A party, somewhere around W 53rd street.


A  hammer, a hammer
Music of hell back, pulsing its close past
Beating so loudly and so blindly on the gray matter
ll could be wondering if someone can still ask any Question
Like, let’s say, about Pleasure
About Pleasure 
Like , let’s say, is Pleasure dead?
Pleasure is so far
The girls don’t remember what to ask the boys
And of course in reverse

Nation is trying to get drunk
To leave quickly to bed with some shadow
The eyelids nearly closed
Nation is drowning in its distraction
It doesn’t remember the first names of its sons
Nobody has enough time to waste it
The music of hell is too loud
The urge to fuck too wild
The need to get boozed up too unavoidable
Everything is yelling at the same time
And this time is not the time of recollection

Today, party
Perishable party tomorrow
Perishable party the day after tomorrow
Perishable excitement dripping along
The nation's walls
Hammered by the imposing heat of 
The summer’s walls

Too hot to remember
Nation is dancing
A glass of hydrocyanic acid with sparkling water
In the hand
Nation doesn’t remember
That something should be remembered
It’s too hot
It’s too late
On it's hips
It wipes the stains of its two wars left behind
Two wars dangling down the dancing bodies

Pleasure is the heavy price to pay for misremembering
Who can know about it?
Tomorrow at dawn is enough
Tomorrow will be soon
Soon enough for the hangover of duplicity