The Wall, yes, and everything

did you leave? “I’m burned out” – said the young man
arched in the Wall’s keyhole
glimpses of his blues orgasm
grasshoppered yesterday
at the barber’s
unless you know who churned his hair,
I’m sure he was riding the same U-Bahn
in the opposite direction
asking awkward questions
to nonexistent conductors

I “was” yesterday – grunted, stare-i-lizing in empty
eyes of the chick in a branded suit
listening to the producer
carefully choosing lyrics

revolutionary repertoire!

his time was running out – “was”
I felt sorry for the young – my time has not begun
I hooked myself shaving w/ a trickle of blood
still hung on the chin

musicians threw brands, I would like to be him
20y/o again
I was not much older, but the young man sighed again
– I’m a loser, wanted to be
prairie poet – boy,
I thought sparks of life fled here
The Wall
& everything

in nature –
it’s not a matter of years, but
look at me, young communist carcass
which still smells
of guerrilla perfume dawn
and never has enough
of deliberate, final
kicks from its older, obliging colleagues

onwards, westwards!