Vivien Eime

12 poems and two poèms en prose

in time

hurry the day when
i may be out of the race
say what i like
spit peas out at night.

perhaps this time will be gold
methinks if it were
my heart would breathe at last
my tears might be less and
my shoulder more able

refuse to drip blood
and do not ooze
stay within me so i may
be thicker with myself.

 

herald

the brightest light
flies ahead, calling
back as the avant-garde.
the mass of strength
trusts her sight and
follows faithfully
as she holds her
heraldry responsibly.
a glimmer to begin and
the mass to cover the
wake.

 

a lump too bulky

i gather the falls of my life
and make a pile; a lump too
bulky to kick along this endless dusty road.

with a shiver of power
a candle lit is added,
innocent only seconds before.

the lick of fire creates
waxen tears as the felled pile erupts.

through the flames
the road is clear.

 

first slipper

leaf claws extend from the stump of a frangipani arm
as i walk beneath the moon’s first slipper;
evening frost of a sunfilled day dampens my skin;
touching my cheek brings me back into my surrounds.
i am reminded of the earth as it spins
the reality of asphalt
the intrusion of traffic lights
the harsh treatment of mind over body
and the simplicity of my heart.
how desperately i try to control my tears.
clutching my clothes to gain strength to overcome
a wrenching need to pour my eyes away completely.
a cool instruction binding me closed:
be calm
relax
and don’t be sad.

 

her

i don’t know how to speak of her.
not strange as she has no words of her own.
objectively though, you’d think there was
a chance to have her stated, even blankly;
for one crushed – just existing.
we even know the cause of extinguishment
– time and circumstance the assassin –
what is that though but dough for baking
into bread – cut spread and eaten, it passes
through to become process unto its own extinction.
on from the meal of recognition lies choice.
arise from the table, clear implements,
place all right and know it is complete.
a stage; a section; a feast of self.
or, hover ‚mongst the mess of preparation
stagnate with prey eaten; sigh with satiation
and fall slothlike into sleep and dream.

Uninspiring? yes, it is. i agree.

so there are no words to describe her
except, perhaps, she still lives.

 

scarlet woman

i once clenched my jaw and proffered
my chin never wincing as the pincers
gripped and pulled.
the lips that were ground with
another pair accepted any pain as necessary to endure.
but tonight i will proffer my jaw
unclenched; will wait to feel the
pincers lose interest.
tonight the razor edge of
discovery will slash away
the other pair of lips
which bind me to pain.
i shall wrench myself
free with one slash.
one bright red slash.
‚tis a vision of the
pool of blood which
spurs me on.
to emerge smeared and sinewed
to the surface. wait for
the reddish veil to slip
and see sights clear.

 

decision

a cry in the inner sanctum
a corridor out
step quickly into it
and out
you see the door – its open!
now – OUT.
and don’t turn back,
for if you do you’ll see
the screamer;
have a thought to
reach back in and
save her
but she’ll be running
to slam the door
and your arm shall be caught
snap.

 

the importance of punctuation

the sound of a bass voice:
a true connection to the
inky black from which we squirt.

should we say sir?
should we say madam.

and the bass booms:
in the black, people,
address does not matter.
remember only your end
in fullstop.

 

viewing humanity

by the light of a distant star
a great heard viewed from a distance
hears a scream issue forth.

their heads incline and, intent,
their feet shuffle as they
whisper who its it? who screams?

yes. yes? others mutter and why.

it is one of their own, one
who has left her washed clothes dripping
and views humanity from afar.

 

to be struck down dead

i do not wish to die
– of course –
but to be struck down dead.
to have a javelin crack gunshot
cleave my shirt into a crimson soak;
hear a shrill ring build until
i fall bent to my knees as
the grey sponge bursts.

to leave in a band
instead of a
wheezing
choir.

 

when

is the most demanding voice I have
when cold fictual mass en masse emerges.

over short or long, traversed or un,
above the ready world I sit alone to consider
I am an innately selfish creature and
there are oh so many more of me.

true, with a desire – even though ‚tis only
an inkling – toward generosity.
ah – but this I see is trace of survival
immaturity.

behold the species and be brave.

 

she will smile

a slim juggler of buttered curls
attempting to ignore a
temporary existence
bites at specific points
in her self made arcs.

no time to pine
whilst she remains in action
fear not the motion
as it is self which propels.

the feet are firmly planted after all.

 

Two Seasons

cacklehoned

spring. in the sun. lying on grass with my twin skin next to me. close next to me. watching wispy clouds relating stories in 3-d. mermaids meet dragons clasp hands to dissipate into a wishing well with 2 jills and no jack. modern times. modern stories.

is it true that butterflies evolve from caterpillars and live for a week? crawl through winter to fly into spring. only for a week? or was it only for a day. do i remember a day or a week. would they?

i feel the grass on my back, imagine myself long only eating eating eating eating until a silent call urges me to coil my long self into a ball. coocooned and waiting. imagine.

rolling over now to begin the coil and come face to face with my twin skin. out of my imagination – out of my coocoon – face to face. me and my twin skin touching front to front. eyes an inch from eyes noses receding from the pressure breast to breast hips hipped knees and feet balancing. i wonder why i don’t fall in. melted by the sun. to just meld. we could name ourself cainannabelle or joan whale. i realise we wouldn’t survive on one income. a tragedy. devastation on such a beautiful day.

earthed from dreams i stretch and feel my stomach growl. think about dinner. remember the grass and begin to graze.

black hued lacklore

suddenly winter. i rise above a leunig landscape and it is night. such a sense of light as i glide toward the stars (or the few that he will allow) a venused grouplinged heaven where orion, upturned, only ever stands fist raised.

from where did i acquire wings? and how long may i have them?? i am not dead for they are brown and i am glad, absurdly, to have vision bifocal… suddenly feel for the ibis.

thoughts of all those things that i have left as my home whisper and flood my mind as i glide. i have left them, left them all. i spy you and wonder where your home is; hover, continuing to spy your lone figure foot watching toward a raised flat stone. still now, father sown and mother tended, allowing one tear to well and fall you talk as if those you visit are still where you placed them feet together eyes closed.

to whom do you speak? and your head turns – as does mine – to find the owl. but it is i who hooted. i who spoke… a feather flicks in my mouth. i am the owl… madam as seen in the master’s world. i have stepped over the welcome mat, cut my legs from the earth to find i appear only ever as another’s vision.

too easily this sadness may bind me – for i know what it is to live for the other – look up so i might breathe space and catch the larger vision… at last sense my advance. each toe has an end you see.

with a tremor i prepare to travel with wings – in flight! fassung, twit-twoo.

