAMAGE YOUR POCKETS,
THE DOCTORAL OWL'S PISSINGS ON THE TOADSTOOLS OF DRUNKENNESS,
GET OUT OF HERE!
On the walls, frescoes with forgotten dates
are brilliant self-advertisements in praise of beer,
unbreakable morale observing us from underneath the dust (I repeat)
like men's money in a snail's house!
I pick lice from your soul, darling, and from my daydreams
the fickle eggs of lice surface
like the most abject soap bubbles made with a hypodermic
Wonderful: I think
I've lost track of things:
all doors collapse
and the noble vision of your bed grows brighter all the time.
LIFE NOWADAYS LEAVES A WAY OUT FOR SAINTS ONLY
ESPECIALLY FOR SAINTS TURNED GIGOLOS
WHO ANNOUNCE THEMSELVES WITH VILE TRUMPETS
WHILE THEY STRING TOGETHER FORTY-SEVEN WILD PARTIES.
(THAT'S HOW THE BIGGEST MUSICAL GROUPS ARE PUT TOGETHER:
A MATTER OF UBIQUITY, ELEMENTARY.)
Do your duty to your conscience now
(same as saying: "your obsessions")
say that thinking in the shower about Communism is healthy
— and refreshing, at least in the tropics.
Or pass sentence with all the gall of your young years:
if the Party had a sense of humor
I swear that starting tomorrow
I would spend my time kissing every coffin I could
and giving the crowns of thorns the final touch.
WHY YOU'RE GETTING THE PARTY MIXED UP WITH
But where's your tender spot?
NOW YOU'RE GETTING THE PARTY MIXED UP WITH
MY GRANDMA EULALIA!
THE THING IS, WE SHOULD REALLY TAKE
THESE COMFORTING TRIPS INTO OURSELVES MORE OFTEN,
TO GROW BALSAM FORESTS STRONG ENOUGH
TO DILUTE OUR FUNERAL BREATH WITHOUT HARM,
GIVING THE OLD BONE A CHANCE TO BLOSSOM.
Don't look for another road, you nut,
when heroic times are over in a country that has made its revolution,
is very close to this beautiful cynicism
with such exquisite foundations:
words, words, words.
Without a chance to end up with callused hands,
or a callused heart, or brain.
I'M ORPHEUS. AND ACCORDING TO THE RULES OF THE GAME
THERE'S NO OTHER WAY FOR ME BUT DOWN:
THE FUTURE WE ARE SWEATING OUT IS NOT OURS,
IT'S LIKE THE CHARMER'S SNAKE
WHEN SOMEONE TALKS OF PEACE MAKING MUCH BETTER USE OF THE SUN
THAN THE REST OF THE WORLD,
AMONG THE HOLY MYTHS OF PENTHOUSE MAGAZINE.
SMOKING CLAW, BARBED
EYE LIKE A TRAP,
WHAT COLOR IS THERE LEFT?
WHAT COLOR IS NEEDED TO END
We'd better have another round of beer,
a calm homesick voice
urging speed and at the same time
pointing out Lucy doing a slow dance.
Hey: why don't you really drop dead?
Hey: why don't we make a blood pact,
a real one, really?
OUR UNFRIENDLY SCOWL IS OUR UNIFORM,
TOUGH LITTLE RICH KIDS WITH SPECIAL DICTION!
IN CUBA IT WON'T BE LIKE THAT!
IN LATIN AMERICA IT CAN'T BE LIKE THAT!
NOWHERE ELSE IN THE WORLD ARE THERE ANY PUMAS
OR DOES THE SUN GIVE OFF A ROSY SHADE
OR ANGER FLUTTER LIKE A GREEN FLAG,
Everything would be so simple
if man did not insist
on discussing his battle with good and evil:
potassium chlorate, sulfuric acid and gasoline:
thou art full of grace in thy fragile bottle,
the lords fall with thee
(be it not said with bazookas in the hour
blessed art thou,
blessed is the fruit of thy flame:
for the problem is not to set the sea on fire.
Okay, but John XXIV's way is still open. (Don't
I'm not exaggerating: courage is only half of life,
the other half is tactics.
