Friday, October 14, 2005


No one is writing to you
No more letters to you, mein kleiner Gott
Those you’ve got
You can take
With every mistake in spelling there was and is
You can keep them
You can keep them adead
You can eat them up alive –
My A, B, C, D in your noodle soup.
Is your last supper at eight?
You can spill them on your checkered breast
There is no one to put you in a corner –
You are your own Dad,
So you miss the plum but not the hornets
Staying at rest just where you are –
at your Wailing Wall.
Isn’t your supper late?
Will it be an ox or a whale for the righteous men
Or should it be Leviathan?
No, you are vegetarian and you are unjust.
Now it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all.
Even if you already ate them at five or reread them at six.
You are not supposed to check your sex at the table
(staring in the meanwhile at your perfect socks.)
You are your own spouse, your own ex,
your only one,
your only old flame.
What have I told you, that you became so red?
What have you done me, that I became so rude?
I wonder.

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