The dirt is warm again.
I’ll stay for long
in a winter.
I am a scoundrel lost on a raid.
I am imaginary stones approaching.
I am a squirrel’s tail and restlessness.
I am a moth stuck in a jar with your smell and circling.
I am the color red plucked from Danube’s shores eight years ago replacing everything I knew.
I am a tiny piece of chalk listening to the rain.
I am a milky tooth wrapped in this farewell letter.
I am the moonshine raped by poets.
I am a waiting raised in plates.
I am that cow still screaming, screaming.
And I am hope and care and goodness, still.
I am all that.
But I am not
what I could show to you.
a duly hardened punch
fat violets all over fooling
childhood’s triumphant sulkiness
one printed photograph i guess
words stuck still
and warmth and care
and way too many kind-ofs fiddling
remains of tan
a fading scar (bulb next to your bed)
rags in a cellar
pulp and drowning
tigers colorful, thai cotton
a sudden longing for a voice
again to bless
what can’t be blessed again.
(Micha: Oh my.)
(Pfob: He breaks quite often, lately.)
(Micha: Hm. Who wrote, poetry is the love of failing?)
(Pfob: Sartre. Let’s go home.)
(Micha: To better live?)
(Pfob: To fail again.)
tender and too rough
a thing to thrive
in silly prides.
a laurel lost.
unread a me.
(etienne: it may not be missing, no.)
(pfob: but it is, dude. it is.)
(micha: oh you pussies.)