NOW, KEEP THIS TO YOURSELF: REMEMBER:
WHEN YOU HEARD ABOUT THE ORIENTAL SECT
WHOSE MEMBERS CUT OFF THEIR OWN
YOU DIDN'T UNDERSTAND THAT, LIKE ALL THE OTHERS,
THIS CHALLENGE WAS AIMED AT US:
IT'S NOT ENOUGH TO SAY THEY'RE IMBECILES
I SWEAR THAT IF YOU SHOULD CUT OFF YOUR FINGER
BETTER THAN ME
I'D BE YOUR SERVANT FOR FOURTEEN YEARS
AND YOU COULD TAKE OVER
MY BEST PROVERBS.
SENECA, THE SPANISH MASOCHIST.
POETS ARE COWARDS WHEN THEY'RE NOT IDIOTS,
THAT'S GOT NOTHING TO DO WITH ME.
THEY'RE ALL WRITING NOVELS NOW
BECAUSE NOBODY CAN STAND SONNETS,
THEY WRITE ABOUT MARIJUANA
AND OTHER LESS FUZZY DOUBTFUL TOPICS
BECAUSE NOBODY WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT THE FUTURE ANYMORE.
AND THEY'RE IMPRESSIONABLE:
IF WE START CHOPPING OFF FINGERS
THOUSANDS OF POETIC NOSES
WOULD BE LEFT WITHOUT THEIR OLD PRIVATE DIDDLER.
LET'S NOT TALK POLITICS ANY MORE.
Okay: beets rot in the fields for lack of farm hands.
Okay: let's think of suicide with the brains of sexual organs.
Okay: spring watches us from the tip of the best tulip.
Okay: your ideal country would be a forest of yellow marble
Politics are taken up at the risk of life
or else you don't talk about it. Of course
you can take them up without risking
but we figured that this was only in the enemy camp.
Or so it should be:
if I didn't louse up when I bought the calendar
we're now in 1966.
ATTENTION, EMPTY-HEADED CHORUS, LET MY LITTLE FINGER BE
YOUR STAR OF BETHLEHEM:
"CATALINA GAVE HER HEART TO A SOLDIER
WHO'S NOW FIGHTING ON THE BORDER
Irony about socialism seems to be
good for the digestion here,
but I swear that in my country
you have to get your supper first.
NO DOUBT ABOUT IT: HE'S A COWARD:
ONLY CYNICISM WILL MAKE US FREE, I REPEAT,
QUOTING IDEAS OF YOURS.
This conversation could fit into a poem.
WHAT FOR? DO YOU THINK YOU'D SCARE ANYBODY?
No. The only people who still get scared
are the Boy Scout masters
and only when it comes to some Central American snakes
I said this because
reveals its high moral sense
if they back it up with an aesthetic.
NOT ONLY THAT, THERE'S THE PROBLEM OF SYNTAX,
YOU HAVE TO TAKE A STAND.
Here's Sartre dragged along by his hair like a sedative:
"To name things is to denounce them."
THE PROBLEM IS WHAT TO BE:
THE CANCER OR THE CANCER VICTIM.
Lucy and the two of us in a trunk
still savagely butchered
(exactly, it's better that way, think of it).
Lucy deserves everything
and without your friendship I couldn't get through to her.
You see now how war is not the biggest waste:
when the fourth part of a grenade
splits open your belly
must you love the rest of it
that killed the nearest enemy?
I mean, I wanted to ask something better: I believe
I'm already stoned.
WHAT ADVANTAGES ARE YOURS
WHEN YOU MEET THE LONE HUNTER FACE TO FACE:
HE LEFT HIS HUNTING LICENSE AT HOME
AND YOU ARE BUT A LEGEND
TO MAKE CHILDREN SHIVER WITH DELIGHT IN THE MOONLIGHT
POTATOES ARE GOING UP TWELVE PERCENT,
CLOTHES ARE GOING UP EIGHT PERCENT,
STREETCAR FARES TWENTY PERCENT,
NERUDA IS GOING UP EIGHTEEN PERCENT.
WHISPERS IN DARK CORNERS,
REPROACHES FROM THE GOYAESQUE LIGHT.
SOLITUDE IS INSTINCT'S MOST REFINED TECHNIQUE.
