wild things surround me, stars
drift in, like teenage boys, the sky,
home to the moon seems far
and made from layers of gray clouds,
reflecting images inside the lake
so still that I can hear my beating heart.
What will you do, the echo asks,
is sleep or death your alter aim?
So, come! The sound of the old oak,
its creaky voice invites and reassures,
just rest a while, down at my feet
the moss has waited for this special day.
Und faellt er, da die Nase vornauf diese und das bringt den Zorn.Er schimpft auf alle Menschenaffenund Gucker die da steh’n und gaffen.Doch hat er sich’s selbst zuzuschreibener konnte bei der Wahrheit bleiben.Drum sage Dir, gibst Du Dein Wort(‘s ist ganz egal an welchem Ort) ,dann muss das bare Muenze seinsonst bist in aller Augen…
no sound was heardno breath was feltno ghost in sight.Yet something wasso near me I could senseits purpose in this night.Perhaps the filmwith Charles from Poland,had stirred somethinginside my soul,I had accepted that he,Bronson, affected mein curious ways.‘And miles to go,before I sleep’,it was the signalto a mind of innocence,now scripting himto maim and kill.So,…
sitting on the windowsill, eating,the Postman, ringing twice next door,a streetcar of desire screeching to a halt,and the traffic cop attending to impatience,and, at rush hour, his recurring boxershort creep.Across the street the baker was yawning again,that Yugoslavian woman dumping soapy waterout the window onto the busy sidewalk,and the paperboy, aged seventy plus, hoarsely,proclaiming that…
a disobedient angeldismissed by Godfor carnal acts,’twas morning thenand cold on earth.He sat within the shadeof ancient junipersand dreamed.When, silentlya dropp of silver dewbequeathed an urgent stirand, like a butterfly,she came.It was the welcome nectarof her hot desire.
so carefully-and touch the pre-licked gluejust lightly with my lips.Today, it’s self-stick all the way –and smudges on the screen of my computer.
And he didn’t like my cake.He said my biscuits were too hard…Not like his mother used to make.I didn’t perk the coffee rightHe didn’t like the stew,I didn’t mend his socksThe way his mother used to do.I pondered for an answerI was looking for a clue.Then I turned around and smacked the **it out of…
