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.