Dr who akhenaten granddaughter sayings


Added 9 April 2018 Comparing Translations =

X Can't be mourning / No need for sorrow


I have organized my translations of Benn’s poems according to the following categories:

I Juvenilia (1910) = Hoarfrost+ Fields of the unblessed.

II Morgue (1912) = Kleine Aster / Little Aster + Beautiful youth/ Lovely childhood + Cycle/ Natural cycle + Negro bride/ Black man’s bride + requiem/ requiem + appendix/ Appendicitis + Man and woman go through the crab barracks/ Man and woman go through the cancer ward + Night cafe/ Night café+ Maternity ward.

III Early Expressionism (1912-1914) = man (Beach by the sea) / Man (Beach by the sea) + Café (Nachtcafé II) / Café (Night café II) + D-Zug / Express train + Casino / Officer's mess + Herbst / Autumn + Morgue II / Morgue II + Café des Westens / Café des Westens + Dirnen / Whores + Europe, this one Nasenpobel / Europe, this piece of snot + We got into a poppy field / We came into a poppy field + One sang:… / Someone sang:… + Don Juan joined us / Don Juan came to visit + In front of a cornfield / In front of a corn field + Chants / songs + Then Icarus fell at our feet/ Then Icarus fell to our feet + Threats/ Threats + The R.äuber-Schiller / The Robbers-Schiller + Das Affenlied / Ape song + Madonna / Madonna + Über Gräber / Over graves + Englisches Café / English café + Kur-Konzert / Spa concert + Untergrundbahn / In the subway + Nachtcafé (Nachtcafé III) / Night café (Night café III) + The young Hebbel / Young Hebbel + A group of people who ran upSons screamed / A troop of strident sons did cry + Mutter / Mother + Threat + A man speaks / A man speaks + Here is no consolation / I offer no consolation + Schnellzug / The Express + Flowers I-II / Flowers I- II + Finish / Finish + Nachtcafé / Night café + Nachtcafé I / Night café I + Nachtcafé II / Night café II + Marie / Maria.

IV Poems of Transcendence (1914-1917) = Icarus/ Icarus + Caryatid / Caryatid + Reise / Journey + Aufblick / A glance upwards + Cretan vase / Cretan vase + O, Nacht -: / Oh, night-: + Through the elder wood it came in a flurry + Der Doctor / The doctor + Fleisch / Flesh + Der Psychiater / The psychiatrist + Das Instrument / The instrument + Notturno / Nocturne + Das Plakat / The poster + Ball / Ball + Poplar / Poplar + Cocain / Cocaine + Relapse (O Geist) / Relapse (Oh, mind!) + Synthesis / synthesis.

V Late Expressionism (1917-1923) = Who are you - / Who are you - + Lousy pushers / Lousy pushers + Tripper / gonorrhea + hours - anthropophages / hours - anthropophagi + Strand / Beach + Pouf / Brothel + Prolog 1920 / Prologue 1920 + Take those first / Take that first + Nacht / Night + One thinks, one writes / One thinks, one writes + Inwardly / Inwardly + you, Nubian land / For you, Nubian land + Finale / Finale + Darker Summer / Darker Summer + Die Heimat nie– / The homeland never - + Chaos / Chaos + Chanson / Chanson + Café / Café + Bolshevik / Bolshevik + Oh, you dissolving - [Fog] / Oh, you who flows away [Mist] + Dedication +Pastor's son/Pastor’s son +Curetage/Curette +The late me/The Late Self.

VI Rubble / Rubble trilogy (1923) = rubble / rubble + Palau / Palau + places of the skulls.

VII BetÄExercise / Anathetics (1925) = I + II + III + IV + V.

VIII Split / division (1925) = Dunkler - / Darker - + Levkoienwelle / Wave of Gillyflower + Gypsophila / Lily of the Veil + Sea and Wanderings / Legends of the Sea and Journeyings - + The Singer / The Singer + Dänin I / Danish Woman I +Dänin II / Danish Woman II + Dynamics / Dynamics + Staatsbibliothek / Municipal library + Details / Details + Theogonia / Theogonies + Only when / Only when + Banana / Bananas + East Africa / East Africa / Stadtarzt / Civic doctor.

IX Final Years of Weimar Republic (1925-1933) = Zwischenreich / Twilight realm + “Wie lang -” / “How long -” + White walls + What do you sing then - / What do you sing then - + Vision of man + hours, streams / hours, streams + She: where would you like to live / She: where would you like to live + Schöpfung / Creation + Sow your dream into the great expanse + Easter Island / Easter Island + Mediterranean / Mediterranean + Love / Love + Farewell / Farewell + Fürst Krafft / Count Krafft + Choral / Choral + Die hyperemische Reiche / The hyperemian realms + Annonce / Advertisement + Qui sait / Qui sait + Orphic Cells / Orphic Cells + Regressiv / Regression + See the Stars, See the Catches / See the Stars, see the Claws + Drunken Flood / Drunken Flood + You too / You also + You have to give yourself everything / You must to yourself give all + Jena / Jena + Always silent / Ever more silent + Primary days / Primary days

X The incessant/The never-ending (1930) = first part / first part + second part / second part + third part / third part.

