冬天！我们把政治倾泻到布龙的墙壁上，
这些油渍斑斑的小吃店像一块肉排。
每个人都用观点塞满自己，他吃着他的猪肉报纸。
三两张洋白菜的钞票，你能听见雾笛，
巨大的钟表发出鸣响报时（多么令人讨厌啊），这警钟，无惧。
我们准备溜进最近的贫民区，
喜欢这古老的巴黎旅馆，雾没有悄悄离去。
在露天集市，年轻的一对，极度疲乏，脏兮兮，
在一个星期二的傍晚...
除了某些冷绿色的措辞，钞票，和一根阴茎没有什么让我们挺直。
他们谈论着文学！
但毕竟，再次给我那新绿的吐字。
哦是的，那时残忍的。的确那是文学。
Winter! We pour our politics into bron walls,
These little eating-houses run with grease like a meat chop.
Each man stuiffs himself with ideas, he eats his pork newspaper.
With two or three cabbage banknotes you can listen to the fog-horn,
The striking of the great clocks (how terrible), the alarm-bells, without fear.
We are ready to slide away into the nearest gutter,
Like old Paris hotels the fogs won't leave in peace,
In the souks where the young pair off, dog-tired and dirty,
On a February evening...
Nothing holds us upright but some cold green diction, banknotes, a penis.
And they talk of Literature!
But after all, give me again that new green diction.
Oh yes, it's atrocious. Certainly it's literature.
