it is life,
where ice-cold downpours whip the earth clean
and free of dirt,
where lightnings spread the shady fogs,
which cover the old shit, in the dark rooms –
it is life,
when the unhealthy, pale amphibians,
which lurk with red eyes,
shrink and crack
in the sun’s burning, honest light –
we hate a life in lavender smell
with gossip mirrors and three pairs of skirts –
noble lords with whores in the night
and horse hooves in spats –
we want transparent clarity,
we want to see, what there is,
for we know,
that esprit and ethics and virgin birth
is delicacies for castrates –
we know, that one room is enough for two,
petroleum oven and bread with fat,
and one bed, if they love each other –
we know, how eros is,
and how she looks under the clothes –
we know, that the old and musty corpses
stink worse
than those, who have dried in the sun –
come out, |
come out from the warm and sour air,
which is full of the smell of stolen meat-bones
and drifting heavy
with the spit of whispering lips
or stay in there
and choke yourselves
in your own poisonous breath –
we will use you,
we will strew you out over our meager earth
to fertilize the weak plants –
and when once our fruits ripen,
the air is clean. –