day 300 and seven-fold

inadequate to frighten,

we live a half nightmare,
with the world passing us by.
everyday, if remotely
there: will be a traffic light that fails.
it catches us by surprise.
here: will be a train that stops.
it resembles a failed ejaculation.
absolutely disdainful
but disgusting-ly so.
so we can sell ourselves
one by one
trucks of sweaty men,
and perfumed women.
and recall with romantic vigour,
the bedtime stories of our adopted parents.
and we can let someone else perform
our potency.

"countless windows quivered with manifold movement and light"

and the story goes,
that there are lions and fishes.
the lions jump into the rivers
, drown themselves with their dying sperms,
,and the fishes impregnate themselves by themselves.

each comma resembles a sperm.

and bridges hang lightly over the river -
commemorating -
the orgy that didn't happen.
and museums hold funeral wakes
cataloguing
plastic bones that last forever.
we hang, idly on organised
trees.
1 by 1
and chant
das Spiel dieses Nachts
and let cry in unison
with our hollowed throats
the painful, painful
random names of our parents.

and invent new names
for our hotel staff.
e.g. Arrivederci

to wash anew the bed linen,
(without virginal blood and semen).
wine glasses . . .
(sorry, I don't remember enough to write here.)


Messer Polo,
come visit again.
and dream this inadequate dream
of us in our tiny hole
where we view outside with a eye of a needle
and convince ourselves that
we will always be there for you
to carry the camel's burden.

"May I help you!"
translate.
and we will do well
sooner or later
and weave an adequate
nightmare.