BORED GAME

those teeth they keep

in there

seem so important

they must be saddened

by the abundance of smiles

forgotten

all the meals

chewed

without real hunger

*

everybody finds corruption

deplorable

before they have a go at it

the call for solidarity

is a circus act

followed

by selflessness

and dying promises

*

they speak of the mungoose

and the cobra

but not for long

somewhere in the oceans

now

a plastic bag

is patiently subduing

a manta ray

FIRST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEM

ashamed i am to approach you like this / this my moon courting you to create a crater / 

i seem to have no choice / but to begin in that crater / to spell out desire in dusty window 

panes of cars i fight not to imagine / in the beginning there were no riots / societies wisely

not figured out yet / not so by choice / distance determined our calm / i do not know when

i began longing for you / it could be now / when we have begun / as more than thought

and you as mine / this for real / must be lava / never / bargain continents / and shuffled like 

bodies in dissipating orgies / towards the exits / towards lusts to cancel out lust / and sleep

devoid of mystery / and sleep at all / landscapes and oceans tooth paste-covered / and kissing /

with joined fists / lips of original dust /

HATE MAKES ME CRY

you pull me out the forest      but i am not dead     i am not dead      just lonely 

when you hold me      because i remember how i must try      to be alone

again

and bodies      they are not mine     i return to them as if they were     as if

we had sagas      unwritten     between these sheets     of temporary doom

and holy hallways 

of what could have been bibles      and toras      if our disciples

were paying attention      and would remember
how living a good life      is the best revenge of all      (although watching
someone you hate      bleed from the ass     is a good number two)
and stayed away from      everyone      who would ask them
to stay away from things      because they fear that love     is a commodity
that will be driven out of the ground     like oil     until it is gone     instead
of seeing      it as a bunch of trinkets      sold in your life     the cheap
antique store      where they are devalued     over the years

HUMBUGGERY OF INTENT

it is how

everything will be won in the end

a steel worm

rising like a trained socialite

to conquer all parties

and never abdicate

bloodshed yes, of course

but not the murderous kind

the end of scams

miss spaceage caveboy: too good for blowjobs and mystery

billboards interpreted by wanting-to-be-disappointed masses

closing in on loss, words

handshakes and namesakes, fame claimed

c-prints rotting in digital tombs

RANDOM TROMBONE + HAND CLAP OUVERTURE NO 4

it is for the rich

to have embarrassing deaths

in universes 

stuffed

with layers of repetitive

boredom

and black

holes

named after daughters

and granddaughters

and 

enough yachts and blowjobs

to sail through all of them

for blissful

milleniae to no end

and

more

*

balance must be a peace time metaphor for war

comfort must be a peace time metaphor for war

peace time inventions will turn on you the

peace time cellulite horror dynasties

"look at granddad in his sunday suicide vest!"

the terminally ill will make way for the terminally ill

eight million cubic metres of frozen water

taco and beer saturday

watching frogs assume the way of toads

steel dolphins born to plummet plummet

and

statues finally commemorating the poor and disgruntled

andropov's notebook of documented discharges

the most boring of supernovas only seven minutes away

cigarette embers in the negative field

cairo bangkok sao paulo

here comes cocktail happy hour and 4 euro mai tai decisions

planetary SUV's

towers of turtles down Landsberger Allee all too late

children waiting in line for ice cream to rot

halfamillionorsomething tongues shortening because of syllables

designer coffins dressing up riverbeds

|PEOPLE SIGNALLING FROM INSIDE SUBMARINE]

