Words in the twilight
The foetus straps on its wings and jumps out from the tower. The
old song – a scream between stupefied swallows.
The same stubbornness time after time, the same ambulance.
It is a cold Sunday with powder snow.
‘You understand, what I worship in love is its – what do you call it...’
Faces that covered each other with kisses pass each other in trams.
The car stops. Out gets Gigol, the living dog’s head, with his
plate under his arm. The chauffeur points out that he too has to
live. The head shakes.
(And who in this disguise would have recognised Lady
Mildred, née Slynghoney ... )
Sour gardens. Rusty pheasants.
‘Der birne vorwerfen, dass die motte draussen ist!
Eine zynische kreatur’ smiles Pilgramm (Offswitch
& Ojslender Ltd)
He is welcome to his luxury; we pass over the consoles.
On the terrace: the solemn tango of the withered leaves.
– The tram goes no further ...
– It rained all summer, we mostly sat listening to the radio ...
– Were are your thoughts? You’re a long way away, aren’t you?
– And then he says – you, he says ...
Derrière moi mes yeux se sont fermés, la lumière
est brûlée la nuit décapitée.
Thus the body remains unidentified. The public prosecutor
is in the swimming baths, Miss Linck hands out bibles in
the suburb’s maisons de tolérance.
In the background the tower. Time after time.