Valery Oisteanu
Fado-dada
Alfama, Alfama of the very narrow streets of Lisbon
Where tiled dreams are sprayed with glue
Where the birds with cork beaks fight for the ledges
Where ghosts are deep fried and sold to tourists
There the sun shines only for half a minute
Broken cobblestones crying under the feet of Fado singers at night
Broken dreams of a homeless woman with young Mozambique eyes
Stay calm and enjoy the cork, everything is made of cork
Even Marilyn Monroe is a pocketbook of cork
Black student robes fly off the clotheslines
Alfama center of reverse gravity, of surreal graffiti
The Monastery looms large and chimes incessantly
The Queen and King of Portugal enjoy a noisy afternoon
Tuk-tuk drivers equipped with abrasive shouts
Smashing the tower of Belem-Babel cacophony
Pessoa’s absinthe not sold here, muscatel, gingia & Porto
Two fat chefs cook pork fat and chicken gizzards
Paving a path to Multiple Personality Disorder
Alvaro de Campos’ blessings, Ricardo de Reis disquietude
The road to Coimbra is paved with jagged lives
I regress slowly into Pessoa smoking a long pipe
Words flow, a spell to enter seven gates of Fado-dada
