Horrible Poem No. 1

It’s Tuesday and I haven’t slept for two days, and I am sitting in the audience at Lucerna with two glasses of prosecco making their way into my bloodstream. Daniel Barenboim, a very busy man, is on stage talking about the songfulness of Smetana’s MaVlast via Kubelik.

The moment he starts bitching about Czech Airlines’ habit of playing Vltava when the airplane lands in Prague, I realized I’ve had it with this bullshit week and turn to Borek, who is sitting next to me, and tell him I hate poetry.

Then I tell him I hate a number of other things, most likely not interrelated in any way, because this is what happens when I don’t sleep. I hate poetry except that of Mario Benedetti and Pablo Neruda, and I hate asterisks that go nowhere, and people who say they could care less, and people who say no pun intended when they haven’t made any (WHY!), and many, many more things, and I try to keep my voice down because we’re live on Česká Televize.

Borek thinks for a bit. Then he begins to recite a poem:

Hey you

I hate you

Who?

Every one of you

Sleepy

Tired

And cranky I am

That’s why I hate you

I tell him it’s a horrible poem and I am going to put it on this blog, and that makes him very happy. So here it is.