In Parisian Cafes
I, lonely count of Transylvania,
Approached you with the passion of Mars,
Drooping with silence under a black cape,
Wishing to address your neck, which cannot be defended.
I (awkward, frail Frankenstein) fumbled for your face
In my wrecked mind in wrecked invisible evenings.
You taught me about nihilism when you retreated,
Dissembling cowardly next to two coffee pots.
Now I am out of jail on 2 million,
And again I turn toward whiskey, black jack and women with no bras.
Uglier than Lautrec,
I am disheveled and plead for mercy
In the cafes and brothels of Paris,
While carrying a book on Buddha
Which I cannot understand.
Tomorrow like today cars from Tokyo
Will control my incoherent and disjointed world.