From the secondhand records market,
I buy myself a neurotic waitress
With a metal ear between her thighs.
I want to put inside her some of my nightmares
And escape from the fleshiness of the pillow
Which daily detains me in a detective novel.
In the air chamber the curtains sharpen
The grief of a mistress
That demolishes a building in a single second
And invites me to a long evening session of entertainment
In the aquarium of life.
And since I don’t like marital life
Or the pajamas that, After every tiff,
Listen the songs of Oumm-Kalthoom,
I lay the little waitress on her belly
And I assume the spirit of a blind mechanic singing:
Boom, Boom, Boom.
I disassemble her into one million pieces not necessarily
Belonging to any sexual lobby.
I work like the motor of a junkie
In a dirty movie
Besieged by clean mannequins.
I hastily reassemble her
And put her in the box of socket wrenches
(Beneath my blue overall).
She gives the military salute to
An album on the cover of which we can see
The white spectacles of
A black man singing: Boom, Boom, Boom…
And to a plane that will take off in ten minutes.