Wednesday, 26 February 2020

The Hole of Rock’n’roll

Same socks for the fouth day,
lips red as settings sun,
tale so free and puffy,
hand holding a coffee cup with beer –
so I stand on the planet.

The last gurgles of a male choir.
A tradition if fullfilled,
and there is no more to come.

The last song festival or Oktoberfest,
the last Canterbury festival,
the last summe solstice,
the last war in Afganistan.

There are moment I have no idea
which handle to pull.
How to influence the world machine
so it won’t crush me?

A toothbrush it the only item
connecting me and humanity.
I spit the deep thoughts
into the sink
and get myselft ready.

It’s almost evening
when they drive us somewhere.
It’s almost empty, the community hall
where the native are shown
a poet,
who’s on an unpaid leave
for the fifth year in row,
needed by everybody,
invited to events –
like a big black butterfly
it the ceiling of it’s own room.

And then it’s over
as is never to repeat itself.
The buttles shed their hats
to honour the youth.
And there you stand,
just by the counter,
young and hot
like a iron in gas state.

Now there’s no shame
to be famous,
to laugh and swagger,
make fool of myself
and then sport profoundness,
to the be first fish to grow legs,
to stands of a bar table
and after that
just tell her: “Let’s leave this place”.

The coolness rises from the dark river
throught thin branches.
It’s not summer yet, but the juices are flowing.
You get naked
to the pleasure of all anglers.
And I choose the path
back to nature.

The people are are in the bus again,
the fallen friends and laughed about.
All of the rise from the dead –
an army of zombies takes the stage.

The girl looks as if
she carries a pussycat in her purse.
Somewhat shy,
somewhat confident.

This journey is forever.
The yellow gold of late summer
flowing by the windows
and I am not aware
if it’s this or the next autumn on the way.

Three rows to the front
sits a crestfallen Icaros,
looking at me as if to say:
“You ain’t gonna catch that sun.”

All lifetime with the same pair of socks,
wings fluttering
like an impotent Pegasus.
The rich tits of the world
force into the submissive face –
still I manage to get up
and escape to the wilderness.

Where could I find a paper so clean
that all the words wouldn’t seem dirty?
How awry must the park bench be
so that the humans
would drop from it?
Whoops and whoops
like candies in a factory.

Honest questions pulsate in my head.
I take a mouth full of moonshine
and forget it all.

Now it’s time.
Now I’m really here.
Right here in this moment,
directly and knowing nothings.

I’m surrounded by snowdrift
and dandellions,
rosehips are in bloom
and the lindend trees shed gold,
as if they don’t pity
the yellow billowing rye fields.

And I feel –
I just have to take one step
to cross this green hill
and there, in front me
it opens –
the hole of rock’n’roll.

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