creeps into the cellars, musty and dull.
Tuxedos totter through the rubble of the street.
Faces are moldy and worn out.
The blue morning burns coolly in the city.
How quickly music and dance and greed melted...
It smells of the sun. And day begins
With trolleys, horses, shouts and wind.
Dull daily labor cloaks the people in dust.
Families silently wolf down lunch.
At times a hall still vibrates through a skull,
Much dull desire and a silken leg.

Landscape

Like old bones in the pot
Of noon the damned streets lie there.
It's a long time since I saw you here.
A young man pulls at a girl's pigtail.
And a couple of dogs wallow in filth.
I would like to go arm and arm with you.
The sky is gray wrapping paper
On which the sun sticks--a spot of butter.

Moonscape

The yellow mother's eye burns up there.
Everywhere night lies like a blue cloth.
There is no question that I am sucking air.
I am only a little picture book.
Houses capture dreams of motley sleepers
As though in nets in the windows.
Autos creep like ladybugs
Up luminous streets.

Landscape in the Early Morning

The air is gray. Who knows something good for soot?
Next to an ox grazing on the ground
Stands an astonished deeply serious mountaineer.
Soon there is a powerful downpour of rain.
A young boy who is pissing on a meadow
Will be the source of a small river.
What should one do when nature calls!
Be natural. Be yourself.
A poet roams around in the world,
Observes for himself the orderly flow of traffic
And rejoices about sky, field, and dung.
Ah, and he takes careful notice of everything.
Then he climbs a high mountain
Which happens to be close by.

Return of the Village Boy

In my youth the world was a small pond,
Grandma and red roof, lowing
Of oxen and a clump of trees.
And all around the huge green meadow.
How lovely was this dreaming into distance.
This absolute nothingness as bright air and wind
And bird cries and fairy-tale books.
Far off the fabled iron snake whistled--

Summer Freshness

The sky is like a blue jellyfish.
And all around are fields, rolling meadows--
Peaceful world, you great mousetrap,
Would that I might finally escape from you.. O if I had wings--
One plays dice. Guzzles. Chatters about future countries.
Each person puts in his own two cents.
The eart