the last country: headache, vomiting, card games

status: infallible

*

brilliant puddles these

left here

to dwindle away

before appreciative eyes

and make you wonder

how one would ever cope

if not 

for temporary

entertainment

*

UMBILICAL HOARDING

little boy dreaming 

knows not

of what he dreams

his future dancing shoes

or who shall first throw up on them

silverware and porcelain

maybe gone

and never collected

in homes

to honour the futility of activism

careers in not having careers

as baby mind sees

resistance being sucked into

black hole of capitalism for kicks

no not like daddy's kisses

hilariously exploding balloons in pre-memories of balloons

already cleared of disappointment and effort

helium

air and tear gas

long before an image

has even shifted hands

MATERIAL OF TWENTIES

*

hot dog city state / lies rancid in the sun / the sun lies rancid on a negative field mattress / taking in no more lovers / no more visitors / going solo down the car pool lane / pocket full of unclaimed chips / pockets / this is the chance / here is the break / oh fortune / do i not control you yet / the other way around you say / fine / fifty on the loser then / whoever he is / burn his hopes / if he does not lose / he wants to win? / that is great / painless rodeos / no bulls / or horses / no kentucky / but so many of us / who are we? / are we the winning? / are we winning? / horrors in front of sinks / failed karate kicks / and finally, victories, defeating / the dog years of pretense /

*

MATERIAL OF FIFTIES

*

yes

they know how it goes

this is why

mortality

so effortlessly

can be masqueraded as vanity

loving just the once

will not suffice for them

no

they desire to leave marks

to be loved

long after their

goodbyes

too

not content with the recognition

that once they loved

and lived

fully

or painfully so

reaching their dutiful summit

in a pair of eyes that also knew

then

they reject

that possibly singular

community

for the hope of a mountain

that will bear their names

engraved

throughout the atomic bursts

thinking words

will clarify them

through all those mute

imagined eternities

"i am the book

neverending"

behold

the library

supernova

*

MATERIAL OF HUNDREDS

*

i envy only

shoulders

that shrug at eternity

*

also i will learn

what the mystics learned

watching

the desert change

into an ocean

changing into

a desert

*

rust never sleeps

it only dreams

of breaking through

the matter of its making

we

the stoics

have seen that future

too

*

if i were to spit like them

my secret

would be revealed

*

METHODS COUNTERACTED

you who seek the prophet

need only seek the books

that speak of the prophet

they will tell you

how many pages and words

it takes

to create a mirror

*

radiant

saturday

springtime

there are words more real

than the words you peruse

they are covered

or forgotten

not even by you

but by a source

in a source

the most brilliant of sentences

ask of nothing more

than to never be formulated

look at your hand

the word hand

can easily be hidden there

like sun

look at the sun

the old testament was written there

other books too

expressing the sun

expressing nothing

clocks ticking on a saturday night

bars emptying

streets and alleys emptying

cars and houses emptying

conflict

rejuvenation

and endlessness

given another go

before the apex

murmurs

and pillows

buds

on fingertips

if you are looking

TRIPLEFT

he was having visions

the visions were never the same

he would change

the visions would change

he existed without visions

the visions did not exist without him

the visions would have to begin with him

would he begin with visions

in a vision he was alone

would he begin without visions

those eyes are not eyes

only sleep

-

his poetry was dying

he blamed it on life

life had more power than poetry

the women there are not muses

they are a reason to not commit suicide

before they become the only reason to commit suicide

then they give you the poetry you crave

when you are wild enough to miss its meaning

the open umbrellas

at your wake

are held by them

-

his real violence

was never experienced

but it had language

far beyond the means of violence

it grew

like teeth grow

before you remember them

then rot

or become very expensive

NEWSANCE

she would become the forbidden messiah     her passing impertinent to countries that matter

her sacrifice irrelevant to newspushers     her crucifixion unnoticed in the UN 

her sainthood caught up in paranoia and menial diligence     miracles

would get lost in boredom     or shrouds of drugged witchcraft performed by goons

all of russia's rivers sucked dry

by tarkovsky's horses

before shedding their brutal hides     in unapproved cellars of conceptual poetry

her tears     wanting to represent the entirety of grief     would fall incomprehensibly

unwanted meteorites tearing through wanton atmospheres

like before     her resurrection would be ascertained by resisting her absence

COMESOFORT

her first undressing wouldn't take     she pretended a second nudity

masqueraded the discomfort of knowing what would not come next

her laughter had been real to a point

but the riddled impetus of doom    even when facing a carefully chosen 

europe

provided no rhythm to which her nakedness could swing

                                          repetitions

entangled her in hope      he spoke of beginnings

it is easy

for those whose beginnings take place in the pre-experienced

her eyes     would not pay for the next round

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BLACKOUT AT THE BREAK OF DAWN