XI Third Reich (1933-1934) = Olympia / Olympia + The Bowl / The Bowl + Sils-Maria / Sils-Maria + Suffering of the gods + once again / Once again + Einst / Once + Dedication + Olympia / Olympia + Ein Land / A Land + Through every hour + Where no tear falls / Where no tear falls + In Memoriam Höhe 317 / In memoriam Height 317 + Mann - / Man -

XII Inner Emigration (1934-1943) = At ​​the bridge weir / On the parapet + Still hold the swords / In spite of all, hold firm the sword + Your is - / Yours is - + Dreams, dreams - + That Whole / Entire + Asters / Asters + Turin / Turin + Day that ends the summer + Oh, the sublime / Oh, the sublime + The white sails / White sails + At the edge of the Nordic sea / On the edge of the Nordic sea + Spät Im Jahre / Late in the year + Doppelkonzert / Double concerto + Anemone / Anemone + Valse Triste / Valse Triste + Whoever is alone + Leben - nieder Wahn / Life - a lowly form of madness + Do you seek - / You seek - + I lower your eyelids / Onto your eyelids I lower grief + Lonely never - / Never more lonely -

XIII Twenty-Two Poems /Twenty-Two Poems (1943) = When something light / When something light + Inapplicable / Impractical +Recreation / Sketch of the past + monologue / monologue + Mediterranean / Mediterraneanesque + Is that not heavier + In a city / In a city + Gardens and nights + A late view + Du trägst / You bear + All the graves / All the graves + Farewell / Departure + The features of your… / The features of you… + Pictures / Pictures + Interior / Interior + Poems / Poems + Henri Matisse: “Asphodeles” / Henri Matisse: “Asphodeles” + Wave of the Night / Wave of the Night + A word / A Word + Lost Self + The Companions + Verse / verse

XIV The Static Period (1943-1946) = Valse d’Automne / Valse d’Automne + If you look over the years / When one reviews the years + St. Petersburg - mid-century / St. Petersburg - middle of the century + Summer / Summer + September / September + O give - / Oh, give - + Wet fences + Little sweet face + 1886/1886 + Clemenceau / Clemenceau + Der Traum / The dream + Die Form / Form + Certain evenings of life / Certain evenings of a life + Static poems / Static Poems + Chopin / Chopin + Rosen / Roses + Orpheus' Tod / Death of Orpheus + Then / Then + Oh, the distant land + Acheron / Acheron + Quarternary / Quartenary + 5th century / Fifth Century.

XV Fragments/Fragments (1951) = Destruction / Devastations + We draw a wide bow / We draw a great arc – + Cover yourself up / Disguise yourself – + Still life / Still life + Restaurant / Restaurant + Notturno / Notturno + Konfetti / Confetti + Gladiolen / Gladiolas + Finis Poloniae / Finis Poloniae + Treffen / Encounters + Blue Hour / Blue hour + Der Dunkle / The dark one + The lattice / The cage + Reisen / Traveling + Satzbau / Sentence construction + Denk der Vergeblichen / A Thought for the futile + Fragmente / Fragments + You no longer overlook yourself - / You no longer understand yourself - + A shadow on the wall / A shadow on the wall + A hymn / A hymn + Ideal continued life? / Spiritual Survival?

XVI Distillations / Distillations (1953) =  Traum / Dream + Late / Late +Painful hour + Take away the amaryllis / Take away the amaryllis + Melodies / Melodies + Farewell - / Farewell – + There are - / There is - + Distant songs / Distant songs + Narrowed / Constrained + Destille / Grog shop + The young people / To young people + Bar / Bar + Außenminister / Foreign minister + An - / To - + Despair + No one should cry / No one should cry + What is bad / What is bad + Imposed / Burdened + Only two things / Two things only + Many autumns + Those / For that one + March. Letter to Meran / March: Letter to Meran.

XVII Aprèslude (1955)/ Aprèslude =Zwei Träume / Two dreams + Left the house - +Tristesse / Tristesse + Reality / Reality +Olympic / Olympian + Everything is fleeting / All still fleeting now + Melancholy / melancholy + Come - / Come - + In a night + Impromptu / Impromptu + Heim / Home + Your Studies / Your études + Mountain ash / Rowan trees + The features of your ... / The features of you ... + “Broadway sings and dances” / “Broadway sings and dances” + But these are people / But these are people too + Please where - / Please where - + Bauxite / bauxite + Aprèslude / aprèslude +"Completion" / "Resolution"+ But you -? / But you -? + Part-part / So, so +Nike / NikeWords / words + People I have met + Last spring / One final spring + Poem / poem

XVIII Final and unpublished Poems = Epilog 1949 / Epilogue 1949 + Who knows return in dreams / Whoever has known eternal return in his dreams + If at the end of the journey / If at your journey’s end + Beautiful evening + Then the sounds / Then the sounds brought order in + Old waiter + Oh, how my heart rests in new sorrow / Oh, how my heart in new sorrow rests + How is that / However it may be + What was Luther getting at with his apple tree? + Von tropics, deserts and the Andes / By the tropics, deserts and the Andes + Turin II / Turin II + Stillness + Schumann / Schumann + Radio / radio + Order / order + Goodbye - / Farewell - + Artist morality / The artist’s doctrine + Small culture mirror / letter cultural commentary + Chalices / Calyx + Listen / Listen + For Berlin / For Berlin +A quiet day + You lie and are silent and dream the hour after / You rest in silence and dream the hour through + The foreground of art + Das Haus in Bremen / The house in Bremen + Berlin / Berlin + Breathe easily + Up -! / Away -! + From Bremen's sister city / From Bremerhaven + General / General +Radar / radar + Mr. Wehner / Mr. Wehner +To Ernst Jünger / To Ernst Jünger + Melody / Melody + So still - / So still - + Wohin - / Where to - + Can not be sad / No need for sorrow


I juvenilia

Benn wrote a number of poems as a young man. Most remained unpublished, although they are now available in his Complete Works. Two, however, were published: “Hoar Frost” and “Fields of the Unblest”, appearing in the journal Border messengers in 1910. These poems reflect Benn’s attachment to the Impressionist style that was current in the period before Expressionism. They are short and highly crafted texts, which give voice to a poetic sensibility that is still in an early stage of self-definition.