Hell no, solitude's when
the sherry keg is empty.
Solitude is when you live in Tegucigalpa.
Solitude's when you hear the whole gang do a sing-along.
LOOK, SOLITUDE IS A VERY USEFUL LIE, LET ME TELL YOU. I HAVE SPOKEN.
BLOODSTAINS ON THE FLAG,
FLAGSTAINS ON THE SKY,
SKYSTAINS ON THE EYE LATER ON
YOU'LL HAVE TO DREDGE WITH THE CORNER OF YOUR HANDKERCHIEF.
Lucy: you smell like some of my country's hot dishes,
I really mean it,
without any coarse insinuations in mind:
there comes a moment when food calls
and if you haven't had just enough wine
it tastes more bitter the better it is, you have to admit.
Lucy: is it possible that you didn't read my letter?
Listen: it can't be, but it is:
O Honey Baby Feelin' Mighty Low.
I bet you won't dance to that, Lucy,
tempting spellbound onlookers to smack
that sweet ass of yours with the flat of their hands.
DROOL OF GOD,
THE HEART ALSO HAS ITS LITTLE TRICKS:
THE BEST OF THESE IS NOT TO BRING UP CHILDHOOD
OR SIGH FOR THE CROW
AS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL AND FREEST ANIMAL IN CREATION.
Eat, gobble down your potato
and say that's only eighty percent:
it's raining in Viet Nam
and nobody brings up the subject of hygrometry.
Watch out for snakes in caves, little cowboy,
or for poison thorns:
not for your uncle's cancer or your grandfather's rheumatism
or the chronic headache of the one who brought you into the
Small pale demons are brothers of the poet
who will make up felicitous odes to your miserable death.
Shouldn't we have another round of beer?
CHILDREN'S BOOKS ARE THE LAST CENTURY'S BEST LITERATURE:
DOSTOYEVSKY IS A KIND OF WALT DISNEY
WHO RELIED ONLY ON A MIRROR.
HE DIDN'T SET IT UP ON A ROAD
BUT IN FRONT OF THE GAPING MOUTH
OF THOSE WHO HAD JUST VOMITED THEIR SOUL.
NOWADAYS HE'D COLLECT STAMPS AND CATS
AND IT WOULD KEEP RAINING IN VIET NAM,
ON THE HUGE NAPALM PYRES.
Does that mean: "insofar as we make
it will stop raining on the immense napalm pyres,"
or have you stumbled onto the rugged terrain of the terrible
Laugh, winter's going to be colder.
Fry, hell's going to be hotter.
I SOLVED THE PROBLEM OF ETERNITY ONCE AND FOR ALL.
THEOLOGIANS ARE AN AWFUL BUNCH OF FREAKS:
THE ANSWER TO THE PROBLEM OF ETERNITY
IS A MATTER OF ASKING OVER AND OVER: AND THEN WHAT?
EACH WORD IS ITS MORTAL OPPOSITE
LIKE MANDRAKE THE MAGICIAN IN A WORLD OF MIRRORS.
Lucy, cover up those knees.
NO: I'M NOT IN LOVE WITH THE CHINESE.
INTRODUCING THE PRUNING KNIFE INTO THE GARDEN OF OPEN FLOWERS
IS NOT MY STYLE.
NOR THE THING ABOUT THE ERECTION
BEING PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE
AND THAT PEACE IS ONLY WONDERFUL IN BED.
THEY'RE SUCH FOOLS: PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE
IS NOT REVISIONISM OR MR. JOHNSON,
THE KU KLUX KLAN, THE ARMS RACE
OR THE TORTURE METHODS OF LATIN AMERICAN GOVERNMENTS:
PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE IS THE SMOG.
Shepherdess of panthers:
your name will be written in lights.
GET YOUR HAND OFF ME!
ACE OF GOLD: YOU CAN BURN ALL THE OTHER CARDS.
Are you trying to make me say that literature is no good?
IDIOT: DO YOU THINK WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT
WITH STEEL COVERS THAT STOP 45-CALIBER BULLETS
IS JUST A COCK-AND-BULL STORY?
