These are lyrics Dylan would be proud of:
Motorcycle, the vehicle for long-haired young gods.
My god sports a glans-shaped jeweled crown we call a helmet,
sticks into azure jeans his legs with long shins,
puts on heavy boots adorned with many golden studs,
and dashes through the twilight of purple gods.
At the moment, midway on the stone steps behind a theater, for example,
my god is in the midst
of a blood-reeking conspiratorial discussion
with other long-haired gods.
Their youthful conspiracy is too dazzling, too fragrant for me, passing the foot of stone steps, to clearly discern.
Below the stairs, only the god’s seat made of steel gleams like a living thing.
I touch the motorcycle, particularly that part of its seat which was just glued to the ass of my god,
still retaining the ass’s warmth.
My god eats Kentucky chicken, drinks Coca-Cola, and from the dawn-colored slit of his beautiful ass
he ejects shit.
Not speaking Spanish, I’m only guessing when I say that this comes from what could well be a collection of gay Latin-American skinhead fiction, but if anyone wants to correct me (I’d particularly like a rough translation of the latter part of the first paragraph), then please feel free.