Let us dress up
in hairy brown blankets
disguised as god's testicles,
bump into people, crush them
and crash into many-towered skyscrapers
of vanity
for
A POEM THAT IS NOT A VIPER
IS A BATTERY-TURKEY
for
beneath the mountains of bone
among the skeletons of trees
upon the sickly seas
of not understanding understanding
Progress is death's pseudonym
and
This Liberty you vaunt
is sold with terrible compulsions
This Peace that you manipulate
drips out of dreadful mutilations
This Civilisation that you serve
is wanton devastation
All your Heavens and Utopias of luxury
bleak and full of angry comfort
We are raped and raping
Hope is the crime and mother of crime
We are always on the way, and never arrive
Some infinites are very small
Happiness is an imaginary number
and a by-product
(with what evolutionary worth, I wonder?)
LET US DRESS UP
in hairy black blankets
masquerading as god's testicles
and bump into people and crush them
and crash into many-towered skyscrapers
of vanity
for
destruction
was the birth of civilisation
and in destruction of destruction
it slowly dies, ever more demanding
The only true achievement
is renunciation
and not understanding
is also understanding
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem