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chung king express

9. Juli 2017 um 13:56

Ich nehme die erde

In meinen hosentaschen

In die hand und schlittere

Hinab ins pfirsichgelb

Die haare wie stahlstreben

Wie viele menschen in meinem leben

Sind noch menschen

Und wie viele sind plastiken

Mit wem rede ich tatsächlich

Und wen nicke ich ab

Freundlich und vergesslich ist mein fegefeuer

ich verwische die grenzen zwischen dem was ist, sein könnte

Und dem was ich bin, sein möchte

Triangulation präzise

Injiziert ins mark

Ich blicke dir nicht in die augen

Ich schaue entweder hindurch

Oder direkt in dein innerstes

Dazwischen ist nichts

Von relevanz für mich.

Was ich sehe: ein baum,

Sich behäbig im wind wiegend,

Wahrscheinlich schlafend,

Gleichzeitig aus und einatmend.

Was soll jemals aus mir werden?

explico algunas cosas

And one morning all that was burning, one morning the bonfires leapt out of the earth devouring human beings — and from then on fire, gunpowder from then on, and from then on blood. Bandits with planes and Moors, bandits with finger-rings and duchesses, bandits with black friars spattering blessings came through the sky to kill children and the blood of children ran through the streets without fuss, like children's blood. Jackals that the jackals would despise, stones that the dry thistle would bite on and spit out, vipers that the vipers would abominate! Face to face with you I have seen the blood of Spain tower like a tide to drown you in one wave of pride and knives! Treacherous generals: see my dead house, look at broken Spain : from every house burning metal flows instead of flowers, from every socket of Spain Spain emerges and from every dead child a rifle with eyes, and from every crime bullets are born which will one day find the bull's eye of your hearts. And you'll ask: why doesn't his poetry speak of dreams and leaves and the great volcanoes of his native land? Come and see the blood in the streets. Come and see The blood in the streets. Come and see the blood In the streets!

tulip vase by nils landberg for orrefors sweden, 1957

vincent atherton, cavin morris gallery

johanna grawunder sideboard

henning koppel for georg jensen

I let my face reveal neither relief nor gratitude: to obscure emotion has become for me a natural reflex; it helps me sometimes not to feel at all. Still there is one thing I cannot do, for there is no known way of making the mind clear-blank, and whatever I obliterate in daytime rises up at night in dreams to sleep beside me with an iron embrace.

Truman Capote

I want to write poems that are natural, luminous, deep, spare. I dream of an art so transparent that you can look through and see the world.

Stanley Kunitz