Otto Fenyvesi


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

Bistro London. 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.




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!


Translated by Gabor Gyukics (New York City)