our ghosts may forever turn in monsters

but we will not once break free from our stone-made bonds

First went the mother, then went the daughter

the rhythm was by no means fair but what is

20 years exchanged for a couple of months

they reside under the belly of the village

between the steep hills, the heavy clouds

surrounded by tall trees and buildings

when you breathe you breathe thick there

however all is thinner, less visible, silent, cold

embraced by the neighborhoods and progress

the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window

the seething in my chest, the dust under the seat

they call every expedition product of formality

stuffed in their Sunday clothes on Saturday

they'll all mourn over the parfumed pentanediamine of their dearest

days are falling back to their small

early night late morning early night late morning

early night late morning early night late morning

early night late morning early night late morning

they are far from gone they are diminished to our initial dust

from moving mass to moving mass to moving mass to stillness

quiet please

I'm listening to the roar of the moving atmosphere from my window

the seething in my chest, the dust under every piece 

the million faces of bad violence.

Manche Männer haben mir die Lues angesteckt

manche lachten, manche nein

heute lauf ich herum

meine Rückenmarkschwindsucht schreit um ihr Leben

was für eine Heldentat

was für eine

mit dem Medikament

kann nun ja alles geheilt werden

Conscience

we're ending up in the

-

the walls against themselves

they twist

-

the thousands contacts; they count exactly for the thousands they are

if they were kind enough they would claim time would cure every integrated sum

but no

the thousands contacts remain the thousands they are and nothing

-

rainy summer asphalts

closed windows and the white shirt behind the twisting walls

a lifetime dedicated a lifetime left and hoarse corrosive

hell

-

smooth slippery memories created out of my phantom past

rainy summer asphalts

deep northern nights

the cold wind of September with the parks lit up in bloom

denim coverage of the designed life

-

we're ending up in the

conscience

and the bullshit that flies out of my mouth and hands

and ass.

and you will fear death not

after all those transparent lukewarm sips

so many, even my finger looks like a maiden

the pale rose petals I baked

are pale enough to make me sick

and be sold as love

walk the stairs up, walk them down

one step is granted

the wrong before you collapse

heat and moist more willing than the most

available and ready

fuck August

and you will fear death now

.

Lying in the river of time,
often the waves of woe
have entirely submerged me.
In wandering and in prison cells
I spent my very precious youth,
my life
like yours
has been seared.

Ai Qing

-


Sun over seas
not the perfect weather to return ourselves
amidst the dearest of the waves
hands and feet and heads are sailing.
Another part of given time
drowned before our eyes.
The lisps stay lax
marking our way through
the gutter to the ocean.
Seven deaths afar
there lies, terrifying,
the clarity of our integrated surfaces.

Today has been

every day has been

imitations

I don't

I don't either

where to

nowhere to

he told me 50.000 times not to exaggerate didn't he didn't.

The bond of the second

that comes amongst an ocean

of irrelevant presence

the smell and the offense

nothing unpleasant to this

let the rest complain

it keeps flashing in my head

all escaped desires gathered

-

where again I find you

discover and explore like virgin land

where again I touch you

weep and smile, first faith and last

-

I've been the great lover

three good years now, at times better at times worse

at times more of a hater

words traveled their circles

came back over themselves

-

empty hands

I stepped back sipped the gin

where again I find where again

only where dead or asleep

a bitter loss

-

I never existed

you were for a route

too bad.

Μου λείπουνε οι νύχτες της γλύκας
και τα τραπέζια που στέκονταν στραβά
τα ποτήρια γλιστρούσαν και τα έπιανε η Ρωσίδα
πώς τη λέγανε να δεις

οι νύχτες της γλύκας
αρχίδια κι αυτές ήταν νύχτες τέτοιων ημερών
όπως όλες
οι νέες πόλεις ανοίγονται εύκολα
οι νέες πόλεις ανοίγονται εύκολα

κι έχω ξεχάσει μια χαρά κάθε άλλο
ό,τι πέρασε ξυστά και είχε γρέζια
η αρρώστεια έμεινε για πάντα
κρίμα

πότε θα διώξω αυτόν τον ήχο
πότε θα διώξω αυτόν τον ήχο
το αίμα με σουρώνει όταν
κυλάει έξω
πανέμορφο

...

καημένες γειτονιές η μια πάνω στην άλλη
σπίτια καβαλημένα και γριές κάθονται έξω
το πάρκο με τα πολύχρωμα φώτα
το σπίτι σου που έβλεπε
κι εγώ δεν ξέρω πού έβλεπε

τα κύμματα και ο προβολέας και το ποδήλατο
όλα συνοστισμένα
ιδρώτας
οι νέες πόλεις ανοίγονται εύκολα
οι νέες πόλεις ανοίγονται εύκολα

σάρκινη αηδία
ο πονοκέφαλος παρών

I look for every face known and all I've never met

are feet on this and that pavement, this and that street

I might as well ask one or two in case I've forgotten

they will turn to me stumped, mumble and step away

being feet as they are

each case is broken, each case is mine and foreign

they are laid out on tables around me and they talk

I understand nothing

they've seen brighter colors more than once

before this monochromatic prism of meat and bones

I would look over the distant chime

something warm would ooze from my ears

there would be one time for first if you lived through arrays

and as many times as you can stuff in your share if you afforded the hope

if I double the years, the clouds will be the same

closer to nothing

then I'll understand.

