Caballos en Möenchengladbach
Among telephone listenings, and hidden cameras,
on a terrace in Germany, and infiltrators:
as waiters, at noon and at three,
-- and at nine o'clock and at six --,
a delivery man,
and customers of every creed:
two lesbians, a Bateman and a mystical marriage.
<< Wait for me to give you the order >>, in a racecourse,
white slave traffic in the next table.
I pretend to be betting,
among topics of conversation of poor quality:
these are concerns that you do not take to a desert island.
And they serve us a couple of Martinis -- the man at noon --,
and a couple of misfortunes -- the television --,
and mixed messages: Interpol's background noise.
<< Not yet! >>, -- I ordered them --,
and floods in Australia and droughts,
and indebted states,
and the resurgence of the Fascists,
and << Not yet! >>.
And while At last !, It was time !, they play the cards
-- passports, lives: girls in exchange for euros -- those of the next table,
the Stock Market is red or green,
earthquakes, typhoons, tsunamis,
and black men losing a war,
and I'm still working on this for the rest of the afternoon,
although disasters queuing to eliminate us,
all of these are coming to my << Now! >>.
And while the world falls apart,
tell me what the hell I do
on a day like this,
speaking of horses in Möenchengladbach.