NOT GORDIAN

TO THINK that the mouth opens every time and never stops being a hole constantly filled with paralysed didactics and soft and hard objects going in or out/ but insists/ that the process of opening up in itself is a valuable historicism worthy of mention not as self-regard though as the flow of objects often begins with a limp blow that is almost exclusively external/ and begins and ends/ in itself like before before the conclusion also starts hinting towards stretching and bending into unremarked territories and start again as before as an unimportant action thought insignificant merely due to its natural design/ like all those catastrophes that never took place/ or the swapping of tropes just before midnight in somebody's deserted book/

YEAR OF THE BMW ISETTA 600 - MAN MüSSTE! - MOTORISIERT SEIN

at night you came and tucked me in/ the linen smelled of four kinds of lavender/ in the morning, on a plate/ you had prepared several [✚]/ and poured a glass of [✠✠✠]/ in school, all through the day/ we studied boredom and escape/ fantasied heightened states of boredom/ drowsy apparitions dressed in pastel aprons throwing many-colored confetti into a pond with great detachment/ we closed our eyes and listened to cars/ we named everything, karla, michael, günther, haus, bahn/ in the afternoons we hurried home to dinners and green jello/ naming every house on the way [♜]/ later in the evening we would sit around the open window/ and wait for the meteor to happen/ wait for mum to open the umbrella indoors so that the singing would begin/ the little hint of a moon being created/ just before the day ended/ in [✈✈✈]/ and the metal twisting the little babies to sleep/

READ THE INSIDE OF MY LIPS

i have been expecting a letter for three years. that a telephone would ring, or that someone would break down the door. explain what has transpired. today, on the hottest day of the year, a card arrives: "seasonal greetings to you and your family, merry christmas and a happy new year!" it is the first of october. my heart tastes of marzipan. the swans let go of their buds, all at once. i watch them trickle uselessly towards a depression in the middle of the floor. towards the stalls. in line, like black or dark berries on a straw. the postman approaches the jukebox a third time. picking songs exclusively at a very high decibel level. whole lotta rosie is played twice. it is impossible to determine whether or not he is improvising or actually knows the lyrics to the different songs. singing swans. bull frogs skipping the counter.  mermaids. eye lids like juicy scrolls. a tattoo reads: "carpe noctem". it's christmas time again. i am close to finding you. 

HUMMINGBIRDS AND WOLVES

watching "under the volcano" in 2012/ is supposedly different than delving into it in 1984/ or 1947/ or all the same/ depending on what lurks under the volcano/ depending on in what street you encounter the corpse of albert finney/ then malcolm lowry/ grasping at an enclosed letter at the end of a service line/ deliriously going at the last drops of tequila before the mezcal/ wanting a love able to forgive the love that went away/ then a glimpse of Cain in an alleyway commiting suicide before laying hands on his brother/ then the tired explorer intrepidly darting into a newly opened void to catch the last flicker of light before its totality/ like the vulcanologist at Mt. St. Helens would delight in a cup of coffee an early morning of May, 1980/ just before the landscape was changed forever/ a flame that would treat everything like tinders/ ruthlessly go at it until total turmoil/ lay everything out as new/ waiting to be renamed/ forcing the question: if a white horse leaps in the night and no one is around to see it/ how can you learn how to ride/ 

NDRSTNDNG NTHNGNSS AS BRDM


un-accidental/ bugs are self-injecting poisonous retorts/ leaving their shells to dry in the sun/ self-hypnotised/ then hoovered into space/ by the single breath of a stealth god/ bug god/ trying to exit itself too/ by re-entering a surprising entity/ causing a stir/ by mere apparition/ then blaming other forces, saying:/ i burn without guilt/ oh yes, the first movement was mine/ but when we danced you insisted on taking the lead/

  first through worship/

  then through dependency/

and now you turn away/ and want to condemn me/ for having drawn my breath a single time/

  the paradise boys are peeping through the shutters/

  the paradise girls are glancing into a made up distance/

who shall care as i grow older/ guide me down the stairs in the midst of night/ ease my worries as i draw towards an end/ as the light that is my own/ becomes a dampened glow in a municipal corridor/ in a house undiscovered/ who shall dare to remain/ and recite elegies to celebrate my originality/ and selflessness/ honor my memory with select words to accompany the cries/ as my coffin, if it will exist/ is lowered into the dirt, if it will exist/ to be covered with more dirt - undeniably non-existenst -/ as the sorrow, if it can exist/ springs out like a flower/ near a tombstone that is my own, if it can exist/ still warm inside an icecube of used-to-be/ who shall tell me of gods/ sacrifice and piety/ and forgiveness/

  my body/

  my body/

  the hot sands/

  the paradise boys are doubting their second chance/

  the paradise girls are moving out/