This is an ode to the fantasy authorities who have begun to cross-examine me personally in my dreams.
An ode to the fantasy authorities and tax collectors carrying candles and blazing fire in their hands.
An ode to the fantasy authorities and tax collectors, the entire crew that pulled me
naked out of bed, wrapped in a plaster cast,
and who are gently opening a zipper now.
They collect taxes. Fill large sacks with sand,
with court orders for demolition in their hands. Wage a private war against me during summer
vacation. Because your stolen fantasies were government property a long, long time ago,
and the newly appointed clerks are just this year’s emissaries.
But also emissaries of an ideal! Of a concept! Of logic, of thought – who delve deep –
emissaries of philosophy and devotion,
of volunteerism and enlistment, emissaries of a great, pregnant nation!!
Oh, this is an ode to the dear authorities who have begun a series of arrests against me,
who have begun to cross-examine me in my dreams. Oh, an ode to the fantasy
authorities and the dozens of tax collectors with votive candles and blazing fire in their hands. It is
an inflamed ode, sung by me now with all my might, to the dear authorities of fantasy,
the entire crew that pulled me out of bed naked, wrapped in a plaster cast.
Now they are gently opening a zipper.
They’ve issued a private demolition order against me in particular.
Taken all the necessary steps in reality,
that is to say, on the practical side of things. For this they charge,
these tax assessors, collectors and preachers, take
a piece of the pie. Here are forms, sheets of paper, confidential information
about the authorized signer and his duly empowered attorney who signed the back of the deed in his own hand.
And the leader of the first invading force, one kick into the dream.
Oh, this is an ode to the authorities, the police and the court. It is an ode about transgression,
investigation and an escaped prisoner. It is a tender ode, properly consecrated, according to the law,
an ode dedicated to the dear authorities of fantasy, who have begun to cross-examine me personally in my dreams.
This is an ode dedicated to my authorities and to dozens of tax collectors, to everyone who took part in the great
effort of the raid. That is, as aforementioned, to the dozens of tax collectors, who hold little bells in their hands
now, lighted candles and blazing fire. This is an ode about authorities, about trembling fantasy. It is an inflamed
ode, secreting slowly now, very sadly, at the amputation ceremony.
This is an ode about authorities and dozens of tax assessors, dozens, perhaps hundreds, in any case the entire crew,
the dedicated staff which gently pulled me out of bed. Now that I’m erect, naked, wrapped in a plaster cast, now they
are opening a zipper on the terrace in the public square.
We’ve let them know we’re on call for the deployed troops.
Secrets are parachuted down tonight toward my dream
like snowflakes. Upon a dry fantasy.