What time is it? The night has a discouraging color
Deep down we're all very conservative:
we talk about revolutions and are proud right away
to think that we'll surely die.
Prudence won't make you immortal, comrade,
and everyone knows that suicide cures the suicide
My God, oh, my God:
why don't You take over the World Revolution?
Except for the Polish bishops, everyone
would be all for it?
I AM GOING TO DO SOMETHING NOBODY CAN DO FOR ME:
ANYBODY CAN MAKE A FLUFFY EGGPLANT PUREE
WITH THE BOOKS OF THE YOUNG MARX,
WHAT'S HARD IS TO PRESERVE THEM AS THEY ARE,
LIKE ALARMING ANTHILLS.
OUGHT NOT TO MAKE ME FORGET MY DREAMS:
WALKING CHEERFULLY ON THE EQUATOR'S TIGHTROPE,
GOING BACK HOME DISGUISED AS A GREEK MERCHANT.
OF COURSE, TOBACCO IS ALSO A BIG ENEMY
LIKE THOSE PILLS THAT MAKE PREGNANT WOMEN HAPPY:
AND THE CUBAN EDITION OF PROUST, THAT FADED LITTLE VIOLET,
CONTRIBUTES NOTHING TO THE QUESTION OF LUNG CANCER
BUT NEITHER HAVE CONDOMS BEEN GOOD FOR ANYTHING
BETTER THAN POP-ART COLLAGES.
You shouldn't be such a fathead:
any straightforward question can topple you:
give me the names of all the countries in Africa, that black
AS BROTHERS IN THE SAVAGE ANALYSIS,
WE'RE OH SO INDESTRUCTIBLE:
IF ONLY EVERY TOM, DICK AND HARRY DIDN'T INSIST ON
MAKING THINGS CLEAR!
WHY DON'T WE TALK ABOUT COSMIC WORLD POETS,
ABOUT THE EQUATION MARCO POLO STANDS FOR,
ABOUT THE ORDER OF THE ALPHABET IN SHANGHAI?
The one sure thing I can tell you
is that the guerrilla
is becoming the only pure organization
in the world of men.
All the others show signs of going bad.
The Catholic Church started to give off a stink
when the catacombs were opened to the tourist trade
and the shabbiest two-bit whores
over ten centuries ago:
if Christ went into the Vatican today
a gas mask is the first thing he'd ask for.
The French Revolution was a Roquefort cheese from the start.
The international Communist movement has been weighing the value of
Stalin's big shit.
WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING FOR? A PUNCH IN THE NOSE?
I'm not trying to say that we the young
are angels of decorum:
we've learned fast
and we're also good sons of bitches,
the difference is that we enjoy these idle moments.
YOU HAVE TO HAVE A BIT OF MORALE,
DON'T ANYONE HAVE ANY DOUBTS ABOUT IT.
MORALE IS SOMETHING TREMENDOUS
WHEN YOU DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING ANYTHING.
Bring out your bugle, baby doll,
let the world hear your purest intentions
and among other things they'll ruin the night of my dreams.
No, I said that what just crossed my mind
would take me at least an hour to tell.
Art is something that makes us happy:
when Othello strangles Desdemona
he makes us, himself and Desdemona happy.
What's more, the actors earn a whopping salary
and everybody knows Shakespeare didn't suffer
while he was
writing the scene.
No, no: art is a language
(socialist realism tried to be Esperanto:
that was Madame Trepat, Bertha Trepat's thing).
The classic is a stupid dictatorship:
all those centuries to end up at Ingres' violin
(the technique that adorable atom bomb has given us
didn't stop at Ambrosio's shotgun,
let that be a lesson to art).
Lucy: your indifference is bomb-proof.
We communists ought to know finances:
making converts among millionaires
would at least let each neighborhood cell
have a piano, Dresden lithographs, and a vacuum cleaner.
LOBSTERS ARE IN FROM HAVANA, A WHOLE SHIPLOAD.
And since we're talking about it, let me ask:
that all add up to now: the centuries
of sweet overindulgence,
the millennia of forced joyfulness:
aren't they a kind of obscene promise
made by someone who knows our weak spot?
HAVING FAITH IS THE BEST KIND OF DARING
AND DARING IS SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL.