Realms of the unhappy.I am fed up with my island addiction, the dead green, the mute herds; I want to become a shore, a bay, a port of beautiful ships. My beach wants to feel walked on by living things with warm feet; the spring grumbles in giving desire and wants to cool throats. And everything wants to rise up in someone else's blood and drown in someone else's glow of life, and nothing wants to remain in itself. Fields of the Unblest Weary I am of my longing for an island of dead green, of silent flocks; I want to become a shore, a bay, a harbor for splendid ships. My coast seeks to feel itself walked upon by the warm feet of the living; The spring murmurs in giving cravings and seeks to quench throats. And everything seeks to rise up into foreign blood, and drunken propel itself into a further glowing of life, and nothing wants to remain in itself.

Hoarfrost Something came out of the foggy air and grew overnight as a white shadow around the fir, tree and box. And shone like the soft white that falls from clouds, and silently redeemed a dark world in pale beauty. Hoar frost Something from the mist-drenched air detached itself and grew overnight into a white shadow that clung around silver fir, tree and bush. And it shone like the soft whiteness that falls from the clouds, and silently released a dark world into pale beauty.



Morgue and other poems (1912)Benn’s first volume of poetry was Morgue and other poems (Morgue and Other Poems), which he published in brochure form in 1912. Benn wrote the poems while he was working as a pathologist in Berlin hospitals, carrying out autopsies. Benn draws on his medical experience in his poems, but transforms it through a perspective that is both analytical and surreal. His disconcerting subject matter had never been seen before in German poetry: a drowned girl is opened up to reveal a nest of rats within her body; a dead prostitute has her gold fillings stolen by a mortuary attendant; the corpses of a dead negro and a white woman are aligned in an erotic pose; the visceral remains of dissected corpses are described in detail, which strangely brings them back to life; an autopsy is sketched in comic macabre tones; and a man and women walk (take a stroll even) through a cancer ward. With their grim viscerlity and bleak realism, Benn’s poems have retained the disconcerting power that shocked his contemporary readers.

Small aster A drowned beer driver was propped on the table. Someone had stuck a dark purple aster between his teeth. When I cut the tongue and roof of the mouth out from under the skin with a long knife from the chest, I must have pushed them, because they slipped into the adjacent brain. I grabbed it in his chest cavity between the wood wool as they sewed up. Have a full drink in your vase! Rest gently, little aster! Little aster A drowned drayman was propped up upon a dissecting table. Someone or other had stuck a dark-lilac aster between his teeth. As I was cutting through his chest from under his skin with a long knife, to extract his tongue and palate, I must have nudged the flower, for it slid into the brain beside it. As he was being sewn up, I packed the flower back into his stomach cavity, between the padding. Drink to the full in your new vase! Rest in peace, little aster!

Beautiful youth The mouth of a girl who had been lying in the reeds for a long time looked so gnawed. When the chest was opened, the esophagus was so full of holes. Finally, in an arbor under the diaphragm, a nest of young rats was found. A little sister was dead. The others lived on their liver and kidneys, drank the cold blood and had had a lovely youth here. And her death came beautifully and quickly: They were all thrown into the water. Oh, how the little snouts squeaked! Lovely childhood The mouth of girl, who had lain long in the water reeds, looked gnawed away. When her chest was opened up, the gullet was found to be full of holes.And then, in the cavity below the diaphragm a nest of young rats was discovered. One little sister lay dead; the others nourished themselves on the girl’s liver and kidneys, drank her cold blood, and had enjoyed here a lovely childhood. And sweet and swift came their deaths too: they were all thrown into the water. Oh how their little snouts squeaked!

Cycle The lonely molar of a prostitute who had died unknown had a gold seal on it. The rest had gone out as if on a silent appointment. The corpse knocked it out, moved him and went to dance. Because, he said, only earth should become earth. Natural cycle The solitary molar of a whore, who had died without name or address, contained a gold filling. The remaining teeth, as if in a silent agreement, had already decamped. The mortuary attendant removed this final tooth, which he pawned, so that he could go to a dance. For, as he said: only earth should return to earth.

Negro bride Then the blond neck of a white woman lay on pillows of dark blood. The sun raged in her hair and licked her pale thighs long and kneeled around her brownish breasts, still undisfigured by vice and childbirth. A nigger next to her: eyes and forehead torn apart by horse hooves. He dug two toes of his dirty left foot into the inside of her little white ear. But she lay and slept like a bride: at the edge of her happiness of first love and as before the departure of many ascents of the young warm blood. Until the knife was lowered into her white throat and a purple apron made of dead blood was thrown around her waist. The Black Man’s Bride There lay then bedded on cushions of dark blood the fair head of a white woman. The sun raged in her hair and licked along the length of her golden thighs and bent over her browner breasts, not yet disfigured through vice or childbirth. A Negro was beside her: a blow from the hoof of a horse had torn his eyes and head apart. Two toes from his dirty left foot bore into her little white ear. She lay there quietly, however, and slept like a betrothed: on the eve of her happiness of her first love and as if before the beginning of many ascensions for her young warm blood. Until someone sank a blade into her white throat and spread a crimson apron of cold blood around her hips.

requiem Two on each table. Men and women crosswise. Close, naked, and yet without agony. Open your skull. Breast in two. The bodies will now give birth for the very last time. Each three bowls full: from brain to testicle. And God's temple and the devil's stable now breast to breast on a bucket of ground smile Golgotha ​​and the fall of man. The rest in coffins. Lots of new births: man’s legs, child’s breasts and woman’s hair. I saw two of them who would one day whore, it lay there as if from a mother's womb. requiem There are two on each table: men and women criss-crossed. Together, naked, and yet without torment. Their skulls open. Their chests cleaved. Their bodies give birth for the very last time. Each one yield three bowls: from brains to scrotum. And God’s temple and the devil’s stable now breast to breast at the bottom of a pail sneer at Golgotha ​​and the fall of man. The remainder into coffins. All newborns :. men’s legs, chests of children and women’s hair. I saw two, who once fornicated, lying there, as if from the body of their mother.

