ISLAND MOUNTAIN GLACIER (excerpt)
Even when you wake up over a death zone and you strap your kids in tight as belts: let me
take a look out the window see how bad, you can’t see anything because it’s a bird’s-eye-war.
Even when a target waves at you from the ground after all and you long for pale stars
on that tiny brow, you taxi across the training ground of your grimaces and play every role.
Even when you walk up to the kids naked and say Schuld you know what Schuld means that you
did nothing but confess and you relinquish your skin, strip after strip, because it’s a bird’s-eye-war.
Even when her shaft contracts and tameabilty escapes her red welding, she fans
the fire that heats the system through and her brille dissolves to a yes! optimism, she stalls.
Even when her XXL-lucky size emerges above ground ‘like a dead miner’ (I first count
my women, then my days), she remembers the small methods of his hands.
Even when this happens to her and the ear is torn too bad like paper from her head
she crushes optimism like bouncy balls über her axles and conquers her breathing.
Even when I fail to grasp the breath-taking in your opinion and my mouth mimics
the sound of breaking stone but not precise enough, too fine, startled, new, you fuck me.
Even when I fail to recognise the fickle meaning of the letter l (leitmotiv, layman,
long stay parking) and I say lava to your salvo and or lover, it is only the l, you fuck me.
Even when I drop my Job’s-grievance and you look up from your molehill with
the uncertain eyes of ‘so who can turn this street engulfing mud slide’, you fuck me.
Even when someone rises up in me and lifts your sentences from our Procrustean bed and you
stammer ‘pleasure heals but what was whole heals not’ etc, you fuck me even when that’s me.
Even when I, in this minute of my kingdom, in this household of seasons (jan steen), in this
temple (breath), leave it all to you (here sweetie, for you) I turn your thin meat into a spectacle.
Even when I touch the recollection of your hips, your hands tiger my uh-huh parts
ingest me (tongue chest mouth) and I read my gape from your lips or should that be gave.
Even when you place your powers above a law for love and it’s me who takes your
workmanship so that the same blossoms in my hands, I want how you hold back.
Even when you oblige yourself to me and beget the omnipotent once more and you say
‘you remain unspoilt by what turns love into a product’, I want how you hold back.
Even when you subject yourself to my shame and I run away from you through a landscape
‘nobody will ever expect a postcard from this place’, I want how you hear me.
Even when you flex your smallest joints in the unfolding of your scream, you are
your shape’s positive and what distorts the sheets, shy one, is the self-tonguing child.
Even when you scrape a final atom from your skin, you’d like to be a there there dodo
as the last heart (island), as the last mountain (belly) or simply fabulous as a cunt (glacier).