Ruark Lewis

Banalities/Banalitäten

Quick Additions
Schnelle Bemerkungen

  • Find me a modest book?
    Gibt es ein bescheidenes Buch?
  • King Kong was caught in New York, Madrid and Lisbon
    King Kong ist in New York, Madrid und Lissabon gesichtet worden
  • Europeans solicit alms
    Europäer betteln um Almosen
  • Leaders in religion who hollow horns, work wonders
    Ins Horn blasende Religionsführer wirken Wunder
  • A firm agreement is declared to be true
    Eine feste Abmachung muss wahr sein
  • A would-be peacemaker calls for options
    Ein Möchtegern-Friedensstifter fordert Alternativen
  • An early shipbuilder at hand
    Ein früher Schiffsbauer zur Hand
  • Military activities are swelling
    Militäraktionen sind am anschwellen
  • With soil man contrives to show his beauty
    Durch Grund und Boden versteht der Mann seine Schönheit darzustellen
  • The drunkards finished off their cosmetic treatment in a car
    Die Betrunkenen vervollständigten ihr Makeup im Auto
  • Earth promises to pay in full
    Die Erde verspricht ergiebige Ernte
  • Girls who get involved with men are troublemakers
    Mädchen, die sich mit Männern einlassen, sind Unruhestifter
  • Drink narrates old men
    Trinken macht alte Männer gesprächig
  • She blew from her tower
    Sie wurde von ihrem Turm gestossen
  • Humming without skill in unaccompanied singing is a bone of contention
    Laienhaftes Summen zu unbegleitetem Gesang ist eine strittige Angelegenheit
  • I caught sight of steam yachts going round in oceans
    Ich habe Dampfjachten in den Meeren erspäht
  • He did his best but always operated inside one degree of error
    Ovwohl er sein Bestes tat, war aber immer in einer kleinen Fehlerzone
  • Mother never wore anything beneath her garments
    Mutter hat unter den Röcken nie etwas getragen
  • Expensive metal ships
    Schiffe aus Metall sind teuer
  • As the level of noise intensifies our interests disintegrate
    Mit zunehmender Lautstärke sinken unsere Interessen
  • A small part of the journey is over
    Ein kleiner Teil der Reise ist vorüber
  • An amended page with little woollen checked specks
    Eine Seite, ergänzt mit kleinen wollartigen Sprenkel
  • To a large extent, his was an important role
    Im Großen und Ganzen erfüllte er eine wichtige Rolle
  • To extend the page*
    Die Seite erweitern*
  • In the door, such visionary projects are founded. In French
    In der Tür sind weitblickende Projekte entstanden. Auf französisch
  • Compare China to a bit of iron
    Vergleiche China mit einem Stück Eisen
  • A work done by Lewis always offers the key support
    Werke von Lewis bieten immer maßgebliche Hilfe
  • Performing a daily theory at any rate
    Um jeden Preis täglich eine neue Theorie

Notes/Bemerkungen

* In pursuit of terrain
* Um Boden zu gewinnen

 

Some Additions
Weitere Bemerkungen

  • Most Italian labyrinths surround the market place
    Die meisten italienischen Labyrinthe umgeben den Marktplatz
  • At all times we fasten onto money
    Wir halten uns immer am Geld fest
  • A singing holiday in spring
    Singende Ferien im Frühling
  • Literal suicide
    Buchstäblicher Selbstmord
  • The new drives women
    Das Neue bewegt die Frauen
  • A sudden rise in trouble brings foreign money to the bank
    Ein plötzlicher Anstieg der Unruhe bringt ausländisches Geld in die Bank
  • A half-witted mob accepts a liar as priest
    Schwachsinniges Volk läßt einen Lügner Priester sein
  • In a place of worship she uttered her cry of triumph
    In einer Kultstätte stieß sie ihren Triumpfschrei aus
  • Calm added to the Latin mass
    Stille war eine Bereicherung der lateinischen Messe
  • Each nipple-flute lay flat, but it never was completed
    Jede Nippelflöte lag flach, aber es wurde nie vollendet
  • That weary way, all embracing with methods has set the curtains aflame
    Diese müde Art, alles methodisch zu erklären, hat die Vorhänge in Brand gesetzt
  • She goes on cosy retreats
    Sie sucht sich gemütliche Schlupfwinkel
  • Man of honour. A man of hours. The man-of-war. Left is a man in the dark
    Ehrenmann. Mann der Stunde. Der Krieger. Zurück bleibt ein Mann im Dunkeln
  • When you apply for the fabled minestrone, all becomes clear
    Wenn du dir die sagenhafte Minestrone bestellst, wird alles klar
  • Watch the nest
    Pass aufs Nest auf
  • Return the gold
    Gib das Gold zurück
  • With boundless energy he painted away
    Mit ungezähmter Kraft malte er weiter
  • A very small pong
    Hier stinkt’s ein bißchen
  • At last, a friendly person, in a friendly house in a friendly country, in this friendly world of ours that seems always to be getting better
    Endlich, eine freundliche Person in einem freundlichen Haus eines freundlichen Landes auf unserer freundlichen Welt, die immer noch besser wird
  • Islands to an extent, stink
    Inseln stinken in gewissem Maß
  • He broadcasts rubbish
    Er verbreitet Unsinn
  • A selective person in a selective world
    Eine wählerische Person in einer wählerischen Welt
  • Is a secretive person?
    Er/sie kann ein Geheimnis für sich behalten?
  • First-class served-up on sidewalks
    Erstklassiges auf Gehsteigen serviert
  • Violent women once stormed New York
    New York wurde einst von gewaltsamen Frauen erobert
  • Misuse the muse on a blade in the rock
    Mißbrauche die Muse auf einer Klinge im Felsen
  • Our music is a new source
    Unsere Musik ist eine neue Quelle
  • Careful, and consider, please how much planning has been done before you return to your desk
    Sei vorsichtig und bedenke, wieviel in Planung investiert wurde, bevor du wieder von vorne anfängst
  • When I press the button I fart orally I think
    Wenn ich den Knopf drücke, furze ich oral, denke ich
  • A Socratic person
    Eine sokratische Person
  • Don’t eat English food
    Iß keine englischen Speisen
  • The lobsters carefully consider how they should return to their box
    Die Hummer überlegen genau, wie sie in ihre Schachtel zurückkehren können
  • Bellow
    Gebrüll
  • A statement of intention
    Eine Absichtserklärung
  • The gargling youth knows nothing of love
    Die gurgelnde Jugend weiß nichts von der Liebe
  • The gulf mourn. Urgent. Urgent about an opening plant.
    Der Golf trauert. Nachdrücklich. Nachdrücklich wie eine sprießende Pflanze.