Appendix Everything is white and ready to be cut. The knives are steaming. The belly is painted. Something that whines under white towels. “Privy Councilor, the time has come”. The first cut. Like cutting bread. "Clamps here!" It splashes red. Deeper. The muscles: moist, sparkling, fresh. Is there a bouquet of roses on the table? Is that pus that splashes? Has the intestine been scratched a bit? “Doctor, when you stand in the light, no deibel can see the peritoneum. Anesthesia, I can't operate, the man is walking on his stomach. " Silence, dull damp. A thrown scissors clink through the void and the angelic sister holds out sterile swabs. "I can't find anything in the dirt!" “Blood turns black. Mask off! " "But - Lord of Heaven - dearest, just hold your heels tighter!" Everything grown together. Finally: caught! "Annealing iron, sister!" It hisses. You were lucky again, my son. The thing was about to perforate. “Do you see that little green spot? - Three hours, then the stomach was full of dirt. " Belly too. Skin too. “I got adhesive plaster! Good morning, gentlemen. " The hall becomes empty. Death rattles and grinds its cheeks furiously and sneaks into the crab barracks. Appendicitis Everything is white and ready for incision. The scalpels glow. On the stomach lines have been drawn. Under the white sheets there is something that whimpers. “Dear Privy Councilor. It is time ”. The first cut. As if one is cutting bread. “Bring the forceps!”. Red is spurting from somewhere. Deeper. The muscles: moist, glowing, fresh. Is this a bunch of roses on the operating table? Is that pus that is now spurting? Have the bowels been slit? “Doctor, if you stand in the light, none of us can see his innards”. Bring anesthetic. I can't operate. The man is going to walk about with his stomach. Silence. Heavy, moist. Through the emptiness there rattles a pair of sissors thrown to the flour. And the nurses with the feeling of angels hold out sterile swabs. "I can't find anything in this muck!" “Blood is turning black. Take the mask off! " “But - Oh, God in Heaven - friend, just hold the clamps closer together. Everything is a mess. But finally: we've got it. "Hot iron, sister!" It sizzles. You have been lucky again, my son. The thing was about to perforate. “Do you see that tiny green spot? - In three hours the stomach would have been full of muck ”. Close up the stomach. Close up the skin. "Bring some plaster!" “Good day to you, gentlemen”. The operating theater empties. Raging, death rattles and grinds its teeth, and slinks into the cancer ward.

Man and woman go through the crab barracks The man: Here this row is eaten up laps and this row is crumbled breast. Bed stinks with bed. The sisters change every hour. Come on, take this blanket up. Look: this lump of fat and rotten juices that was once great for some man and was also called intoxication and home. - Come on, look at that scar on my chest. Do you feel the rosary from soft knots? Feel it. The flesh is soft and does not hurt.- Here this one bleeds as if from thirty bodies. Nobody has that much blood. - Here this one first cut a child from the cancerous lap. - You let her sleep. Day and night. - The newcomers are told: Here you can sleep soundly. - They are only left a little more awake on Sundays for the visit. - Little is still consumed in food. The backs are sore. You see the flies. Sometimes the sister washes her. How to Wash Benches. - Here the field is already swelling around every bed. Meat levels on land. Embers go away. Juice is preparing to run. Earth calls. - Man and woman walk through a cancer ward The man: Here, this row of decaying wombs, and this row is of decomposed breasts. Bed after bed stinks. The nurses change hourly. Come: lift up this blanket gently. Look at this lump of fat and stinking fluid. That was for some man once something wonderful and also meant passion and his home. Come: look at this scar on this breast. Can you feel the rosary of soft nodules? Just have a feel. The flesh is soft and feels no pain. This one here bleeds as if from thirty bodies. No one has so much blood. And here, a baby has just been cut from a cancerous womb. We leave them to sleep. Day and night. - The new arrival is told: here you can sleep yourself back into health. - Only on Sundays are they roused a bit for the visitors. - Few have any wish to eat. Their backs are infected. You can see the flies. Sometimes the sisters wash them. Like one washes benches. - And around each bed soil already begins to soften. Flesh is getting ready for the ground. The glow of life recedes. Sap prepares for its final flow. The earth is calling. -

