live with me without order,
in the perpetual fall of the dead leaves,
in a berlin exile without a wall.
on unter den linden
we will invent the new
dada
togetherness.
we will torture words
until they speak only what we
need to hear – i love you
explosion poetry yellow glass stone headache
contour hair-locks oblivion sex angels wine – i love you.
my tongue will carve my name on your shoulder,
i shall purr a bit curled up in the lap of faith.
sentiments will inhale
paint thinner
in the train stations of so many break-ups
and we will get crushed by the aquatic trunk
of the fog.
two flowers in-between the pages of the night.