BUT HUMANITY IS A CONCEPT FOR ONANISTS.
THERE CAN BE NO HEROES
WHEN THE STORM BURSTS
IN A DARK SEA OF SHIT.
IMMORTALITY COULD BE VERY SMALL
— TINY, IN FACT.
BLIND APES WITH MOUTHS HANKERING FOR
LIFE'S WASTED BREAST IS WHAT WE ARE.
WE ASK FOR THE MILK OF CONSCIENCE
AND THEY ONLY POINT OUT ITS STEEP PRICE,
AS UNATTAINABLE AS ILL-FATED LOVE
BETWEEN BROTHER AND BROTHER.
I'M NOT EXAGGERATING. I COULD ALWAYS HAVE SAID:
THIS IS MARVELOUS, TOPS, TERRIFIC,
BUT I DON'T LIKE IT
(WHICH IS MARVELOUS, TOPS, TERRIFIC).
THAT'S LOOKING AT THINGS IN TIME,
THE PROBLEM IS THAT TO ME ONLY FURY IS PEACE.
I don't want to be the Guardian-Angel-with-Sweet-Armpits
but you happen to have the oldest complex:
that of the Glorious
Builder of the Great Pyramid.
You've contributed your grain of sand
and now you want free beers for the rest of your life
— and even demand a proper ceremony to go with it.
RIGHT NOW SOMEONE IS DYING FOR YOUR CAUSE.
We'd better have another round of beer
in this golden hour of chaos,
a trembling homesick voice
calling out for the barroom Mass.
Lucy: we'd have a great future:
when I'm around you my feelings are just so mel-low.
THE PROBLEM IS YOU'VE GOT TO SMELL WHAT'S IN THE AIR:
GENIUS IS A MATTER OF HAVING NOSTRILS FOR SNIFFING
AT THE CROSSROADS OF HISTORY.
PUT ON WEIGHT AND STOP BUGGING ME, DOCTOR.
GINSBERG THE POET WENT TO BED WITH FOURTEEN BOYS
IN PRAGUE ONE NIGHT.
That guy's not a queer poet,
he's a sword swallower at a sideshow
— and hell, I'd always liked "Howl" so much.
STRANGERS IN OVERALLS, YOU GILD
WITH SACRILEGE THE TIGHTROPES OF THE NUNS.
Okay: all that's left is to talk Zen Buddhism,
it's in now.
RIGHT: ZEN BUDDHISM IS A WONDERFUL EXPERIENCE,
IF AND WHEN IT GRADUALLY LEADS YOU TO TERRORISM.
Oh c'mon, stop pointing your pedantic finger!
BUT THAT'S WORSE THAN ANARCHISM,
I'M JUST CATCHING ON NOW,
I MEAN, WHAT YOU SAID A WHILE AGO ABOUT GUERRILLA FIGHTERS.
FIGHTING FOR WHAT KIND OF WORLD?
AH, LOST SOUL:
JUST AS BLASPHEMY IS AN ENDORSEMENT OF GOD,
ANARCHISM BEARS OUT AN ORDER THAT IS DYING
TO CHOOSE BETWEEN POSSIBLE WORLDS: NOW THAT'S
THE DIVINE PUNISHMENT.
I'm afraid to sleep alone
with that book of Trotsky's on the night table:
it's frightening like a lamp,
like an ice cube
in the spirit of an old man with a cold.
THE MARK OF THE REBEL SHINES ON HIS BUTT:
THE PROBLEM OF INNOCENCE.
ARE WE, THEN, SOMETHING MORE THAN CHILDREN?
WE SHOULD START PRAYING, DON'T YOU THINK?
LOVE: A MATTER OF LUBRICANTS.
SETTING BOMBS OFF IN THE NIGHT OF IDIOTS,
THE WORK OF "OUTSIDERS," SURE MASTERS
IN THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.
Lucy, you've broken my heart,
you've left my face forever resting in my hands.
Oh country still in diapers!
Oh sons of Man, yoked to the treadmill,
smiling and red in the face!
There's just about enough money left
for the last round of beer
My God, oh, my God,
couldn't You be the one to spend the night with her?
– U Fleku, Prague, 1966 –