Night cafe 824: The love and life of women. The cello has a quick drink. The flute belches for three bars: the beautiful sunset. The drum reads the crime novel to the end. Green teeth, pimples on the face beckon to an inflammation of the eyelid. Fat in the hair speaks to an open mouth with a throat almond faith love hope around the neck. Young goiter is good saddle nose. He pays three beers for her. Beard lichen buys cloves to soften double chins. B minor: the 35th sonata. Two eyes roar: Don't splash this Chopin's blood into the hall so that the pack slips on! Enough! Hey Gigi! - The door flows to: A woman: desert. Parched. Canaanite brown. Chaste. Cave realm. A scent comes with me. Hardly any fragrance. It's just a sweet bulge of air against my brain. Obesity tumbles behind. Night cafe 824: The loves and lives of women. The ‘cello has another quick drink. The flute belches throughout three beats: his tasty supper. The drum reads his crime thriller to the end. Green teeth, pimples on his face, waves to infected eye. Greasy hair talks to open mouth with swollen tonsils: Faith Hope Charity around his neck. Young goitre has the hots for saddle nose: he shouts her three beers. Barber’s rash buys carnations to soften up double chin. B minor: sonata opus 35. Two eyes flash into life: Don’t spill the blood of Chopin in this place, so that this crowd can sprawl around in it! That's enough! Hey Gigi! - The door dissolves: woman. Scorched desert. Canaanite brown. Pure. Open to the full. A fragrance comes with her. Hardly a fragrance. More a sweet protuberance of air, against my brain. A paunched obesity slouches behind her.

Room of the women rioting The poorest women in Berlin - thirteen children in one and a half rooms, whores, prisoners, outcasts - bend their bodies here and whimper. Nowhere is there so much shouting. Nowhere is pain and suffering so completely ignored as here, because something is always screaming here. “Press, woman! Do you understand, yes? You are not there for pleasure. Do not drag on the matter. There is also excrement in the crowd! You are not there to rest. It doesn't come by itself. You have to do something! " Finally it comes: bluish and small. Urine and stool anoint it. From eleven beds with tears and blood it greets a whimper as a salute. A chorus of jubilees rises up to heaven from just two eyes. Everything will pass through this little piece of meat: misery and happiness. And if it dies one day in rattle and agony, there are twelve others in this room. Maternity Ward The poorest women of Berlin - thirteen children in one and a half rooms, whores, criminals, the outcast - writhe here in their bodies and whimper. Nowhere else is there so much wailing. Nowhere else is so much pain and sorrow so completely ignored by all, because here something is always screaming. “Push harder, woman! Do you understand? You are not here to have fun. Don't drag things out. Even if shit also comes out when you push! You are not here to have a rest. It won't come out by itself. You must do your bit! " Finally it arrives: blue and small. Urine and excrement anoint it. From eleven beds of tears and blood a whimpering salutes its arrival. From two eyes only arises a chorus of cries of Jubilate to the Heavens above. Through this meagre piece of flesh everything will go: misery and happiness. And should it some day die spluttering and in torment, twelve others will still be lying in this ward.



Poems of Early Expressionism (1915-1917)Following the publication of the Morgue volume, Benn attempted in his poetry to find a new idiom. The poems that he wrote between 1912 and 1914 experiment with a variety of styles. Some, such as “Mann (Beach by the Sea)” “(Man (Beach by the Sea))” and “D-Zug” (“Express Train”) are vitalistic and erotic, representing the euphoric mode of Expressionist writing. Others such as the “Café " sequence reflect the Expressionist fixation with the amoral energies of urban life. Others yet such as “Der Junge Hebbel” (“Young Hebbel”) and “A Troup of Strident Sons…” which appeared in Benn’s next book of poetry, Sons, published in 1915, give voice to the rebellious self-image of a younger generation that was bent on generational conflict. The key to them all is movement and energy, and an impatience with the customs and values ​​of “bourgeois” society, with a world that was on the eve of the slaugher of the First World. Benn’s language is often obscure in these poems, where Berlin idiolect jostles with medical jargon, and where poetic meaning pushes at times the limits of intelligibity.

man(Beach by the sea) But now all of this is firmly established, closed like a stone and inescapable: you and me. It pushes me down and I hurt myself when I just think of you. Because you are half-flowed, soaked by the animal, and like in the fur of the animals, And yet loosened in all your limbs, full of dreams and redeemed than ever I man. There would only be one thing to repay this That would bring peace. That I now ask you: do you love me? Woman: Yes, I want to pass you by. Grab my hair, kiss my knees You shall be the brown hand of the gardener In the autumn that feels all the warm fruits. Man: When I grabbed your limbs while playing or rowing, you were even further and far more remote. Yes, it wasn't you whose flesh I touched. It is different. Woman: Then I want to dance in front of her. Every link should be a hall of lukewarm red that awaits you. So I lift my thighs out of the sand And so my chest. Dress away from my hips. (dances) Man:… You soul, soul bowing down deeply About the operas of my blood - You soft hand, you lilac, quiet garden My dream sang to my shed blood - Woman (dancing):… The beds are bleeding like from wide wounds Your scarlet fever on my knees. The sea rattles around my waist. In the clouds my curls dusts - man: Now the storm is bending the box apart, Where all the nests in it for sleep and brood - Woman: - In a long lute the light sings along me. O sun, you rose mother - come, you, we want to go down to this beach, warmly inseminated by the sea (sinks down) Man: What should a hairy chest, hairy thighs On skin full of sweat and sebum, a bloody womb? What does that have to do with you and me? What are you lying in the sand now, you white flesh, what do you not trickle and seep into the sea? What do no birds come upon you How about other meat? Keep your wrinkles still! Homecoming! Now I greet you, eaten stones, and you, my blood, pelted by corpses from all seas, you rugged terrain without fruit that staggered on the edge of the earth. Man(Beach by the sea) Now, however, this has all been put in place. Closed like a stone and inescapable. You and me. I am pushed down, and I myself beat myself raw, When I just think of you. For you are a wild thing, Watered by animals, and as in the skin of an animal, And yet relaxed in all your limbs, Full of the play of dreams and more liberated Than I as man can be. There is only one thing that would require this all, that would bring peace. That I now should ask you: Do you love me? Woman: Yes, I want to expire on you. Take hold of my hair. Kiss my knees. You should have the brown hand of a gardener, which in autumn feels the warm fruit. Man: When I was grasping your limbs in play, Or as we were rowing, you were even more distant And far more enraptured. Yes, you were not that person At all, whose flesh I grasped. It is different now. Woman: Then, I will dance before you. Every limb Shall be a hall of tepid red, Which is awaiting you. So I lift my legs out of the sand and my breast likewise. My dress, away from my hips. (Dances) Man:… You soul, soul deeply bending towards you over the sacrifices of my blood - You, soft hand, you lilac, still garden of my outcast blood. So sang my dream - Woman (dancing): ... The flowerbeds bleed as if from broad wounds Their scarlet around my knees. There is a rattling from the sea and around my hips. In the clouds The curls in my hair turn to dust - Man: Now the storm bends the bushes apart and all the nests that are there for sleep and breeding - Woman: - In tones drawn out the light sings As it passes me by. Oh, sun, you mother of roses - come, you. Let us go Down again onto this warm sand made fertile by the sea. (sinks down). Man: What is this hairy breast, hairy thigh On skin covered with sweat and fat, a blood flowing womb? What has this to do with you and me? Why do you now lie in the sand, you white flesh, Why do you not run and trickle into the sea? Why do there not come birds above you As they do above other flesh? Keep your folding still! Homeword bound! I now greet you, chewed away stones, And you, my blood, thrown down by the corpses of all the seas, you riveted land without fruit, that staggering, stands on the edge of the earth.

