golden fleece, fur, an apple and us

Run, comrade, the old world is behind you!

we walk with churches at our backs
we look for a fitting street
in which to drink up the leftover night
we look for a fitting street
in which to scream out our leftover light
we are busted mufflers, yes,
we are ashtrays
trams
and tears – until that moment
when you give them a reason to be

we rot away inside of us
and the waiter on Île St. Louis
drives us from the outdoor café
dressed as a hippie
touching my hand, counting to three
with a huge peace sign hung
around his neck – 1 € –
it’s that kind of party, you know

i can hear the breaking bones of cars
and my laughter, your laughter
no no, not that laughter
the other one, the one you don’t know
until it happens
and the mufflers fall off
the lights go out
and ashtrays are emptied by a gust of wind
Vulcan melts them down in his hearth
of laughter, the other laughter
winking, he gives you a thumbs up –

like a Persian cat
that bona fide
factory of hair
the production manager, director-in-chief
licking himself repeatedly in public
with no shame or other bullshit
then choking on his own products
– spitting out a hair ball

that’s us
searching for a street in which to disavow ourselves
because the public toilets are all full

we search for a long time, finally
something heavenly happens
finally
we clear our throats and cough
out a lump of light

let it go to the nursery
let it climb a tree
let it play in the sandbox
with dogshit and other goods
in other words, let it live

or

drive on up to the sky
and give the sun
some time off

 

an old woman taking a fighting dog for a walk

i saw them
slowly slipping
along the sidewalk
snorting into
winter’s bowl

they struggled forward
so differently

that they became
the only thing
that wasn’t a swear

 

second floor

from my windows i can see
the trolley bus wires
take the people away

electricity sparks and
dies

pupils narrow
and expand

blood flows to the temples

and a buck restlessly raises
his head

to listen for the unheard murmur
of the night from which he drank

 

hope

i don’t do the work i like to do
i avoid the people whom i love
i don’t talk to those whose presence i enjoy

only by doing dull things and
hanging out with shitty people
can i believe that the world is beautiful

 

the apocalypse or a toothpaste commercial containing some characteristics of the apocalypse

And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth,
to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death,
and with the beasts of the earth.

Revelation 6:8

to tear with the teeth of the beasts of the earth
to repeat with the teeth of the beasts of the earth
to be stupefied and to say goodbye
with the teeth of the beasts of the earth
to press the crosswalk button
with the teeth of the beasts of the earth
to cognize and recognize
with the teeth of the beasts of the earth
to ask without waiting for an answer
with the teeth of the beasts of the earth

as if a traveller tossed
from his shoulders
a raw leather bag
and from that bag
night’s ocean poured

as if it had
the teeth of the beasts of the earth
with the teeth of the beasts of the earth

 

a city in a city

a city flows
everyday
from a shampoo bottle
onto your hair

where you get
a ticket
for parking
the full moon
in the wrong
spot

someone is cutting
a clearing
for a camp
in a tenement
apartment

they build
the day into it
and walk
arm in arm
down the street

 

as in the sky, so in

i see clouds

looking at dragons, knights and castles
i see only clouds

i see one cloud domesticated
with a whip and
a town

the sky of the town –
an unmade bed

and the seagulls of town
still remember us –
the unprayerful

but their squawks recede
on the wind usurped
by pitiless
red tenement tracts

bloody red-ement tracts
that spit out a black-haired maid
who makes the bed

of clouds i see
swimming by
amazed at her dexterity

as she removes the seagulls
and changes them
for something fresh