Come, my songs, let us express our baser passions.
Let us express our envy for the man with a steady job and no worry about the future.
You are very idle, my songs,
I fear you will come to a bad end.
You stand about the streets, You loiter at the corners and bus-stops,
You do next to nothing at all.
You do not even express our inner nobilitys,
You will come to a very bad end.
And I? I have gone half-cracked.
I have talked to you so much that I almost see you about me,
Insolent little beasts! Shameless! Devoid of clothing!
But you, newest song of the lot,
You are not old enough to have done much mischief.
I will get you a green coat out of China
With dragons worked upon it.
I will get you the scarlet silk trousers
From the statue of the infant Christ at Santa Maria Novella;
Lest they say we are lacking in taste,
Or that there is no caste in this family.
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Ezra Pound aborrece tanto como yo los poemas falsos, los clichés y los: oh! luceros que brillan como... y el Tan prodigiosos como Zeus!; todo esto utilizado para inyectar status al canto, y esto no funciona así ni ha funcionado.
"Cantemos las bajas pasiones como cantamos los actos más tiernos": Si no amamos nuestras mierdas y nuestras estupideces no es el verdadero amor, parafraseando al gran humano Bukowski.
Pues así, no nos arrojemos en formas establecidas, ni creamos que existen; rompamos y seamos Flux. O nuestros cantos serán una blasfemia más viva y a veces inmortal... Insensata.