Café (Night Café II) The godmother reads the universe. - Frau Schlächtermeister seeps over the sofa from a bale of fat on the bottom of the arm. - Erni Degele Polisander splashes in a woman he saw on the ice. She is brown, motherly and will kiss him. - I'm sitting in a woman's smell. It sounds together from the heliotrope and the abdomen and seems sweet to me because this woman is a stranger to me. Your friend works in your pocket. Maybe it's a well-worn break. - The manager carries righteousness everywhere. He is the pioneer of the good cause.His big toes try to escape with their ankles out of their boots. - At the next table is gurgled: The women: Too stupid pack! In fact, I have not yet seen anyone who would have known why the mill blades were actually turning. I am recording statistics on this. - Erni Degele Polisander is with the woman he saw on the ice. He grazes her lips. The bodies play unheard-of melodies on each other. - In doing so he drills a younger man: - He plunges his left fist into his hip And from the crevices of his clothing he gives a beer tip: Sauve qui peut. - Café (Nightcafé II) The godmother surveys all she sees. Frau Schlächtermeister is seeping over the sofa. Lower down her arm, her thumbs, balls of fat, are busy moving back and forth. - Erni Degele Polisander is chatting up a woman, whom he saw while he was skating. She has brown skin, is motherly-looking and wants to kiss him. - I am sitting amidst the odor of a woman That is resonant of both heliotrope and crutch. I like it, because this woman is completely unknown to me. Her boyfriend is fiddling in his trouser pockets. Perhaps they have just started to break up. The manager make sure that very one pays their way. He is a pioneer of the good cause. His oversized toes make an attempt along with his ankles to escape from his boots. People are guzzling at the next table. Women: they don’t have a brain cell between them. I have never actually found one who has understood What makes makes wind mills turn. I record that as a statistic. - Erni Degele Polisander is with the woman that he saw while skating. He nibbles at her lips. Their bodies are playing together unheard melodies. - As they do so he is quizzing a younger man: - Who shoves his left fist into his side And from the folds of his clothing Produces a beer bottle. Sauve qui peut. -

Express train Brown like cognac. Brown like leaves. Red-brown. Malaysian Yellow. D-train Berlin - Trelleborg and the Baltic seaside resorts. - Meat that went naked. Browned by the sea to the mouth. Ripe lowered. To Greek luck. Longing for a sickle: how far summer is! Penultimate day of the ninth month already! - Stubble and the last almond thirst for us. Abstentions, the blood, the tiredness, the proximity to the Georgin makes us confused. - Man's brown pounds on woman's brown: A woman is something for a night. And if it was nice, for the next one! O! And then again this being-with-yourself! These silences. This being driven! A woman is something with a smell. Unspeakable. Die Mignonette. In it is south, shepherd and sea. Happiness leans against every slope. - Woman's light brown stumbles on man's dark brown: Hold me! You i'm falling! I am so tired in the neck. O that feverish sweet last smell from the gardens. - Express train Brown as cognac. Brown as leaves. Redbrown. Malayan yellow. The Express train Berlin - Trelleborg and the Baltic sea resorts. Flesh that went naked, and tanned to the lips by the sea. Fully ripe. For Grecian pleasure. And yearning for the scythe: a never-ending summer! And already almost the last day of the ninth month! Stubble and the last shocks of hay thirst in us. Unfoldings, the blood, the weariness. The presence of dahlias clouds the mind. Sun-browned manhood hurries onto sun-browned womanhood. A woman is something for a night. And if it was good, perhaps for a second! But then, oh, again this being by oneself! These silences! This incessant propulsion! A woman is something with a smell. Ineffable. The away. Mignonette. She contains the South, the shepherd and the sea. On each slope a pleasure lies. Lightly-tanned woman swoons onto darkly-tanned male. Hold me, you! I am falling. In my head, I am so weary. Oh, this feverish sweet final smell from the gardens.