your stolen shoe horn broken

you watch wheelchairs congregate

you would be found on a somalian speed boat / in the hands of someone to whom your body was valuable / or in a hospital you cannot afford / expiring while pretending to suffer for someone pretending to care /

you think neither

you think nosedive onto the most expensive car in the hotel parking lot, broken shoe horn lodged inbetween upper lip and front teeth / the overconfidence brought on by sangria, that your action will start a class war /

you will charge the shell of immortality / it's amateur night at the suicide palladium / ambulances will be running through every page you have written / picking up bodies with gusto, and calm / playing jockamo fee nané / loudspeakers on your chest /

you have one wound, the only one that exists

you are healed / the amoeba rises to shout

CORPORATUS

a parliament was planned for saarbrücken, to ensure the city would hold much the same position as strasbourg, which, in effect, would be holding any position at all / it was not accepted with the same avid acknowledgment as hitler's theatre / its main scene almost avoiding the total destruction brought on by the bombs that followed as announced in the second act / whereas the iron works he traded for would be employed as stubborn ruins in a much demanded da capo / for several miles in every direction the burning barn owls, nightingales and wild boars would be resonating for the greater part of a decade inbetween the jilted slopes and disfigured trees / not as thunderous applause, but as forced pillow talk perhaps / the eiderdown would have to be imagined by forces not yet lured into submission / these are the new maginot lines: / cotton strings running from you to a point in me defined by you / in between a variety of bell towers, whorehouses, it was all very fancy / nobody believed you anymore when you spoke of longing as that of which you speak is no longer known as longing at all / hard to see at first, then: nothing at all / trees no longer forcing their nature on you / local politicians drowned in suburban spirits / remembering the heydays as they were, now gently moving on / and what happened with the riverbeds? / gnawed at with thunderous reproach by a pack of ill-tempered boars at dawn, before eventually blacking out from hunger / settling again for teary-eyed chestnuts and holy water springing out from the ground / they would come a long way going nowhere / like you, determined that life must be about more than baumarkt, merguez and cheap or cheaper petrol from luxembourg / coffee and cigarettes too, upheld as a birthright by the lifers / sacrificed before the wreckage of wasted youth / do you remember the eyes of that girl you let go before you down the waterslide in calypso? / they spoke nothing of the feigned sorrow of prostitutes, or the certainty that the sun, even in calypso, would lay waste to your most golden of aspirations / for a moment we could have the smells of childhood / count marbles and skip rope with the other kids never growing old / plunge into the waters in wadgassen parkbad, make a queue of beautiful neverdieolds by blocking the passage in the waterslide at totobad / eating all those chips gone soggy in the sun / how sad then, that the first norwegian journalists to arrive here will only have whorehouses to write about / megabordellos and the lustful french underclass / the menial corruption of the already corrupt / or better, the deification of what was already godly / your erect penis will meet no judgment here / we have undressed in the sauna of history, had our worries surrender to a succession of pulsating hot air / that could be my soul, drifting up the chimney to mix with the breath of the forest / this foundation of trees that always seem to return from wherever it came, perpetually displaying its potential for growth / now this i envy: a tree withstanding its natural condition without ever claiming a name / never doubting its rightful origin, leaving a legacy as ambitious as any: to quietly take part in something eternal / then let these be wings: branches stripped naked year after year / or old men smelling of eucalyptus and crystals stepping into the cold basin of their happiness / let these be stones onto which we inscribe our heinous trespassings, the nights in which we never needed to know love or know of it / let this mark the beginning: the dumb cry of a neanderthal finding itself in a picture book / and was there not that river somewhere, to transport the entirety of our knowing through the disinterested centuries? / here be the cornerstone to solve our political disambiguities: a bomb dug into the core of your follies / the hammer that will set the courthouse ablaze, the indifference with which knowledge stares back at you with / what is most tainted by shame: your unwillingness to add your days to the crumpled clockwork of history, or your inability to do so? / end the search / you are found in being lost /