for one sure thing
it is very personal
only you understand
and you are there the
stranger arriving at
a strange land and you
mark every important
corner, to create a
frame between this and
that and that and that
purposely in order not
to be lost. This is mine.
i enclose what is mine.
a child is a property.
the parents forget what
is real.There is no chattel.
meanwhile, one thinks he
is better that he feels worse.
a shady tree and a man with a
bike resting there dreaming a
bout a horse in the race, a
hundred bucks, and a date and
a bottle of beer and sausage,
and German measles. What is
this all about? you ask yourself.
did you build a temple here?
mother was once cruel when she
finally got so old she called us
names, and always blames us
that she died because we never
gave us breakfast for the past
ten days which the other neighbor
believes to be the truth. What is
this really all about? Bits and
pieces. Too personal. A light bulb
builds a blob. A runs to B. B is
not a building but a person.
A room upstairs. A door is left
open and they make love without
love. This is the view now.
I am in you but not a part of you.
When we share breakfast we do not
know we do not even mention a letter.
B sleeps with C. C is next to D.
too personal.When you read this
you nod your head. You pray that
you do not continue writing and
giving more hints that all has
meaning and that it will only take
a little time to decipher what ought
not be. Chocolate bars. Prison bars.
Bench and Bar. Barbecued. Roasted
to the blackness of filth. Two people
upstairs. No one is in love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem