I have nothing with or against you
and this really means nothing
but the fact that I am free

the world is full of  love-slaves
illusionists and pretenders
politicals or apoliticals
atheists or christians
each one is only saving his appearance

tell these thieves to *******
and let us be kidnapped by The Circus
let us be made Princes and Frogs

in this ******* happy end
of the world

two warm grains in the eyes of the titmouse
we stretch our hands and flap-flap: is gone
the branch shivers
in its place

that is for shure why
I’m building my afterlife before
my branch shivers too
but I am home I am always here
dressed just in myself like the sword of Toledo

although it’s almost september with fruits gone to warmer countries

I think I’ll take autumn and throw it to the ground
and then I’ll pretend to vegetate

of course

I’ll be watching

I had a budgie called The Pope who was swearing at me
he was a walking madhouse
he was saying shut the hell up
you crazy son of a poet
he was jumping about the walls saying you’re driving me nuts
and I’ll fly your ****** feathers off

he was killing my sanity striking a pose
and doing  the one
with Mircea Dinescu:

“ lady I am youngh I’m your clown
I have the **** of a serious man
I like perpetuity from navel down
so **** me and love me again and again”

we were dying on ourselves out of insane laughter
The Pope was laughing too **-**-he-he-ha-ha
we were self exterminating oh yeah
and at the end gone back in his cage like a well-trained dog
wagging his tail and barking
he was making us laugh for his two crumbs of bread

maybe to soon
ugliness was knocking us off out perches
and ugly indeed it was
the day I found him
with his claw in his neck

oy sucker I said
listen now
hell will come again
to take ya and
hell will weep for ya

in-sane

mottor: „fountains are drying by habitude” – Sixtus Aquarius

in the common acception
in the heart of small capacity of aunt Haby
there are still surviving reserves

and I quote:  
“what poetry mister Gee?
dreams and illusions which go off on one
to humbug us for good”  

aunt Haby sticks her hand
illustratively in the ground and says man
I know for a fact:
what’s in my hand
is no ‘green planes on the wall’!  

Yet
the thing is
that there is no way of knowing
how much poetry is there in the ground
at World's End  

so the Poeth-dog is coming it sniffs
her demonstrative hand
and then the beast raises its foot
  
some ms Habies are even stroking him
on this matter
arguing that it’s ordinary but they know better

for most often is driven away
from heaven
and everything is reduced to a few solemn
and sexymenthal cry-barkings
  
this is where I come in
friendly like a racing horse
a flyer swimmin’ on the ground
and aunt Haby jumps on me
she just found out I’m transporting poems
internally and internationally
and reality is that o-kaaay
what can I say?
  
aunt Haby is sad
her hand hurts like hell
I walk airborne underground like the gadfly
I save her urgently to the worlds end
right there where the land is resurrecting us
after the glaciations
  
where the entire world is wrenching in tears
of laughter

I believe that the empty plastic pet is livelier
than the dead man sickened by loneliness
so mark my words sad and lonely kids
in fact there isn’t but death out of boredom
respectively a demented live solitude

when you’re no-good for nothing
there’s nothing else but cross your hands on your chest
and wait for the church executioner

look I had a bored giraffe
every time
I was slashing its neck
not only that it wasn’t bleeding
but its neck was getting longer

ohooo
it was elongatiiiiiing
it was becoming a cloud falling to earth
like a blind eye of water

and the earthworms were coming her way

squashed by happiness

Motto: „ they are all elsewhere/ examining things/ in new bedrooms/” – Charles Bukowski – Praying for rainy days

**** Bukowski
thinks that’s a supraestimated fake
for townsends of years
„ harder than The Riots of Watts”
and it’s not about *****

it’s too precoius and delicate
and it’s not about women
'couse the women *** with roses
or with the spine-birds
and still gets payed on the job

it’s all about poetry
it’s about that funny slaughterhouse
in wich we kick eachothers stupide ***
like some real lovers
and then we rearange our underwear
or what’s left of it

it’s all about  a load of **** good to be throwned at the garbage
'couse – don't mention it – there is nothing heroical
and every ****** thing is a makeup
there is just a mouse shiverring in a corner
two ugly frogs are hugging all what is left of the sun
and above all
the monkey is trying hard to improvise a tired smile

**** Bukowski
I don't know a living soul with such a perseveration
to ****-up his poems
like his money on horse-races
like his fat’n’ugly mexican ******
and still somehow to become his own hero
insane like this
born into this
and becouse he had lived to much like a dog

alone with the whole world
with it’s ******* **** beauty
in wich actualy nobudy finds his mate

in wich everything it’s just a canibalistic clown
and a childish cry
almoust painfully dead
from his own laughter

where I come from my dear traveler

it’s the stage

of a vineyard form of amphitheater

dug by my father among the others when

he was still

in his vital states of mind

when he was drunkenly adorable



beyond mountains and forests

beyond those noctambulist draculities

and argues on the nationality

of dear mother of God


where I come from there are people not landscapes

of plastic with mannequins

nor freaky castles with touristic news

it’s me and you and all who still believe

in that dubious rest of humanity



where I come from the single life insurance

that makes us true is the bread

and the salt of the land

it’s everything that keeps us free

and madly together



from there I mounted on my eyes

a kind of wasting

and alcohol of vanity

because the vineyard is gone for good

and above all even above my dad

the forest is growing high

thus my joy is a kind of dream on the edge

kind of resentment

and tears swallowed again and again

by the rage