“We don’t care what danger there is, we tell the dead man after he finishes speaking. “But we can no longer be human. We’ve got to have that book.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” the dead poet says.
“You don’t know anything. Therefore you can’t do anything.
“You’re capitalist bourgeois sluts.
“You’re insane. Go back home.”
We must have that book!
We gamble for the red book with the dead poet who becomes a devil.
We are dreaming of sex,
of thieves, murderers, firebrands,
of huge thighs opening to us like this night.
