Mangy Coat

Man, I step out
and smell the opportunity of these stirring
revolutionary days
(and joy does not swell in me) ;

I drink fire-water- regularly
(with due Bohemian propriety)
but I miss that FUCKED-UP feeling
along with wild elation:
it's been too long since
I analyzed the ceiling

the fog of misfortune has parted
baring the free-swaying ivory moon
(but my throat is coated with silicon modernity
my once fiery coat is mangy
my proud Bohemian spirit
weighed inferiority...
and I've neither the art, inspiration
nor ferocity to howl)

I guess I'd just like to fuck in the hay again-
but my country youth is gone:
sin and arrogance and innocence are gone,
Tommy was god-fucking right:
"you can never go home again"

Man, I couldn't explain-
if I could be bothered anyway:
rationality is way fucking over-rated these days

(shoot up silicon, goddamn-fuck
anything for a new, living vein;
afraid I've become a mystic)