Mean Work Peformed Like A Dive Poem by Marion Poschmann

look at this attached place. what do you make of it?

negation of landscape.
plants that have no business existing. a cable-like
plant connecting us to the green lung:
it bends all the way down from its switching desk,
condescending with stretched, twisting neck, a snake,
briefly providing us with information. every gadgety scrap of it
takes on an s-shape just like in the advice books from the fifties
"please be so kind as to let us tell you nothing."

ochre-yellow fields, ochre-yellow sky, circling distance shot.

the political idea of the industrial zone, the floor covering of which
looks like carpet from afar, would be all about the interior:
free of all weather, free of all homelessness: where it looks
just the same inside all the warehouse halls as outside.
then add cars, exhibited on carpets,
high-level comfort for gadgets which possess merely borrowed
intelligence. gadgetry, the images of which are distributed
like the portraits of rulers.

punch-card systems, early computers, wild animals playing too.

we occupy the steps at the station entrance, an action, clearly
pre-punched. are a drink exactly fitting the round
hole stamped in a folding tray. now we are once more daring to pass judgement.
strong opinions. anger. the whole caboodle. we reject
ready-made salads in plastic bowls. we forgive architectural errors,
those entrance foyers that are nothing but doormats, daringly
we enter there. I still need a collapsible tub
for my journey.

Translation Catherine Hales