parti pris

etchings of vast waters and frail boats, you can hear the screams and the cradle closes one last time. we’re standing on a steep hill, though we were the harvest of sailors, sweet mirages and vodka solution, yet

this is the day of wrath, the din of foreign voices. the face of this dead woman we knew an epoch ago opens and we realize the eye recognizes street geometry, quiet sizzle – we are returning home.

der jäger

cut waters broke; boys from Balkan towns and villages will vanish in one part of the world.

i’m telling stories about our lady of smile and her white wrists: death of a child hurt her, i say, and search for an outlet: i’m a river and a fox, a dispersed party

thrown by the grand vizier. I’m trembling with one part of the world; dubrovnik radio – neretva, round wells full of gifts. if the bodies surface, i’ll seal up the caves – empty voices of night birds.

hanoi, 60’s


                see, we move on the other side
                of the barricade, brilliance of Starlight lamps, fields 
of mint, I’m coming down; tomorrow I’ll phone Jane, today
we’re finding potatoes in the leftovers; in this way I see peelings for the first
time; momentary breakdown of connection (something drowns); they pelt us with fruit stones. Nike was also a Jew, I repeat: Nike was also a Jew;
I’m growing faint, soon I’m remembering the depths, brilliance
of Starlight lamps, I’m happy I can dance
with you, I’m coming down; phoning Jane, today I’m phoning
Jane, she’ll say she too is sorry*

* Jane Fonda went to North Vietnam and took part in a fabricated 
programme showing that American prisoners-of-war were treated in a
humanitarian way (allegedly she said she was sorry about that).

jeanne; constellations-stratifications

                planets return to their arrangement from five hundred years ago; everywhere
sundays when we say to ourselves – we’re even more beautiful in those
distant, closed towns separated by a gesture. everything’s already switched
off, Jeanne, if I become something, I’ll be a fled alkali, foamy reed, natural
history that shouts:
every small one without taste no getting up through words every small one without taste this quagmire of chickens and villages, stains on negatives for which I
hasten into Light Holiday.
(avert your eyes, Jeanne, they’re for stratifying another part of the world).


that’s how the Book of Exodus came to be: there are heavens opened and closed. in each the body’s contour – bitter burden in stomach, like fat flies over a seller of greens (that’s what we see in our future lives). Ēostre holiday, orange smoke, as a mute offering and again

we’re being born

we’re dying

among punishments and faults, because it’s more lyrical.

women: duo-cities

quiet, sizzle can be heard. storm draws near and you know for sure:
you seem deep in thought.
you seem deep in thought.

Kuyavia-Pomerania: i feel today i’ll be sorry; the day when you’re touching your female friend who’s being born horrid. St. Petersburg is like a mother goddess – you say – so what she won’t have children.

St. Petersburg: i have moved out. at night i went onto the staircase, it felt like a student dorm; here walls, there walls, everywhere people behind the walls. i recognize Nietzsche, hesitating

– who are they for me? i’m falling asleep: either children or books.