Deutsch von Gerald Ganglbauer und Andrea Bandhauer

Angelika Fremd

Arrival

 

She adjusted her straps as she walked into the airport coffee lounge. In her brace-and-bib skirt, frilly blouse, suspender belt and stockings, not to speak of her unfashionably flared petticoat, she felt as if she had been packaged and wrapped. I’ve given in again, she thought, dressed to please HIM. Making certain that no-one was watching she propelled herself toward the food counter where she bought a cup of coffee and a magazine. Then she settled into a seat in the far corner of the cafe to sip her coffee and leaf through the magazine. She hunched her shoulders to make herself look inconspicuous.

A young man sitting at one of the tables had been watching her. Now he noticed the way she pretended to read a magazine while she tugged at the straps that framed her voluminous breasts, straightened her stockings and pushed back her hair. He found her appealing. Lucky man, he thought, assuming she was waiting for her husband or lover. Then he thought of the girls he knew, clad in jeans, hair cropped short, breasts a mere bump. When she started to search for her lighter, an unlit cigarette in her hand, he found his cue.

„Can I give you a light?“

She leant forward, the cigarette in her mouth. After lighting her cigarette she pulled back suddenly aware that she had made a mistake.

„Do you mind if I sit here, I’m waiting for someone. So are you, aren’t you?“

Before she had time to reply, he seated himself opposite her.

„I’m waiting for my husband,“ she said curtly to make sure he knew she was attached to someone.

Then she wondered what this young man saw when he looked at her.

„My husband likes me to dress this way. He’s been away for three months. I want to please him,“ she said.

„Great minds think alike,“ he smirked.

„I feel stupid,“ she burst out. „I look stupid!“ She gathered her things and got up to go.

„Hey, don’t go. It’s not an insult to say you look great, is it? I noticed you the moment you came in. I’ll get you another coffee, ok?“

Reluctantly she agreed and settled back in her seat. Her corset itched and the stockings cut into the tops of her legs.

„He’s bound to bring me back some sexy underwear, lace or leather from Paris,“ she told the young man when he returned with the coffee. She thought of the sexual theatre she and her husband would enact. He would dress her in his presents, tell her she was beautiful, and finally make love to her as dressed up doll. She longed for him to make love to ‚her,‘ her personality, her body, unadorned and undistorted.

The young man stared at her. He thought of her in a see-through negligee and moved closer to the table. He felt excited as he pictured her in black lacy underwear standing coyly before her husband.

„Have you got a girlfriend or a wife?“ she asked.

„I’m sort of between girlfriends,“ he admitted.

„What would you bring your girlfriend if you had one, if you hadn’t seen her for three months,“ she said. „Would you bring her something for herself like flowers or perfume to show you care about her as person, or would you bring her clothes that make her look like someone else, like a picture in ‚Playboy‘ maybe, or a film star.“

He was more careful in answering this time. He imagined her in crutchless pants. Cautiously he said, „Flowers of course and maybe French perfume.“

She was satisfied with his reply and smiled at him. The loudspeaker crackled. She made out the announcement for the arrival of her husband’s flight. In ten minutes he would be fondling her straps and feeling for her corset. Nausea began to tighten her stomach muscles. If only he would bring her roses, just once, and notice that it was she who inhabited the straps she wore.

The young man watched her move toward one of the gates. Then he lost sight of her for a few minutes. He wanted to see this husband of hers.

When he saw her again, he stared in disbelief. She was standing at gate eleven. She had taken off her skirt and blouse and was now removing her petticoat. Security guards were heading toward her and a crowd was beginning to gather. She stopped undressing when she saw her husband come through the gate. Almost naked except for her suspender belt, she offered him her petticoat like a welcoming present.

The young man noticed that her husband was carrying a large bunch of roses in his arms. Husband and wife stood for a time gaping at each other while the young man swore because he had missed his flight.

Holly Lalena Day

Three Pieces

Pat Buchanon

Make me believe you, Pat Buchanon,
icon preaching from the shaky t.v. screen, sandwiched between Kmart
blue-light specials and ads condemning herion
my own brand of shakes. Raise my body, cruciform
from this nightmare of cold sweats and invisible centipedes
this place empty of everything and nothing, the words „junky“ and „nigger“

that greet me every morning. The kike
that owns my building worships Pat Buchanon,
gives me that sour look as I walk past his own room, free of roaches
stocked with knickknacks and furniture I could only dream of finding at Kmart
during any sort of special. I slip pictures of Jesus, spread cruciform,
under his door, something in exchange for the herion

he never has. He’s the one that got me started on herion,
old Yid doctor, him and his wife who looks more like a Chink
than a Jew—watched her body bend, cruciform,
opening for me the first time we kicked together, Pat Buchanon
omnipresent on the t.v., and again in my room, on my own Kmart
linen, flicking and stomping out German cockroaches

crawling on the walls and the floor. I arched like a spider
over her tiny soft body, felt the herion
try to steal my erection as the t.v. blared Kmart
commercials in another room. I don’t know what nigger
would or could watch t.v. while his wife was getting the Pat Buchanon
from someone like me. I closed her cruciform

around my small wounds, closed her cruciform
around me, against the onslaught of millipedes
and roaches, closed us off from a world of Pat Buchanon
sound bites blasting eternal, asked silent what herion
did for her, little rich girl, having her night out with a black man
while her husband ate popcorn and puked, junk-sick himself, during Kmart

intermissions where everyone looked just like his wife. In Kmart,
you never find teenaged white models, lying cruciform
on beachtowels, modelling swimsuits. You find nigger
drug addicts pushing overflowing shopping carts of ant and roach
killer, some new form of drug less addictive than herion,
the people master Pat Buchanon

likes to pretend don’t exist: the minority coloured that don’t like Buchanon
either, crawling from crab-infested beds to face working at Kmart
binding themselves, cruciform, to each other, like herion.

