Bada Dada. Thumbnail and Picasso, fuck off!
It’s fucked, life is a fucking
long song. The guitar player is okay
Smooth, chord, induction.
A 100 kilometer long tunnel. No exit.
We’re sitting on a bench that afternoon. Red Boots
BistroLondon. The bakelite shines in silence.
Cheap cigarettes and foul smelling love
Novi Sad was celebrating, dancing.
And who the fuck have asked you?
Leaning to the wall the best guitar player of
Tolstoy street ejaculated inside a woman.

The film got torn. Frank Zappa Alive.
Good evening, good evening! My dear, darling audience!
This is the beginning of the apocalypse!
To sit on a bench. Bridges crumble to the Danube.
Genies locked in bottles are
not crying in pleasure anymore.
People hurry to get bread, water,
potato. Forget about formality!
It’s too early for self-combustion.
Thumbnail and Picasso, now!
One night Rosalie arrives,
you know, a lightning struck her to death.
A tiny tumor blew up.
Art exploded.
Schizo rages below the bed,
shoes worn of, secret in the socks.
The world’s been looted. No food, no knish,
still we manage somehow:
money, pussy, hard liqueur.