I jump over rivers
In the middle of the night
I walk straight through them
I face the slush the mud
...
Bird of my heart, come
Sing with me the melodies of old love
Take away my longing for the first hours of kissing…
I return to you the moist breath beneath the marble
...
In Poetry, within the range, but squeezed. Carving
them behind every jugular to the depths.
Song. Melody, hectic for both feet.
A condition to be heard at home.
...
Those just out of the egg,
The confused yellowings
Open their wings, take an unreasoned stance,
Only their mothers understand them.
...
I would have wanted for us to iron our thoughts together,
When the rebelling angels catwalk amongst the icy clouds,
whilst promoting the required fashion,
as they give in to lust,
...
What could I tell a Londoner about the Fatherland? The adverts
Are copies of the unscrupulous inscriptions in tombstones,
Just as we are copies of the bestial goods,
Of our egoistic laughable thoughts,
...
How I would have liked to have learned the language of stilettos
Mornings,
...
I was hoarse. My hoarseness was not felt. It was foreign
in front of the mirror,
a smoky glassy word
slimy like the mouth of the green devil.
...
An early form of prayer
spiritual strength,
a condition. Patches of land
underneath tasselled feet
...