| |
It doesn’t feel good if it’s schmutzig, if there’s schmutz on the brain stem, though there’s nothing
wrong with zaftig, if she is a little überly in the hips, or if we put on eine kleine rock musik—or if, after that,
we light the other end, light it mit nicotine, nicht wahr, a field trip to the nic bar, the last one in town, alas
and a lack—of paranoia?—no, but fines double in die schüle zone, du weißt, the filters are evidence, or they
are tampons, we all get on die schüle bus together, with yellow stains on our fingers, or else it’s last call, the
glasses are dry, the ashes fly right out of them, they hair up the air, the hairy air, every nacht und every day,
the play’s the ding, or dong—the collars rise at dawn, there are phallic astral projections, a cosmic looping,
animals without backbones, or front bones, or any bones, then something comes crawling out the lake, a
black hole, the birth of consciousness, of irony, du weißt, the basilisk in my pants, it cracks open my crotch,
my belly, there is an out-of-body sexperience, then a plötzlich reversal—ach, I’m back in my skin again, my
pelt, with these ill-gotten grains, this filthy pelf, lucre or lycra, or spandex, it’s all the same, I say, peel ’em
off, liebchen, and make it schnell—in the background there are schwa sounds, an outline of penumbral
vowels, of vowels without backbones, without clothes, from blousy to blouseless, the coils of her wheaten
hair, her attentive nipples like an umlaut, diacritically alert and—my diphthong at the ready, I’m prepared for
punctuation, but not for a sudden question mark: why is the big hand for the minutes, she asks, and the little
hand for the hours—it should be the other way around, nicht wahr?
|
|
the
dasein
of
clocks
marc
kipniss
|