Boots IV

Boots kicked the boy.
The small boy was lying in a pile of corpses.
Someday, a woman will trace the long white scars on your back and ask where they came from.
He scattered a handful of razorblades on the ground.
Someday, your own son will go to war.
This will all fade to yearly get-togethers with old army buddies.
Someday, reporters will ask you what you did during the war.
You will get a brief five minutes on a Time Life home video for this.
If your child is born with no arms or legs, will it seem unfair?
All the old ghosts will be replaced with new ones.
Boots stood nearly seven feet tall.
The man reached into the left breast pocket of his uniform.
Boots had hair so blond it was almost white.
Boots dragged the small body over the pile of blades.
„Let’s play a game,“ Boots said to the boy.
The child’s arms were around the waist of his mother.
In war, certain people become shining stars.
Skin peeled away like the flesh of a potato.
„You are not really dead.“
A piece of metal sank deep into the boy’s pale cheek.
Someday, your child will ask you what you did during the war.
The boy’s eyes opened as if in shock.
He swung the little boy high into the air, high above the bodies of his dead parents.
No blood poured from the black holes in the boy’s body.
Bombs went off in the background.
Bombs set just over the next hill, a sunset in the wrong direction.
Boots grabbed the little boy’s right hand and right foot.
The sharp metal of the razors sliced thin through the boy’s face.
Someday, this will all be washed away in Prozac numbness, in the peace of a military nursing home.
Boots had a very large penis.
Boots made a point of inserting his penis in every dead person he came across.
He swung the little boy lower, lower to the ground, until the body was dragging over the ground.
The white of the little boy’s eyes stared straight at Boots.
„You are not really dead.“

Donor

When I think about my brain
deep inside my head, I take
another breath. I think about
my lungs, giant airbags inflating,
deflating, deep inside my chest.

The bones protect them. Protect
me. They are a cage for my
potentially rebellious organs. I can feel them
deep inside my body, waking up,
going to sleep.

Waiting for that
potential auto accident,
anaesthetised surgery, when the
ivory gates are opened, the prisoners
exposed. Ready to leap out and
escape. My heart rattles against the
backs of my lungs, rattling at the bars
of my ribs.

I could refuse to breathe,
let them atrophy to nothing,
cave them into
submission.

I can feel them deep inside me
waking up
going to sleep

ready to leap out
at the slightest
provocation

Copyright

Chris Mann

For a sheet of paper marked with a $ and a ?
some five or six inches apart

 

$

?

Hold paper with right hand. Close left eye. Fixate $. Move paper slowly back and forth along line of vision and watch ? disappear at about twelve inches.
Self – an addenda without hope, a fashioned afterthought that models others (it predicts), subscribes: where metaphor is the hero and possible the wife,/ taking questions literally performs an ‚I‘ with loaded dice./ The paper clip – a mobius strip in one dimension – makes a Latin of machine translation and coz the face acts as a tourniquet for blood flow to the brain (try a smile in triplicate)/ we make pets of -ing and -ly, sweet nothings to the ear of ‚rithmatic./ Dimpled query – sitting on any point that could be made – fair dinkum figurative, parts positions down a mid/ (near misses, bait is what translates) of wimps, and like any prop requires objects other than itself to did./ (Fiddly stuff, taking piss out of a this.) Almost – a fib – kids itself (‚cept when it’s big) by restructuring the lexicon, a causal reference (it describes). It means both. (It’s a bit like soap.) Cyberspace uses facts as rent, it listens in on hymns, and mopes around the narrative of dope by chatting up a line at home. A loan. (Or fine.) Gives me the shits. And inside out and upside down a crab of pockets turns words to trojan horse a want with regulars, a learnt chess-without-a-queen or what-can-you-say? S’pose Jonah extends the form by whispering (a drop-the-hanky sort of before) ‚induction fucks a lot‘ and threatens an internal realism by coming on to one as one, what then? Does it verify? Or mean to refer to dubs as of-a-kind? You, expert, and don’t tell me it’s a different sort of question; been there, ‚it agrees coz it’s something else‘ sucks. If a paradox does in fact despair, it only explains fiction as some uncertain need, it don’t attitude. (Anyway, maybe it’s a medium – ‚certain‘ is a word that only happens in limericks). That it reinterprets, a la prejudice, abstract logics in a nest (in a nest of dependencies) is suitably cute. Intention makes for changes in negation (it quantifies (buys) things) by marking as incomplete those distinctions we’ve called possible, inertia come home to roost (; it would seem to be just a matter of decision which parts should correspond). Satisfied, perspective dressed to kill: actual thinks somersaults are neat – ‚I give up‘ deduces Wall Street to be a street. (Promise reflects a lack of surprise and performs a premise on itself (show off), a persuade of conclusions that even I can understand: in that consistency is closer to tragedy than logic, it too starts out right (subject). One is rather obviously a conceit, or modest state.) And if we tell what meanings do, we can tell on what they are, we can do functions (parts and combinations) as a tense of pronouns (that contexts stammer is self-evident), as a mass, a fallible nip. (Intension is the truth – it goes into a sentence twice/ (a cough of quanta goes off if’n you keep it in the shade) and all sentences are sets of possible worlds where the context set is empty, and empty coz it’s nice./ It groups. In adverbs. And adverbs come to lunch. Please is a property of prob. Expressly represents. And shoves empirical up the front. A situation-sized dob. Proof.) Pandora had an ego, Pandora had a dog. Psychology, or what you think it means, irons shirts. It is generally about. (An equivalence.) And if the dog knows that I too know where the bone is, is it a metaphor? Or just a summary? The present king of France thinks so. A fictive false (used as a setting) concept went to see and what he saw made sense: copy of particulars, ten bucks. ‚I’m sure‘ was trying to be efficient (so he explained) and got in a domestic (use) that does hi-camp. (Suits me.) Strengthening the antecedent is a favourite pastime (‚entities‘ to those who know):/ the semantics of pragmatics that jam gravity into a brick of course just ain’t on, they’re like classes – all shy signs and volunteers – none of them can throw./ A property is only a set for fairies. One unnoticed parameter was shot. It implied to death. If you call that tactics, you’ll dance with anything. If subject matter ain’t modal, is it occupied? Particles don’t add up ‚less they’re stood on: a proposition approaches function if the john has half a clue/ – aboutness ain’t on every street corner, but not coz it ain’t ‚identical‘. So what do you do?/ Describe? Remember? After all, representation requires states, subtlety is printed on every dollar bill – that addition is associative, costs, pimp. It is conditional. I mean, ‚it‘ is hardly underground. (The metaphysics of ‚watch it‘ need not apply (the motive of the inevitable was framed).)/ And the only place to go for blame/ is up. Time’s up, too. And if pretence weren’t so moody, roles could account appeals dispensable, as ex, a bias that knows what you mean. Ah, art: say ‚are‘. Next. Ideal data wipes the floor, ideal data types./ (What, words skite?/ Too fuckin right./ (Two can play at avarice, only one can win.) Whim. ‚I think‘ – as a definition of truth – is plus or minus ten percent (that is the observable universe), it is an essentially pathetic anything.) One to one (with witnesses) plays asides in positives (ghost prosodic systems) and uses disease as a way of tuning space (it localises as narrative, an ontology that eats shadows (I mean you may as well call it science)). It also hides. We please knees? Guess so.
Aboutness – the burden of similarity – intends. It depends, as do conditions, ideally, on observed adequates (a mapping of rhetorical pauses that take meaning to be a sentence (not here a description) of couldabeens) or plotted needs. It dresses non-equivalence, ignores a certain vague sincere evidence of prose and induces ‚for example‘ to be noun enough. (Speech, of course, also uses clues of consistency, a ‚the least meaning is the best meaning‘ principle of charity: thanks but no thanks.) To assume that it’s true and that it’s true of, in other words that it rhymes, is a symptom (trying to motivate meaning) of projected summary. Old-information-first held up it’s end of the conversation by saying nothing. It nominalised the postponed agent (a parasite) as actual (and therefore possible) or at least ersatz. (Possibilia deals, synodomistically, with completedness and only seems to cheat) Quasi much. Amounts. Now that’s a pathological predicate (you can tell, it confuses coherence and consistency). Or syllogism (; to the known, psychology means a theory of acquisition). See?

