the day again reeks rather disgustingly
more defeats, today however ordered so that you’re not even angry
getting closer and closer to your wobbly hour
of unintentional ruination
so that afterward it’s the ever same old
but so far it’s longing and smiling
you especially find untrustworthy
in the balmy morning hours of a foreign city –
a continually repeated wrestle
with the clock, with escaping
the derogatory company of men of the world and somehow managerised folks
toying with punk, which doesn’t hurt
toying with punk, which fits, which has to, as part of something:

somewhere later in a deserted bar between the dead-end canals someone pulls out an old record of Bill Haley’s
it’s not, dunno –
together we peer into the countryside darkness of a sleepy periphery beyond the city’s all thinkable peripheries
trying to forget about something
whilst making our way from the sink and the storage onto the yard with the earth-closet
sometimes we yearn for complete pretermission
on the way to the tram stop Between the Islands

Translated by David Vichnar