in
the hunt the thrilled skin clings
forever
onto
the
slumbering paradise
the
doves are looking for shelter
in
the
rustling of the silence
all
that grows
are
mushrooms from
the
cooing mouths
from
the white-blue-sky the soldiers hear
sounds
that taste like cold vacuums
in
porcelain cups
the
other nameless winglings
sound
like castanets
their
staccato interjections into the sky
my
mouth drools as I watch the dancing spots
trembling
over my trembling eyeballs
may
no shred of regret come lie on my temples
the
yellow scarf lies
like
a spasm
over
the incredible sigh
her
wandering breasts shine like a candelabra in the night
and
the prettiness of her feet
lies
trojanically between his sheets
the
fly constantly hits his wings against the glass
neatly
leaves his insect-alarm in the sky
no
milk bottle will silence this anxiety
the
grumbling stomach stands in front of the open fridge
like
an off-legged broom he swerves drunkenly in
the
sight of the frozen bugs
i
feel obliged to flush the world's empty chatter
down
the drain and throw all the matereality
into
the dustbin
the
arrogant pen has a manic way
to
want to be greater than the moment
how
hideous
again-the-hadeda
on the thatched roof
boldly lulls the hordes of trembling little cinderellas
to
sleep
oh,
pardon me, the eyes in my head are only
ornamentation
that
is brilliant in the hiding of my non compos mentis
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