Ania Walwicz

Poème en prose

travelling

the train goes and the station moves away what time is it we’re going to a jungle hot palms i fall asleep drunk talked to himself i know what i have to do did you see the house on fire out of the window did you see the house on fire out of the window did you see the house on fire out of the window where are we now in my map i don’t know too scared to ask am i on the right train are we going the right way where are we now voices in the train soldiers coming loud louder then soft softer then they go away i was asleep then i woke up voices come back then loud then softer then they very soft now softer whisper it is dawn first little pink line in the moving sky gets lighter can i roll the blind now put your blanket little lights of waking towns pass us at night houses sleep in the field dawn drunk gone i didn’t see him my ticket and coffee my cup jumps they play cards and laugh little reading light i can’t sleep the ship in my port they opened the porthole the ship moves to sea huge wave curls near my fingers shining on edges surges wave rises curls slowly near me i can touch it i can touch it sun on water green deep bending a wave right near me crashes i am wet i woke up at the middle of the night they lit a fire in a field they stood around and warmed their hands near the border when the plane lifts there is music and lift we fly in a soft cloud the train flew over the lake i couldn’t see the rails the bridge flashed by with girders with girders with girders the boat leaves the pier swims away the lake was so still you couldn’t see horizon oars dip are we moving it is quiet now the dusk is the same as dawn over india red soil i flew above the alps they were below me sharp peaks model mountains the train goes into a tunnel it is dark and dark i’m scared it was hot my feet got too big for my shoes we were going back there is going to be a war he told us the train is slow we were standing in the middle of dark there was an accident at the railway crossing we have to wait when is the train coming the station had big black numbers on each platform my sister told me funny stories we were cold put your arms in your trousers put your legs in your jumper on my feet i wear my hat i put my pants on my head i was laughing and laughing and laughing i lost three hours on the plane it gets earlier all the time people stand in my lit up window did i pack everything did i leave the window open it’s too late we are far away now i left my jacket i ride backwards we eat red lolly berries he was talking africa and tigers she was with her son she gave him an apple she eats sausage greasy fingers talk how to use a camera i can’t listen greasy fingers and the sausage a book of lists and murders fall asleep it’s faster how the lens goodbye at the station she waves her arms and disappears i am flying little cars he went away plane a dot in the sky at night houses have lights on and look warm the city below sparkles diamonds the last tram at night travels home

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neons

light me bright me match me cigarette me bright city turn on be loud tell everybody switch yes sing red pencil tick me to on centre mid town go go glow sky lit lines wire buzz me to see ring on me in neon on heady excite me thrill me hold me to tight rush rush be big loud go right through now leap nerve me beat drums loud louder fast run fast right now once go places all the time eat more restaurant flash me show me lively dance put lipstick on neons all colour zap me power lines shine letter light big name glow me put high fast see me watch zing my string best bouncy tube glow in me get ready do it now don’t wait hurry get it right first time do it once not again switch me on i travel fast light switch me on pink candy say words loudspeaker my microphone leap high as can big city centre city big very buildings whole wide world hot lights on stage line my eyes breathe deep all revved up fast car go fast good kill somebody dress to top fashion strut get them wiggle pink face daze me amaze shine me neons on sweet buzz meter front room seat skip dance non stop favourite flower colour allans sweets on river shine thrill me thrill me rise in a loop get up early do lots the more better fast faster lit light on me in such show glow me ania it’s now don’t wait hurry up top tip they clap they whistle stomp yell out aloud more on high want more and more fresh new dare do do new do now very it just here spot lit wear shiny glisteny get tight tonight darling neon electric buy me eat sweets almonds go places every day get money work now just right dare do do new flash me up bow come out lit shine me coca cola i don’t sleep seven up fun city pin ball parlour amusements ride sky mid night click throw me bright lines whirlwind wake up little suzy break dark venture fling adventure red bulbs around my lights stage mirror my name bright around and around light up found this does me out aloud each letter after neon thrill lights wonderful to wonderful stop my breath split thrill me delight move me collect thrills one he brave live now don’t go back again have ones big thrills lights above red town break out fast do once twice glow shine me see me what’s what glow colour in dark tiger put sugar gold eyes on bright lights lively now lively up fix me up lips dance all night loud band hot pepper bite me on highway lights jewel see get to glow just do did it cinema lit flash sign best form top push you can see me now shake spout give me a thrill burst aureole spangles boots with spurs lips ruby glass red fluorescent lit light tubes shine me vinyl head on neon high city red fingernails look at me curve shine lines easy do see me show gas blow me light up shine up shape up pull my socks all up me neon can’t miss spiv can’t take my eyes curve arc shine me night best in dark stick me up stand out sparkling fresh hit triple whisky pink angel centre lights dance dancing can do anything switch me on zag zig sky glow bulb ready whole sky shine get on up

