When he left me, I ran through the city screaming.
I was thirty-four and knew nothing about this loud vocal organ,
with roots down to the belly, as deep as underwater pipes.
I tried, cough them up, the hardened kisses, the wrong words,
Schmelz, that even softens a rhea;
they force repentance, Meter by meter, through the greatest
and warmest windows, that was still open to the body;
From my side it was probably love, bähh–, of his only
Seasoning for tea.
But then, Look here, The thing was already after four weeks
also eaten for me. Life went on, even if not mine.
Amnesia here too. So don't hang me on the wrong word,
wenn ich so spät noch eruier’:
How to describe a renowned asshole
I liked his age. His gray broom hair. His fat mouth,
the wonderful swimming ring around his belly. I never met a man
such cheese socks. He went to Monte Carlo, gambled away all that money there,
the she wisely forwarded to him, with the request: Come home soon
and turn to sensible things, my dear man, of
big genie!
The design of a modern church, a bankempore, bedachung
another bull arena. Didn't he have ideas about ideas? Hotel
Gstaad still as a paper mache next to the toilet by clever knocking
to transform the cultural into a high-flyer phallus made of ice crystals.
(inklusive Spa.)
"A little neighborhood help", he said, when he finally did
returned home, End of Summer, the car, wisely from your paid,
went to scrap; he constructed a double soundproof door,
between his floor and the their, climbed further under the roof, in order to
drill: a hole in the sky.
A little neighborhood help: "Come over! Here you can sunbathe,
naked. Nobody sees it!" To me. So I leaned against a fireplace, while he was having champagne
and mashed strawberries danced over me, two flares and the
the one divided by the wind, snow-white bathing coat. (also a
charmingly stolen souvenir from some world hotel.)
And now me. No thank you! I said laughing.
I'm going over there in a minute. (Which meant as much as: home, in my
Micro Lodge No.. 33.) Leisurely forced me to turn back, lolled me,
Millimeter by millimeter through the drilled hole (a weak one
Resistance).
As I said: With him only the snow-white bathrobe was open.
For me it was probably love, bähhh—- everything at stake!
I mean: Louis Quatorze Winestein, also some sort of god.
Was, when he touches you? Are you that ass!?—-
And now: amnesia! cut!
(2.12.21)