The clouds have

the entire sky to choose

where to rain.

 

 

Dark!
My ears prickle
soft rain on softening leaves.

The dog

of course. He knows

how one eats, sleeps

and wags one’s tail.

 

The fog lifts from the lake,

clear starlit sky.

I pour cold beer

on your steaming breasts

and we gleam

like a rare animal

in the night.

 

 

Now, you look

nowhere, and

the shadow

falls over you.

A t-shirt

washed a hundred times

hold you  – again!

Your hard nipples.

Where did all the sunny paths lead to,

laughter, horseplay of sorts?

We shared a can of sardines, a bottle of red wine.

Since then the nights have been long,

me in another city,

you gone.

Here I am in debt!

In the heart

the hammer

forges the origin.

A little shout!

You come, and I

shuffle behind.

 

Whirl around! Oh…oh!

Two leaves whirling in the wind

you and I.

When departing!

Leave it

like it is

without a shadow of a wish.

 

Your armpits are dripping.

On top of me

your small breasts

ever faster: aah! aah!

So far away!

I send a sparrow

to pick on your window.

 

I hunger for

your way

of pulling darkness over us.

By chance we meet.

Your eyes!

I get a hard-on.

 

What a strong squirt!

You rinse, I wait under the cover.

Snow whirling against the window.

Bang!…

The hare somersaults on a newly plowed field.

The days are shorter and shorter.

Questioning, I continue to ask:
freedom –
who gave the promise? Who dreamt?
The utopias, the model societies – a cruel joke?
From day to day
entire seas filled with people who are
castrated 
and it strangles my throat as
full of fraud as the poison poured into the ear
of Hamlet’s father.
Was Kolima transcribed in the blood?
What are the conditions that teaches
the tabula-rasa-person to learn his tricks?
Where to cut off?
Start from the beginning?
Does the one who reaches for the moon from
the clear mirror of the stream and then drowns,
have a better grip of the truth,
compared to the one who, with equanimity, reaches
a honourable old age?
Isn’t there anyone who can remove this meaninglessness?
To be randomly strewn about like the starry granules of sugar
on black velvet.
It is said that the Beijing Hominid gnawed his brother’s bones 
at the fireside
and that the foetus gradually goes through the entire development of the fauna.
If man at his birth is a tabula rasa
on which the pain of pushing scratches the first marks
who
writes without his hand shaking
one syllable?
Gives the first lesson?
If there is a fylogenetic memory,
like a deep, dark lake to drown in at night,
unreachable bottom
on top of another bottom of endless mud;
where the future meets primeval times,
pulsating inside each other,
in a vortex,
a heart;
who
lifts his 
forefinger?
Where does the road lead us?