Nigel Roberts

In Casablanca for the waters

As Brian Bell said

Naked as –
& today
she is born –
she strokes
the hairy squab / to her
mine of salt diamonds / then
settles / back
to the blue cushions

Wie Brian Bell sagte

Völlig nackt –
& heute
ist sie geboren –
sie streicht
die haarige jungtaube / zu ihrer
salzkristall-grube / dann
lehnt sie sich / zurück
in die blauen kissen

Modigliani nude
but / as Brian Bell
once said
loudly / in Farmers Print Gallery
any crab about / line
texture
or the influence of
african sculpture
completely / evades the fact
that Modigliani
painted her / as
she wished
from her cunt
out.
aber / wie Brian Bell
einmal geräuschvoll
sagte / in Farmers Print Gallery
jeder mist über / linien
struktur
oder den einfluß der
afrikanischen skulptur
weicht völlig / der tatsache aus
dass Modigliani
sie malte / so wie
sie es wünschte
aus ihrer spalte
heraus.
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The bed

our world is flat.
this           may be contrary
to       est       opinion       but
a fact                  supported
by four wrought iron legs
& from one of these
a china castor
is missing.

columbus
i seek no new worlds                  i
will remain here
to chart
this isabella’s
coastline.

Das Bett

unsere welt ist flach.
das           mag im gegensatz stehen
zur       etabl       meinung       aber
eine tatsache                  unterstützt
durch vier gußeiserne beine
& wovon einer
einen porzellanfuß
vermisst.

kolumbus
ich suche keine neue welt                  ich
werde hier bleiben
um die küstenlinie
jener isabella
zu zeichnen.

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Das Mona Lisa Geschirrtuch

The Mona Lisa tea towel

Not
in the Louvre behind
bullet proof glass
but liberated by
The Tiger Mountain
Tea Towel & Printing Collective
in hommage
to Duchamp
& the dadaist spirit
of the peoples republic
of China –
The Mona Lisa
on linen / printed
as linen / washed
as weathered flag
pegged to the Hills Hoist
upside down.

Das Mona Lisa Geschirrtuch

Nicht
im Louvre hinter
kugelsicherem glas
sondern befreit durch
Das Tiegerberge
Geschirrtuch & Druck Kollektiv
eine huldigung
an Duchamp
& den dadaistischen geist
der volksrepublik
China –
Die Mona Lisa
auf leinen / gedruckt
wie leinen / gewaschen
als wetterfahne
geklemmt an die Wäschespinne
verkehrt herum.

Deutsch von Gerald Ganglbauer

Monika Graf

Vorfall

 

sie
rasen
an mir vorbei

an meinem
schutzumhang

der dunst verzieht
sich
lautlos

wortlos
die agonie
des fischmundes
auf dem
laster

stilles
vorwärtsgleiten im
lärm

fast

wie

zeitverschiebung

Stephen K. Kelen

Trans-Sumatran Highway & Other Poems

House Of Rats

They’re up there, all right,
in the roof playing scrabble, listening to
scratchy old Fats Waller records.
They started out as a gang of desperadoes
escaped from a laboratory,
arrived via a garbage truck
up overhanging tree branches
elbowed their way in & soon
the colony is an empire of rats
who eat the insulation batts
chew wires, through the ceiling
to ransack the kitchen
take bites out of everything
& carry off furniture. I can hear them
scurrying with bits & pieces, hammering & sawing:
they’re building houses – a model rat town – with
imitation garages to park stolen toy cars in.
After munching down another box of double strength poison
the rats are back at work with a vengeance, thump
around the rafters insulating the house with rat shit.
Or hard at love writhing, squealing
like sick starlings or kicked puppies. The weaker explode
and TV screens fill with rats‘ blood but there’s
more where they came from. Teeming over
mountains, down valleys, jamming highways, falling
off bridges to scurry ashore up storm water drains.
Exterminators arrive dressed as astronauts and poison
the house for ten thousand years. It’s time to move out.
But the rats have laid eggs in your pockets, stow
away, follow you from house to house.
The curse enters its exponential phase.
Tentacles unwind from the ceiling, dirty great moths
and leopard slugs take over your happy home.
Soon you are a trellis. That’s just what the rats say.
I’m down here listening to radio messages,
oiling automatic weapons, building rockets.
Living in a rat’s belly.

 

Trans-Sumatran Highway

Is a race track built for carts, winds a silver spell over a dragon’s back.
The bus has no front brakes and our lives are God’s will,
Life turns with the wheels
The bus stops at a walking highway.

Hello Money, the children welcome you, smile sweetly,
their eyes shine sun and mountain.
Rickety rope bridges criss-cross the Bohorok River
that surges the approaching mountain tsunami.
And at the head of the river is the Jungle Inn
where the manager registers guests in the heart of darkness.
Elements are real, everything else is a game or trick
and at night the mountain gods demonstrate glee.
Sheet lightning frames river & forest in white light
shows the once quiet river is black and angry
with churning mud. Air crackles, lightning in the river
flash flash the lightning is in us electric humans.
The wind brings the cries of angry elephants
river swells like high sea &
on its banks the bamboo towns wait.

Every Sunday gibbons, white and black monkeys
overrun villages on the Trans-Sumatra Highway.
Occasionally, a bamboo tiger kitten will stray…
A ragged boy chases a bicycle wheel with a stick
through coffee and pepper trees.

Beyond the Government Orang-utan Sanatorium,
past the final waterfalls and bamboo walls
far from the rice paddy’s jaws and grinding saws
a tiger roars his name Harimau, Harimau, Harimau.
Closer to town, it’s weekend fun and the end for a honeybear
and her cubs squaring up to a pack of hunting dogs.
Back at the Jungle Inn, mushrooms explode
in a vicious brew specially prepared for Hari Merdeka.
Drink magic the sky sings, stars form themselves
into a map of the archipelago.
Fireworks
on TV with the sound turned down,
the President’s Jakarta parade elicits much laughter.
As it is a holiday appease volcano spirits
with sacrifices of lit cigarettes,
leave rice on roofs for storms to eat.
Hungry rain.