'You should've died when you were young'

diluted as that happiness may have been

it left and finished among the dilation and the dilatation

'You should've died when you were young'

clean, pure with every hand out in the air

every one of the nine, fourteen, seven

now oh now the gleam in everyone's eye

reflects the natural light of the sun like all jaundice birds

fly and crawl upon the city you miss

now oh now the gleam in everyone's eye

is under the aborted perspective of creation

every step and every little death were challenged

'You should've died when you were young'

the papers have yet to follow the color of the skin

and the sclerae and the inner of the lips

'You should've died when you were young'

now oh now the gleam in everyone's eye

will keep you until you rot alive

The stricken atmosphere in the central south provinces

suspicious smells between the trees and all-naturals

could be about the decaying birds on the ground since

every root feeds on death and nothingness, then trees

grow

in a drained dry bathtub with the clothes on all night

the tiles around are blank, between them a nation of nausee

a man without a proper face waits for them but they never

what is more, that bathroom had no windows nor tiles

and pale hands live off the points sourcing from his veins

loitering spirits in each glass that's how summers pass that's how summers pass

never sleep, never wake

Split sound doubled instrument.

Home with two feet lacking heads.

The clothes are tainted.

Dirt, dirt, dirt

.

The pillow sits on my legs. And the legs sit on the floor.  Automatic writing was a factor I would never consider. There is no psychography but the constructed physique. My feet have been overheating during the last weeks. This indicates a rise in temperatures. This indicates the broken venous temperaments. At times the suns shine a million through the glass, at others my stomach is the only sun I know.

-Where are you going?

-I will be back right away.

I sit up from my day-long rest and my head floats unstable. Postural uncertainty becomes of the wasted numbers. Dizzy spells with a clench in my viscera; could either be my success in being an obedient creature or I don't know. The five o' clock terror is a daily newspaper give-away.

At that neighborhood they were traditional quite a while after traditional stopped being healthy. The milkman would milk his jugs every morning, then take a long walk around and drop by every house. The mothers welcomed him because he relieved them of their duties. Them mothers, they would skip their sagging nature at every chance thrown. He would leave a glass bottle and the suns would shine a million through it and the liquid inside just to turn to midnight monsters in the bowl. At that neighborhood winter would be somewhat real, with somewhat snow and cold BUT summer would always come sweet and soft, never sticky nor humid nor too warm. The smell of the air? It would be fresh, mountain, of bear excrement and wild strawberries and also hens' rotting feathers (although I prefer naming them hairs). The men would be men and the women would be nothing, women that is. That neighborhood was connected and not. A strong Father would strike back over His creations never mind the aging trees watching embarrassed around. Every grayed out mother would sit on their wide motherly loins, sweat on and out of them until they started being pleasingly dry, sweated, sweated, and under the strict observance every grayed out mother would sprout another. The houses would be concrete and sturdy but not enough to depress. The sky would be elevated and the stars bright. The clothes doubled. The needs better and respected. At that neighborhood the only mode was the superlative mode.

I sit up; the food floats in my head from down. Postural uncertainty comes along with the swelling of the feet and the enlargement of the veins and the prolapse of the valves. My hearing omits several cases of deaths. My hearing omits several cases of anything. I pay my attention to the repetitions; analytics, theorems, impractical approach, nervous weakness and dystrophic confrontations. It might have taken a while but crawling out has not been difficult. The holes are wider than they need to. This place might process some of those coming from the sacred far only to digest them to fibers. Bendt says he never enjoys this place unless we watch them foreigners crossing the mouths of the machine. I am keen on the blood that comes. I am rigid and I wouldn't mind losing a sibling over a sip. Bendt says he never enjoys a sip unless it is a sip that never ends. When we connect our mouths we ooze something that never ends. We went over at the poxfull sofa; the ivy outside the building helps my back hide from the eyes of the city.  The rest would have no idea but I have discovered velvet in this mouth. In the beginning of the shit. The holes are wider than they need to. So we slide in and out without even touching, without even sliding. Move from one space to another. Our mothers are so muchly raped they have forgotten our names and theirs. Our fathers are tiny mouthpieces swinging their waists over the caves bragging and we spit on their faces. We spit a lot because TB is unforgiving. The best of lovers -unforgiving. One never forgets, never convalesces.

-These were my best.

Still the enlargement inside; I stand still, I sit still. Truth is I rarely stand and when I walk I chafe a great deal. The pillow sits on my legs. The legs sit on the floor. Under the greasy skin the fur of the sofa sticks. The fiction is the terror that occurs, every morning at five o' clock. Figures running outside, thieves loitering in the balconies. The deepest dark right there plays up for their suspicious activity as they are well hidden behind the ivy, invisible to the city's eyes. And these sounds I hear right at the tip of my sleep, these sounds are not the day crawling out again; these are the sounds of the last day's loss. The water that drops in drops in the tap is equally inimical to the rest so I sweat against the fur and shut.

I would turn my head, at five o' clock and catch their faces. Not a cohort, not a couple, something in between. They wouldn't stand. They wouldn't run. But their hands would run across my blinkers. Too bad, the blinkers are sewn on my eyelids. And them they are nailed on the skull. Yet them are stable and simmering but also them are their worth, nothing. Entertaining pioneering pawns wrapped up in a leather bag.
-Claim what is not mine! I would shout at their fading bodies. Unresponsive patients- I can never save up enough mercy. Bendt says his fingers might fall off from the morphea that's expanding and turning itself into something more solid, into something more. I can never save up enough mercy. I ask to be excused.

That neighborhood is where they all come from. As spoilt, as fluid and immobile and vague and finished, all them figures at five o' clock mornings. Holding their humanly guns and carrying their humanly prides and loving their humanly hopes all they are for me are five o' clock mornings visitors that last a minute and cost me my morning sweat on the bedsheets.

I sit on the fur of the sofa. I stare at the ceiling, loyal as it is. My feet burn. What a waste.