I drank from the surrealist crystal cup.
The artificial flowers flavouring my wine.
Intoxicated, I sat and looked for the mysteries on the sidewalk
but there is no longer any Temple of the Sun
to cast its shadows on the
ignoble masses of reinforced concrete.
Exploring Paris I found
the benefactor of the insane
in the emotionally still-alive past
along with Rimbaud and Baudelaire
who told me of the already-dead future
and the shape of the corpses of my contemporaries;
ghosts bearing all the prestige.
Certain visions remain fragmentary:
horses born from the sea
or the dada monkey wrench.
The latest state of humour and poetry
tells us we know how to read
every promise in faces
and in the poetry of the billboards.
The new myths remain inadequate
to integrate modern science into society.
Their various attempts lead to a prolonging
of the ultimate road to boring leisure,
frigid architecture and economy value.
The mental disease of banalization
has swept the planet,
and our dreams, sprung from reality,
can no longer be realised in it.
No comments:
Post a Comment