automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung


cataloging the western, the consumables
under some bush behind someones house leaning a forest
out a dirty window of a
end of this continent

made it into the woods
without losing feet and
v flying birds flying beneath the overcast
verbalized horizons
till the color looked like the inside of a mouth,

[i] had written out your name
past passing
decapitated landmarks crypt –
and visceral
that seem only to leave
a dense
guttaral sound of n n n stutter-
ing on limbs s; teething bones
animals going home
but where is that
if not everywhere
if not the mouse is everywhere if not the duck dies everywhere
housing elevated south in that pond
that pond veining not
without ripples of water; undone disturbance
a bass undertone of koi flapping fins
somnolent now just a-
mount of collective silence. [fingering the notes on my desk
as if they could talk through papercuts]

automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, englische lyrik


2: 40 dripped a universal language by code; rain
cry or hiss of a fox housing on forests edge
his eyes are wilderness
are emeralds peering out
the suture of night,
sage growing exiled
traversing laments;
is to untie irony and chew on its endings –

indelible all is edible
so i hunt a cry that is this
lying next to my head almost touching my temples [i pretend to read his mind]
progress is heavy
gunfire fire [pause here]    fire
short in those checkered pyjamas
only worn in patchouli impregnated
nights radiating off a brittanica
clutching a map of summer and the flight routes of wasps

will be there
to assemble:
a wheel, a compass, book – talisman of change, repetition of melissa citron
to the subject of libertine that lives between the gaps of a cow like shaped cloud
the ego is vanilla pudding growing an exotic but constringent mold

still awake at 3:41 i note:
aligned orchards
full nihilists
mouth in nazis and beer and the ticking clock
spit out an idealist on a horse riding into a postcard
squinting eyes to decipher the imprint
– saudade –
i kill a beetle that is as small as the fingernail of a newborn
and breathe in the smell of karma
and the kerosine lamp
and mint bush
braiding a trail through sweaty childrens-hair

i am searching cupboards for the codeword of composition
to only grasp universals
where the nominative is an unhinged door.

automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, eigene lyrik

art. fingerhut woman

is not
the finger casket; hut
a nut fell or un
felt is covered with felt

art as the encyclopedia that ripens the month to a sum-

at july unaware of the month
a thumb makes halt at the yellow traffic light; blinking suggests
color; automotive motif –  not framed,
a stroller screams or the insides of the lining;
a bundle with a face
sucking intimacy / mother & breast
on that park bench in olive butter tone
[last year around this time there was
fern growing wild where the WOMAN now nursing stares at earth].

automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, eigene lyrik

alles ist pathetik am grauen tag

mir entlehnt
die sprache, es
rostet weich, das wort,
enthielt so viele stunden
so graut das haar, das schmiegt sich

weil ich nicht mehr sein kann als
grauer morgen, momentum fällt
ein. mirmirmirmir
sage ich nienienie / ich liebe dich
aus angst vor zu viel pathetik am tag.

aus deiner richtung riecht es stiller abend.

automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, englische lyrik

they may tag bees

hoping voices are brittle to the touch till the air
that comes out of their mouths are a modern pile of dust,
weight out and perfectly packaged to crowded stacks that lie
like infinite straws of maybe centimeters apart
from the water everyone will become, so become part

of the water everyone will be. come. likely an alike refers
to the same bus or building or human claw that strips down
indulgant matterless heads of the things created
as bees had become throbbing honey producing matter

warm bees in the sun and leftovers will be tagged,
just as the whale would have exploded his guts into the hori-
zon. so the very fragile may start tagging bees.

automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, eigene lyrik

„ich habe jahrelang den himmel nicht gesehen“*

das habe ich gelesen.
als ich nur gewartet habe. man verliest sich
wenn man wartet. von
innen brennt die nasenwurzel, die augen
halten kurz ihre lider an.
als ob man zu viel cola  zu schnellundaufeinmaltrinkt.
ich schaue weg, schaue hin,
und lese: eingesperrte blicke gehen.

vielleicht sehen alle weg. weil es nie auch nur einmal zu wissen ist,
wie so
langes himmelsfehlen aussieht.

/schießen aus dem rand heraus/
und doch, augen laufen gerade oben/regen-los heraus
auf papier. weil hier keiner ist. unwillkürlich möchte ich hoch
gucken ob da vielleicht nicht doch ein fleckchen ist,
nicht doch ein fleck der
mehr als einfach nur zimmerdecke ist.



*  rekha, indien