casino Crowd was an idiot even at war school. Now he has a brigade in Päde-Rastenburg. Päde-Rastenburg !!! Ha, ha, ha. - Morning coffee in bed is beautiful. Horrible. Beautiful. Very divided views. - “You, Junker, drive me hot! I'm sitting so nicely in my armchair And would like to take a retreat - ”Discontinued conversation. Silence before the storm: Man, Arnim, you are quite inexhaustible! - Have you ever driven third class? No, you? Must be very interesting. So whole little benches are supposed to be in there. - You always have to save a bullet in war: Forn medical officer, if he wants to plaster one. Cheers, uncle doctor! - For the time being I'm still too sprightly. But if I ever get married for a break: she must have breasts anyway, so that you can crack bugs on them! - children! Tonight! A blood woman! Says: He can be poor and he can be stupid; But young and freshly bathed. Then I: janz your opinion, dearest, dear a little less morality and a little outer thighs. We found ourselves on this basis. What kind of figures did you build on this basis? Laughter unites everything. - Officers' mess Even in the military academy, a lot of an idiot. Now he has a brigade in Päde-Rastenburg. Päde-Rastenburg !!! Ha, ha, ha. - Drinking coffee in your bed in the mornings is fantastic. Totally. Fantastic. Although there are different opinions on this. You, the Junker, you can gee up with me when I ride. I sit quite nicely in my saddle, And for once I’d like to ride it a la retirade - Cut out the talking. The still before the storm: Arnim, my dear fellow. You are quite incorrigible! - Have you ever traveled third class? Well, have you? It must be pretty interesting. The seats are supposed to be really small. - In war you should always make sure you have a spare bullet on you For the military surgeon, if he tries to patch you up! - Well cheers, uncle doctor! - At the moment, I'm still a young buck. But should I ever tie the knot for a while she’ll have to have at least a good pair of tits, so that you can crack a bug between them! - Playmates! Tonight! A full-bodied wench! Look: She can be poor and she can be none too bright; But she’ll have to be young and feshly bathed. As for me: I'm total of your opinion, my dear fellow. Rather less morality And a bit more of a fine leg. That’s our common ground. What sort of figures have you built on this common ground? Everyone saw the joke. -

autumn Dead mute fields leaned against my village. Occasionally the Wegwart and Scabiosa comfort. Meanwhile, on the fence to the ground, the rose is orphaned with blossoms, twining twigs. Nowhere more purple or young glow. The wonderful blood of the summer burns only in the eyes of longing in Georgia. Soon this too will suck up the earth. - Autumn Death-quiet fields nudged up against my village. The scattered chicory and scabiosa offer a little consolation. While the rangy twigs of a rose bush spread themselves, devoid of bloom, along a fence. No more purple or fresh glowing. Only in the yearning eyes of the Georgia does the summer still burn full of wonder. But soon also this will be sucked up by the earth into itself. -

Morgue II I. Suddenly a corpse in a medium nutritional state screams: Children, don't put up with this! We’re going to be a mess with us. For example, who threw my brain into my chest cavity? Should i breathe with it? Is that supposed to go through the small cycle? All that is right! This goes too far! II. What about me? How did i get here As if peeled from the egg! And now?? Please wash the stool out of my armpit, you !! And the right auricular appendage didn't have to look out of my anus either! It looks like hemorrhoids. - III. A corpse sings: Soon the fields and worms will pass through me. The country's lip is gnawing: the wall is tearing down. The meat flows away. And the eternal earth shouts into the dark towers of the limbs. Released from my tear-streaked grille. Delivered from hunger and from the sword. And like the seagulls flee to the sweet waters in winter: so: returned home. - IV Strange - mumbles a man who has not yet been sewn up again - When you run your hand down like that: Where does the chest end? Where does the stomach begin? Where was your fecal fistula, one wonders? Completely changed system. The navel thrown overboard. Simplified mechanism. The motto seems to be a return to nature. - V A suicide: don't yap, you paws! Pack. Mob. Men, hairy and ardent, female animals, cowardly and insidious, knocked out of your excrement life, surrounded by human cattle. I rose like a young eagle. So I stood: naked, my forehead and blood covered by the cold starlight. - Morgue II I suddenly a corpse cried out in its half-nourished state: Children, you do not have to put up with this! They are treating us like rubbish. Who, for example, has thrown my brain into my breast cavity? Am I supposed to breath through this? Is my faint blood circulation supposed to flow through it? By all that is right and fair! This is going too far! - II Well, what about me? How did I get here? As if peeled from an egg !! And now ?? Wash the filth, if you don’t mind, out of my armpits - you !! And my heart valve on the right side does not need to be poking out of my ass! That looks like I have got hemeroids. - III A corpse sings: Soil and worms will soon be going through me. The lips of the land gnaw: the wind roars in. Flesh dissolves. And in the dark towers of the limbs Eternal earth cries out with joy. Freed from my tear-drenched cage. Freed from hunger and the sword. And as the seagulls flee in winter Over the sweet water: therefore: returned home. - IV Strange - murmers a man who has not been fully sawn up yet - If one gropes around down there: Where does my breast come to an end? Where does my stomach start? Where can we find your excrement fistula, someone asks? A completely different constitution. The navel has been thrown overboard. A simplified mechanism. Back to nature seems the best way to go. - V A suicide: Don't make such a fuss, you rabble! Louts! Plebs! Men, hairy and randy. Women, cowardly and deceitful, driven out of your shit-lives, whined around by human beasts. I have ascended like a youg eagle. And stand there: naked, brow and blood lit around by cold star light. -

Café of the West A man enters into negotiation with a girl: Your voice, expression, earlobes are all beep to me. I want to poke you in the shoulders. I want to spread over you. I want to be a deviated sea, you monkey! - The Café of the West A man enters into negotiations with a girl: Your voice, the expression in your eyes, your ear lobes mean nothing to me. I want to push you into your shoulders. I want to spead myself over you. I want to be a sea at high tide, you idiot! -

Prostitutes One strips her hands. They are soft, white, big, like the flesh of a lap. - A mouth damp and extended, full of foul smelling laughter. - One of them answers a man: Your parents may have accidentally raised your afterbirth, but you have an English train on. Come with me. But of course a big piece of gold. - Whores One uncovers her hands. They are soft, white, large, As if from the flesh of the womb. - A mouth moist and gappy full of an evil-smelling laugh. - One replies to a man: Your parents certainly raised you by mistake An afterbirth. But you are wearing a good English suit. You can come with me. But, of course, bring a solid gold coin.

