Lacko Szilágyi. Red Hot Tattoo.
Otto Fenyvesi

I’m sitting on a bench that afternoon
free associations with tangled up limbs.
Bone music flows, I mean well
Born to Be Wild. Born to be bad ass
Born to be a punk, born to be Lacko and Zoe,
the queen of dead cats
Boosting a bazooka from the shoulder. Blowing up a tiny tumor.
The fact is given. Joy Division:
Dead Souls, She’s Lost Control.
The drummer can’t be blown up,
The double bass is perfect. Knows everything
Acoustic muse. That is inductive.
Devil and hell, media terror. Punk and roll

To sit on a bench that afternoon. Sunset Boulevard.
It’s been ticked off. We've got taken, got eaten.
The whole world is a pit bull. A professional.
Rebel, Rebel! Got no trace of time.
Everything happened so fast. Riot, riot!
Mediocrity swallows everything. Psycho,
panic, pain, bitterness arrive to go
under the ground, death and survival. Never acquiesce!
In Nothing. Do not accede! Nooooo!
A bomb blow up to see. Nur bomba kommer.

I sit on a bench that afternoon. Go narrative.
Go Berlin, Go Paris.
Punk’s Not Dead! Oi! Oi! Oi!
Bowie über alles. In the arch of Zoe
the bad asses growling fearfully.
The one eyed bandits hit a brick wall
with 100 miles per hour. Go narrative! Go isolation.
The road to nothing is blasting with music.
Job, bread, mice, rat!
Perhaps this the last dance of pogo,
the end of the labyrinth. Lacko and Bada,
go underground, okay, challenger!