mauer im kopf

bricks and the stuff in between
angry fetid turgid bland
_terribly_ uncompromising

the faces though,
as they spread across this myopic sea
wouldn’t dare be caught listless!

it’s been years now
but where do i start
and when am i finished?

your violet trembling peach skin
that recalls drowning for the only second it’s pleasant-
it yearns to tremble for nobody in particular-

how this, banal, unbecoming, disillusioned
is what i’m supposed to yearn for
instead of clean proofs, こもれびー *

i am posed against the monolith of hours
the sapient judge of my worth,
and excuses are, as expected, lacking.

but why supplication to this unimpressed god?
stars, though fragile and constant,
really only seem to exist for half a day.

this room, いらないものだらけだ。**

my head, heavy with syrup that won’t slosh.
my heart, filled as it is, spiteful of a head who wont share all the pancakes it so obviously has.

the valve just shuts off half way through anymore.
i don’t know how to reset the timer or anything.
it’s real fuckin’ annoying.

at least we can have lunch tomorrow.

———————————————————————–
*-(komorebi – the light which filters through trees)

**-(iranai mono darake da – filled only with things i do not need)

pearls

in the hot and choking advance
of decisions incalculable and apathetic
utility comes to a sludgy stop.

in days where god dies
and those structures we’ve rested our thoughts on
leak out of our ears,

will you accompany me
to a beach-side sunrise
where it’s too cold, and your stomach hurts?

your normally smiling face may be made stern
confronting so much light-
and perhaps you’ll retreat into me.

what good are pearls, once strung?

soif

with the myopic tremble
sprung from conjunctions
verbs,
undulating in warm turns
and swimming down my throat like antimony,

let’s be frank
your eyelids will mark passionate calculus
in the framing and allure of paroxysm
(you can call it that)
but the limitless bounds of tomorrow
still won’t really matter much.

tumult notwithstanding
and the black of your eyeliner twisting
gnawing at the coals glowing calmly
in the center of your chest,
the ochre tones of your walls
the same as your un-seamed skin

how fast, i wonder, is 10 Hertz?
and does that really matter?

Easy game

when’s 2 and two?
in a pink and fluffy chain of deuterium
active conglomerations of capitalism
smackin’ greenies ‘cross the ol’ Width times Height
think love is nothing!

but isn’t it nicer
you and me sitting here
drinking weevil poison
and lamenting how not dead we are?

ah~
the dream of a dream you can’t wake up from!

i don’t like those little things they give you
when you don’t make small talk correctly
little tiny glass beads
useless little things

why can’t you and i lift up above the clouds
and the salty stacks of meat in expensive eyewear
trying to look like expensive eyewear
will cook like zucchini

didn’t you say something to the effect
that inside man there is a wandering child
and inside the wandering child is
a grief-stricken smile, tired, resigned eyes?

despite it all
maybe because of it all
no, definitely because of it all
otherwise what is there–

maybe this is what the psychopath thinks
when he tries on people like hats
on cloudy, boring, midwestern days
when multiplication tables have lost their charm…

laika

遠くに飛んでるってー
tooku ni tonderu tte –
どうして泣いてるの、クロカ?
doushite naiteruno, kloka?
あたしきっとー
atashi kitto –

緑服をきている人
midori fuku wo kiteiru hito
きょはたくさんあるー
kyo ha takusan aru –
みんあ心配させたみたいー
minna shinpai saseta mitai-

この カプセル は
kono kapuseru ha
暖かい気持ちいい
atatakai kimochi ii
子宮のなか
shikyuu no naka

クロカ、またねー
kloka, mata neー

にどとあかない扉がしまる
nidoto akanai tobira ga shimaru

星になったの犬、えねんにとんでいます。
hoshi ni natta no ken, enen ni tondeimasu.

———————————————————–

Когда мужчина умирает
С ним исчезает всё:
Его первый снег,
Его первый поцелуй,
Его первая драка –

-yevgeniy yevtushenko

————————————————————

Young love

Young and of spritely nature, you are now aware of the existence of a milk-skinned maiden, clad in the armor of spring’s flourish.
important words, words that leave the ever-abstruse machinations of time jittering and unsure, escape with tense surety.
as important as the works of the heart of echo herself, and less taciturn, perhaps.

though i am useless
love me anyway
and this sadness is what love is –

though we retire to clover fields
chastise me for meandering too often
and this joy is what love is –

my brother, allow just this of a soul perhaps too tempted to stare ahead blithely –

enjoy all of this. always remember every single thing.

striking pavement

the coasting words that float past
the world which only hints at repose:
you look sleepily forward, as though underneath
amethyst waves

the symetric clicking which keeps us plodding along
tearing through memories, shearing away hopes
those things we would never forget, but which remain untouched
because of softly dappling streaks
of well-shampooed hair

what is regret if we can’t feel it?
and where will the righteous die?
in dreams we may never wake from –
where time has stopped without being so polite
as to leave drops of dew behind

breathing now slightly more labored –
considering whether anne sexton knows yet now
and why decision has in its reptilian hands
a threatening blade –
a snarling cudgel –

to lie here at night
and hope i could watch you breathe
doze
and hold you in our sacred position.

but what good is hope without action?

what good is decision without forethought?

what good are we by ourselves?

nonetheless we are the glance of a stranger in the car of a foreign subway,
but i remember the glance all too vividly.