h is a succulent Sunday roast,
Nicely dunked into a sweet sun-sauce.
If only there were a wind... that ripped
The gentle world with iron claws. That would amuse me.
But if a storm comes... It would shred
The lovely blue eternal sky into a thousand pieces.

Afternoon, Fields and Factory

I can no longer find a place for my eyes.
I cannot hold my legs together.
My heart is hollow. My head is going to burst.
Mushiness all around. Nothing wants to take shape.
My tongue breaks. And my mouth twists.
In my skull there is neither pleasure nor goal.
The sun, a buttercup, rocks itself
On a chimney, its slender stalk.

Rainy Night

The day is ruined. The sky is drunk.
Like false pearls, little stumps
Of chopped up light lie around and reveal
A glimpse of streets, a few clumps of houses.
Everything else is rotten and devoured
By a black fog, which, like a wall,
Falls down and is rotten. And the rain
Crumbles like rubble in the grip--thick--gray--
As though the whole contaminated darkness
Wanted at every moment to sink.
Down in a swamp you see an auto flash,
Like a strange, drunken plant.
The oldest whores come crawling
Along out of wet shadows--tubercular toads.
There goes one creeping by. Over there a pig is being stabbed.
The gushing rain wants to wipe out everything.
But you are wandering through the waste lands.
Your dress hangs heavy. Your shoes are soaked.
Your eye is mad with greed and screaming.
And this urges you on--and you have no peace:
Perhaps in the midst of dark fire
The devil himself appears in the form of a pig.
Perhaps something completely horrible,
Foolish, brutal, nasty is happening.

Period

The deserted streets flow in gleaming light
Through my dull head. And hurt me.
I clearly feel that I shall soon slip away--
Thorny roses of my skin, don't prick like that.
The night grows moldy. The poison light of the lampposts
Has smeared it with green muck.
My heart is like a bag. My blood freezes.
The world is dying. My eyes collapse.

Reflecting upon a Human Lung in Alcohol

Without horror you devour dead flesh every day.
And dead blood is a sweet syrup for you.
Aren't you afraid?--
Indeed your earliest fathers also had,
And before you awoke,
Crammed thousands of the dead into your body.

However, how deeply frightened must the first person who