America

My mind is rock`n’roll dancing, powerful and fast like the Ramones when I fantasize

about you, America, dreaming of your distant prairies, cities, people, natural parks,

you are everywhere and you are everything, the land of tornados and electrified

atmosphere, mystics, loafers and generals, the land of poets and serial killers,

snobs and farmers, the land of the American Psycho, we’re bound to meet one day

America, and then I’ll board a train and cruise you coast to coast and visit your

saloons and sanctuaries, experience the dawning of a new day in New York and

sunset in Seattle, feel the wilderness of Alaska and see the beautiful California

girls, bicycle through Maine, sit around on scattered hills and watch your wheels

roll, the mystical wild heartbeat and divine colours merge one into the other, even if

I remain a stranger in your arms, a child of cinnamon and vanilla, a child of sunlight

and Bach’s violin concertos, at times happy, at times sad with a smile on my lips

and irony in my eyes, here I am America, here, simple and obsessed with every-day

mundanities, somewhat banal and somewhat vulgar, a hero and antihero, here I

am, permeated with mystical excitement, wearing sneakers, my suitcases packed,

ready for the flight across the pond: America, get ready for this fantastic

wondering, I will wake your sleepy thoughts and then conquer the whole wide world.

Angel Falls

I dream of you, Angel Falls, dream of your countless

waterdrops that spread over my skin and stick my hair together,

I imagine your roaring and raging, your horrific,

unspeakable fall, and I wish, oh how I wish

to stand at your feet, to throw myself from your

peak and fly like a bird to your brightest

depths, to sway down your rapids like a brig,

although the fall would shatter me into a million pieces

and throw me God knows where, maybe into the Mesozoic, maybe

into the Perseus constellation, perhaps I would change into an ibis, or

a sycamore tree, perhaps a new lake would appear in Finland

or the wind in Patagonia would suddenly blow stronger,

or maybe I would linger in the air, near you,

Angel Falls, present like the scent of mimosa, like the sound of

a trombone that would accompany your singing very, very quietly.

Delirious Beat 1

Memories of dead poets live inside me, a knot of manic

energies hides inside me, the sunny and the dark side

of humanity exist inside me, the seven wonders of the world, there are

images of contemporaries and Poe’s grotesque stories inside me,

everything is inside me, and some nothing also, I am slowly turning

into a big brass cauldron, where pleasures are blending with the sounds of

trumpets, tubas and trombones from the streets of New Orleans,

soaked with transchaoticness I catapult myself into the heart

of the naked city and I adjust my heartbeat to the rhythm of jazz,

my skin colour to ebony, my scent to the scent of the jungle

and the desert, the length of my step to the distance between planets,

a fantastic voyage that ends on the verge of infinity,

it excites me each time in a different way, just as I have always

been excited by Eastern mysticism, the warpath of

North-American Indians and voodoo rituals, just as I am

excited by subculture, underground music, black velvet

and unimaginable speed, sometimes I am tense like

a string, sometimes I vibrate and billow, sometimes I am

like a river, or like ice, but I’m always there, a bit crazy

and a bit of a genius, obsessed with naughtiness: I loiter.

To the Poet

You’ve become a river with a mighty delta that opens towards the sky,

your steps rebound between the walls of my skull, shiny and dewy, opening

doors I’d never dare to open myself, they are the food I consume,

and the fluids that flow through my veins like an avalanche and

a spark, giving birth to the rain and the sun, describing the birth

of America, once you’re a dolphin, once a woman, you change with

inconceivable lightness, into the source of light that keeps gushing out

through the reddish soil, into the most magnificent comet that ever

swept our dreams, into clouds that rush across the sleeping horizon,

still you are always a bohemian, crucified by the love of the gods,

a bohemian who knows that this time it’s for real.