Almost facing the Malacca Straits, Medan is a city that chokes
on vinyl air, satellite dishes mount tenements‘
rusted iron roofs       TVs shout foreign devilry.
Smoky traffic, honking horns, crunching gears.
Air burns. It might be Hell but above the din
a 200 decibel call to prayer echoes in every heart.

Hectares of sweets & crunchy treats
fill bustling Bukittinggi markets where everyone just eats.
Here Zeus lands and falls in love with a cocktail waitress
from Nias and this event recurs daily,
a portent amplified by a convention of Batak gangsters
at the Modern Hotel, Parapet,
looms in the Muslim Women’s League
Brestagi branch’s deliberations.

Deeper in the markets‘ maze darkness eats daylight
stalls sell sweets for cruel tastes,
there’s a fresh tiger on display
(tracked for eight days in Jambi Province).
Benny the jammu is running with bottles
to drain the cat’s blood fast so it’s bottled hot
while his apprentice has the arduous task of grinding bones/
Toto has a buyer for the skin and the Sultan of Dash
has first options on the penis; the brain is eaten
on the spot. Whiskers and whatever’s left will be spread thinly
through an assortment of teas, pills and jellies for export.

Along a track winding through rice fields, a boy
chases a bicycle wheel with a stick.
Lake Maninjau’s scenery shifts about, sky trades
colours with mountains disguised as clouds
a billion shades of grey and blue
the crickets‘ song is everything.
Maninjau the poets‘ lake is serene with traffic’s non-stop zoom.
Old men in coolie hats paddle canoes to heaven.
The tourists‘ many-tongued chatter fires up
when the power fails, bark with gusto.
Sunset glistens across waking water
blinding as shaman’s dust.

(At Padang
catch the cockroach boat
for Tanjung Priok,
port of Jakarta )

 

Jack Blizzard

Open the refrigerator & it laughs
look outside at the white fire
twirling wildly
above an exploding deep freeze
from nowhere daggers
the white whirl upward, upward
down & ever in
deep chill atoms collide
in ode to the wind
lizards of snow
blow along the road
then the lizards twist
into rough helixes
that sweep themselves
& let go

Jack Blizzard stands at the edge of town
he breathes in & car batteries die
slicks the road and exhales harder—
that man headed home
won’t make it this time-—
a thin picnic blanket
locked in the trunk—
anyway car doors froze—
the snow dance—a burning lung—
white twist—the poor man shouts—
blood holes up finally in its canyon—
gleam popsicle & stalagmite
—then the letting go—one breath
glazes him to the windscreen.

The houses are shaking, a tubercular
whistle pitches high into scream
drops hard to bang on the window
like passing thunder.
Old Jack Blizzard’s at the door, now,
chainsaw laughing as he tricks the lock
blows it open, whirls things like a hay devil
and you have to push so hard to get him out.

Jack cackles down Main Street,
takes an ice hammer from his belly
smashes himself into a thousand shards
and where he stood
poisoned wolf is born,
who bites the ass
of a wino waking to his heart’s chill
and regurgitates bloody snow
stumble, prey to the wolf
gone long ago.

Windows roar as the ice seeds
hatch vapour renditions in the air:
coyote, jack rabbit, buffalo, and bear
join the wolf turning out of Main into Elm,
snow lizards powder the sidewalks
sweep all before, Jack’s fingers
glide under every door.

Guntram Balzer

6 Texte

„Was aber tun in einer Zeit ohne Maßlosigkeit? Natürlich könnte man sich versuchsweise bei lebendigem Leib rösten lassen; eine Lesung unter selbigem Titel geben; die tiefen Schluchten der Meerungeheuer aufsuchen, sich einer Elektroschocktherapie unterziehen; nach Alaska auswandern oder den Damen vom fremden Stern ein farbiges Empfangsfest bereiten, usw. Aber das alles ist im Grunde nur Poesie.“
Paul M. Waschkau

Rambazamba
oder aus King Learys Winterschlaf erwachen

Ob Kaugummi oder Dauerlutscher
now and forever
die Welt erobern:
oder Blättchen, Shillum, Silberpapier,
Kreditkarte, Kokainstaub,
dazwischen Comics, Yoko Onos
letzte CD auf dem Tisch:
wollen wir einen Joint
rauchen? Push me up to the
limit tun andere
mit Kopfstand
great escape, beautiful
dreams, sex & violins:
Rambazamba ist eine
politische Botschaft
ich will Spaß und ein
Milchshake; grün, grüner
am grünsten an dem Tag
an dem anderen mehr
oder weniger
wir stehen stundenlang im Stau
vor sinnlosen Ampeln
Gesetzen, Anhänger von Baghwan
und die JesusFreaks halten ihren
Gottesdienst im alten Elbtunnel
denn das Volk ist geknechtet
und Brot gibt es
in Hülle und Fülle
Brot und Spiele
das sagt nicht Herr Thoma
aber meint es, der Vorkauer
oder turnt er oder lehrt er lesen
du bist nichts
oder fast only wearing these,
Mr. Thimothy Leary, was meinen
Sie dazu? Warum sonst die
hemmungslose Raserei vor
Geschäftsschluß – oh, geknechtetes
Volk, dass nur bei Tageslicht einkaufen darf
außer Kaugummi und Dauerlutscher
Zigaretten kommen auf Platz 3
danach Utensilien für die
breitgetretene Liebe: Sugar rubber,
Blackbird, Eddi Croco, die Leuchtlümmeltüte
doch während Avanti bereits
Calvin-Klein-Unterwäsche
als beliebtestes Reisemitbringsel
aus den USA verdrängt hat,
stellen sich Europas Behörden quer –
bis zur Gewißheit blinkt es
auf dem Bildschirm Guten Morgen –
Deutschland und in der
lauen Zeit ist der Prozentsatz der Männer wichtig,
die sagen, sie würden lieber
ein Snickers essen, als
Sex haben, ferner ist wichtig
wer schon mit Koestler, Mingus,
Cary Grant geschnupft, geraucht,
geschluckt, mit Eldridge Cleaver für die
Black Panther gekämpft, John Lennon
inspiriert, die virtuelle Realität mit entdeckt
und die Cyberspace-Kultur mitbegründet hat.
Der fette blinde Hund sackt in der ersten
Marihuana-Wolke des Tages nieder
und sagt: Push me up to the limit
Jim Woodring zeichnet dir anhand Paßfotos
ein Jiva-Portrait deiner Seele. Marc
Fischer hat in der Van-der-Snissen-Straße
ein Löffelchen Kaviar probiert und
die Salami auf dem Hungarian
Sandwich von Daily Deli macht keinen sehr
ungarischen Eindruck mehr
und beim Schwarzfahren in der Bundesbahn
gab es Würstchen mit Senf vom Mitropa
Servicewagen. Nur Eckhart Nickel
konnte nichts essen, denn ein Starfrisör
aus München hatte ihm den Bart mit
Haarfärbemittel eingeschmiert. Draußen
ist es dunkel geworden. Die Apostel sind
in die Stadt gefahren. Die mit den
Impfnarben spült. Leary kramt in
einer Kiste, wickelt sich eine DDR-Fahne,
hebt die Faust in der erschöpften
Pose der Revolution: Rambazamba
pushes me up to the limit
emotional rescue
Giftzwerg – ohne Garantie auf
Erste Hilfe: ich vermisse den Hinweis,
wie er auf Beipackzetteln üblich ist.
Zu Risiken und Nebenwirkungen lesen
sie hier nicht weiter:
Turn on, tune in, drop out

