© 2008 - 2017


-

Archiv

Blogger news

Blogger templates

 

+

Umblättern

Kategorien

 

Memorial 6

First went the mother, then went the daughter
the rhythm was by no means fair but what is
20 years exchanged for a couple of months

they reside under the belly of the village
between the steep hills, the heavy clouds
surrounded by tall trees and buildings

when you breathe you breathe thick there
however all is thinner, less visible, silent, cold
embraced by the neighborhoods and progress

the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window
the seething in my chest, the dust under the seat
they call every expedition product of formality

stuffed in their Sunday clothes on Saturday
they'll all mourn over the parfumed pentanediamine of their dearest
days are falling back to their small

early night late morning early night late morning
early night late morning early night late morning
early night late morning early night late morning

they are far from gone they are diminished to our initial dust
from moving mass to moving mass to moving mass to stillness
quiet please
I'm listening to the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window
the seething in my chest, the dust under every piece 
the million faces of bad violence.

Doxycyclin

Manche Männer haben mir die Lues angesteckt
manche lachten, manche nein

heute lauf ich herum
meine Rückenmarkschwindsucht schreit um ihr Leben

was für eine Heldentat
was für eine

mit dem Medikament
kann nun ja alles geheilt werden

#12

Conscience
we're ending up in the
-
the walls against themselves
they twist
-
the thousands contacts; they count exactly for the thousands they are
if they were kind enough they would claim time would cure every integrated sum
but no
the thousands contacts remain the thousands they are and nothing
-
rainy summer asphalts
closed windows and the white shirt behind the twisting walls
a lifetime dedicated a lifetime left and hoarse corrosive
hell
-
smooth slippery memories created out of my phantom past
rainy summer asphalts
deep northern nights
the cold wind of September with the parks lit up in bloom
denim coverage of the designed life
-
we're ending up in the
conscience
and the bullshit that flies out of my mouth and hands
and ass.

fuck August

and you will fear death not
after all those transparent lukewarm sips
so many, even my finger looks like a maiden

the pale rose petals I baked
are pale enough to make me sick
and be sold as love

walk the stairs up, walk them down
one step is granted
the wrong before you collapse

heat and moist more willing than the most
available and ready

fuck August
and you will fear death now
.

#11

Lying in the river of time,
often the waves of woe
have entirely submerged me.
In wandering and in prison cells
I spent my very precious youth,
my life
like yours
has been seared.

Ai Qing
-


Sun over seas
not the perfect weather to return ourselves
amidst the dearest of the waves
hands and feet and heads are sailing.
Another part of given time
drowned before our eyes.
The lisps stay lax
marking our way through
the gutter to the ocean.
Seven deaths afar
there lies, terrifying,
the clarity of our integrated surfaces.