Y. Loitering in Amsterdam

In Amsterdam we had been loitering for years
Crippled and drug addicts
We used to drink coffee near urinals
And dirty tributaries

We met Sam and that monkey
You know, that washy Brazilian whore
That George never really understood
If she was a he

In Red lights and queues
A dominating cheap yellow
Introduced us pain
And we crawled among bicycles
And Van Gogh's distorted paintings

And all I can recall
Was my private history
Of not vomiting on them.

And we must have gone on all fours
Back to some hotel
Oblivious of our surroundings
Spitting magic mushrooms

I was wondering
Who was the culprit,
Was it me,
Was it Sam the Scottish?
Was it George, was it you George, the Greek?
Or was it the city?

On our way to the airport
I remembered Egypt
And cried bitterly

We never felt anything loving in Amsterdam
Only a warm dizziness
Only fever and death
Only things trembling in a corner

On my way home
I remembered her as well,
And cried
From joy