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IceTea fällt durch
saugen, schlucken, lutschen
Flutschfinger, Ed vom Schleck:
(Slogan: Schieben, schlecken,
Action – das ist Satisfaction)
Die heftigste orale Versuchung und
plötzlich sanft und süß nach der
Mutterbrust. Eine diskrete Annäherung
ermöglicht seit den Sechzigern das
Eiskonfekt: zwei kalte Finger, die sich
im Dunkeln des Kinos in einer Eisschachtel
treffen. Wie immer ist die Vanillieseite
zuerst weg. Was bleibt? Haselnuß in
brüchiger Schokoladenkuvertüre und
das Hämmern der Herzen in der Dunkelheit.
Um die erhitzen Körper weiter zu soleroisieren
gibt’s jetzt in den Neunzigern neben der
Urform in Tropisch-Orange die rote Variante:
Waldfrucht. OB’S FRUCHTET? Mit
einem Eis verändert sich der Lauf
der Welt. Man hört auf zu hasten
und beginnt zu schlendern. Man
blinzelt in den Himmel, harte Blicke
tauen auf. Eine Eismaschine ist eine
Zeitmaschine. Gefühle sind auf Eis gelegt,
Konserve:Ich und mein Magnum ist ein typisches
Fraueneis, weil Männer sich in stressigen
Situationen gern etwas Größeres gönnen,
etwa ein Auto oder eine Freundin. So
schmilzt der Sommer und die künstlichen
Aromastoffe verlieren sich in der Sonne

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Ich gehe zur Arbeit

Ich gehe zur Arbeit, das ist
keine fragile einsame Sänfte
auf Zirruswolken: Gesichter
umtanzen Nasenflügel, von
denen ich nichts wissen will,
richten ihre hervorquellenden
Augen auf mich. Blick in der
privateigenen Psyche bunten
Innern. Die Monster in Pelz
und Folie schwarz, schwärzer,
am schwärzesten, bartlos geschabt,
rouge betört, Chanel und Klein
waren nur den Bruchteil einer Sekunde
aktuell: Versuchen sie, probieren
sie ES!! Dann begegne ich den
Karikaturisten, ich nicke ihnen
zu. Auch sie sind ratlos wie die
Gedichteschreiber, die sich die Worte
aus den Rippen schneiden: Und sagte
kein weiteres Wort: Bis ich die rettenden
Türen erreiche, wate ich noch durch Seen von
Plagen: Rost, Seide, Aluminium
Ich bin Antonius. Dali hat mich gezeichnet

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Endlich wieder glotzen

Endlich wieder glotzen, ICH
Barenboim, Levine, Schmied
vor Feuer, ICH, rauschender
Dreimaster, Grotte der
Unterwelt, ICH, und steifer
Knickerbockeronkel, breitbeinig
aufgepflanzt, singt gegen die
Ewigkeit an; dann Aufmarsch
der Zünfte zum großen Finale
reinster Karneval volkstanzend
ordnet sich grünbuntes Chorvolk
zu übersichtlichen Kreisen:
archaisches Ritual und große
weiße Punkte auf dunkelblauem
Glockenröckchen vor mir,
transparente Stoffe in Schwarz,
ICH, knallrosa Volants überall,
halsbrecherische Schuhe, die
mit kleinen Perlen bestickt sind
und Zuhörerfoto von Balkon,
dort ICH, Mittelalter, Honoratioren
vorgefahren, die mit Gattin
Blumen zu Grab bringen, ICH,
Wagnerverein Trier e.V. mit
schwarz-rot-goldenem Blumen-
gebinde. Auf den mitgebrachten
Papiertaschentüchern steht:
Grüß mir Walhall. Am Abend hat
mir der Gesang die letzten
Lindenblätter vom Anzug vertrieben.
Jetzt bin ich unsterblich. ICH

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Abendveranstaltung

Und wieder schwimme
ich in Leder
und Kunststoff-
Hose mit Schultertasche
von Moschino-Band
zusammengehalten
über Stiefel, Schuhe,
Plattfüße, Zehengänger-
Innen in Nylon gepreßt als
Kontrast eine Deichmann-Tüte
und falsch angewendete
Modalverben: auf der
Rolltreppe häufen sich
hautnahe Berührungen
und was tragen wir morgen:
die roten Stiefel
das Plastikkostüm
die Totenmaske

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Standpunkt

Eßt Bleistifte
trinkt aus Radiergummis

macht sie mundtot
mit ihren Schreibgeräten

die Sesselfurzer und den
Standort koHL

geht weg von den allgemein
verbindlichen Grübeleien,
den Tränensäcken und Klagetöpfen

und laßt euch freiwillig von
euresgleichen in den Mund schauen

dort wo die Wörter entstehen und
die Sätze noch Bestand haben

dann lacht sie nur aus
die Orthografiekünstler

die Schreiberlinge des
deutschen Kochbuches

jetzt wo alle Messen gelesen sind

 

Guntram Balzer, geb. 1963 in Hagen/Westf., Studium der Germanistik und Philosophie an der Universität Düsseldorf, Buchhändler, Veröffentlichungen in Zeitschriften (Unicum, Literaturdienst, Tasten) und Büchern (Wortnetze III, Zehn, Junge Lyrik dieser Jahre) zuletzt: Pcetera Multimedia CD-ROM, lebt in Wuppertal. Wuppertal, den 15.10.1996