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
We all 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 even rememberwhat to ask to the boys
And of course in reverse


A Nation is trying to get drunk
To leave quickly and with some shadow to bed
The eyelids nearly closed
A Nation is drowning in her distraction
She doesn’t remember the first names of her 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
A Nation is dancing
A glass of hydrocyanic acid with sparkling water
In the hand
Nation doesn’t remember something should be remembered.
It’s too hot
It’s too late
On her hips
She wipes the stains of her 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