Poems

If someone asks I have at hand 

a view and at home another two in me

sleep the flies I can get homesick too

sometimes the heartshit this white beating like

Jasmine this time I won’t go there for

On the tour boat last time I sat by

an old vice-admiral we began

to chat he asked if I was for

peace yes I said on all accounts but

not for all he blinked he laughed lightly

a little bit more than slightly

When my mother died I was too

alone I took from my pocket one by one six swarms

of mosquitoes in the sky above through the neighbourhood like poppies

green at least it was a task But you see the point was

how all the street chattered like a funnel of tin

and a suitcase of asphalt guided her to the platform

my mother as is fitting.

Well, that girl, that girlie with a moustache And

Thin like a broom read my coffee: The sixth

station is another nation (no matter which one) oh, green 

a quarter to alive it’s a little late, she said.

in featherhouse lives a rooster 

in leafhouse the lane 

a rabbit lives in pelthouse 

in waterhouse a lake

in cornerhouse – the patrol 

pushes someone from the balcony there

above the elder tree, then

it was suicide again

in paperhouse lives the official statement