  Ta-ra-ta-ta! The ancient horn is once more bleating Its ephemeral plea to immortality. Thus announced, the author of the play, Naked, and with a scholar’s face Ill-at-ease above the flesh, Proclaims the purpose of the play. His speech, long and unadorned, Requires this concentrated translation: “Life is a sensual hunter And only his trophies are real. These protesting animals May sometimes be cleverly scrutinized By six or seven intellects Secreted in the noisy audience.” Ta-ra-ta-ta! The horn resounds, and its echoes Are caught by an uproar of sounds— Excited disciples within the theater. “Down with fantasy!” “Realism and flesh forever!” “No more lies about the soul! “Murder the mountebanks and butterflies!” “Down with metaphor and simile!” The play is about to begin When two unfortunate poets Are discovered in the audience. Morbid, grotesque, and nonchalant, They wear involved, embroidered clothes And smoke emotional cigarettes, Flicking the ashes carefully Into the rage of faces around them. And one poet recommends A ruffled, satirical vest for the hairy chest Of a broad man seated near him. With cries, in which the earthly illusion Mounts its strident throne, The audience expels the two poets With ritual of feet and fists. Unperturbed, the poets Stoop to mend their embroidered sleeves Tom by the frantic audience. With this important task completed, They stroll away. |
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