Europe, that nosebleed Europe, this nosebleed nose from a confirmation nose, We want to go to Alaska The sea man: the jungle man: who gives birth to everything from his belly, who eats seals, who kills bears, who sometimes pokes something into women: the man. Europe, this piece of snot Europe, this piece of snot Out of the nose of a confirmation pupil. Let's go to Alaska. The sea man: the primal forest man: Who breeds everything from his stomach, Who devours seals, and kills bears, Who sometimes shoves it up a woman: The man.

We got into a poppy field We got into a poppy field. Bricks were screaming everywhere. Build us into the tower of fire for everything that kneels before gods. Ten naked, red pagans danced around the building and bleated a monkey's song to death: You only splatter the dirt of a puddle And step down a worm-hill when you step on us, We are and want to be nothing but dirt. We were lied to and betrayed. With children of God, meaning and purpose, and called you the wages of sin. You are the alluring rainbow to us, stretched over the peaks of happiness. - We came into a poppy field We came into a poppy field. Everywhere bricks screamed around. Encase us in the tower of flames With everything that kneels before the gods. Ten naked redskin heathens danced around the edifice and bleated An ape song to death: You are simply spraying around the dirt from a puddle And are squashing underfoot a mound of worms when You crush us, We are and do not want to be anything more than filth. They have lied to us and deceived us With talk of God, purpose and meaning And gave you as a payment our sins. For us you are the enticing rainbow stretched over the peaks of joy.

One sang: ... One sang: I love a whore, her name is To. She is the brownest. Yes, like from boats all summer long. Your walk sticks through my blood. It is an abyss of wild, dark flowers. No angel is so pure. With mother eyes. I love a whore. Her name is To. - Someone sang: ... Someone sang: I love a whore called To. She’s the brownest of women. Yes, as if made from a vessel all through summer. Her step cuts through my blood. She is an abyss of wild, dark flowers. No angel is so pure. With mothering eyes. I love a whore. She’s called To. -

Don Juan joined us Don Juan joined us: Spring: semen, pregnancy and mess. Humidity a loud intoxication. A child! Oh yes, a child! But where to get it and not - to be ashamed. I once dreamed that a young birch gave me a son. - Oh, what an evening! A violet song from heaven sung to the young rose shoots. Oh, through the nights my man's blood sobs up to the stars. - Don Juan came to visit Don Juan came to visit: Springtime: semen, pregnancy and promiscuous mingling. Moistness, a pure intoxication. A child! Oh yes, a child! But how to get one and not - feel ashamed. I dreamed once that a young birch-tree Had given me a son. - And oh, that evening! A violet song from the heavens Sung to the buds of young roses. Oh, through the nights there sobs unto the stars My male blood. -

In front of a cornfield In front of a cornfield, someone said: The faithfulness and fairytale quality of cornflowers is a pretty painting motif for women. I praise myself for the deep old age of the poppy seeds. One thinks of blood thread and menstruation. In distress, groaning, starving and perishing - in short: in the man's dark path. - In Front of a Cornfield In front of a cornfield someone said: The loyalty and fairy-tale loveliness of the cornflower Is a nice sign for the beauty of womankind. I prefer the deep alto of the poppy. It reminds me of patches of blood and menstruation. Of hardship, the death-rattle, hunger and extinction - In short: of man’s dark path. -

Chants I Oh, that we were our great-great-ancestors. A lump of slime in a warm bog. Life and death, fertilization and giving birth slid forward from our silent juices. An algae leaf or a dune hill: shaped by the wind and heavy downwards. Even a dragonfly head, a gull wing would be too wide and suffer too much. - II The lovers, the scoffers, all despair, longing and whoever hopes are contemptible. We are such painful, infested gods. - And yet we often think of God. The soft bay. The dark forest dreams. The stars the size of a snowball and heavy. The panthers jump silently through the trees. Everything is shore. The sea calls forever. - Songs I Oh, that we were our primal primal ancestors: A clot of slime in a warm moor. Life and death, sex and procreation Would slide from our dumb seed. A piece of algae or a dune of sand: Formed by the wind and heavy at its base. Even the head of a dragonfly or the wing of a gull Would be too much, and would suffer too deeply. II Despicable are the lovers, the mockers, Despair of all longing, and those who hope. We are such sickly corrupted gods. - And yet our thoughts turn often to God. The gentle bay. The dark dreams of the woods. The stars, huge as blossoming snowballs and heavy. The panthers spring soundlessly through the trees. Everything is shoreline. Eternally calls the sea -

Then Icarus fell at our feet Then Icarus fell at our feet, screamed: drive species, children! Into the poorly ventilated Thermopylä! - Threw one of his lower legs after us, knocked over, was all. - Then Icarus fell to our feet Then fell Icarus to our feet, And cried: boys and girls: procreate! Get in there, into that stale Thermopylae! - He threw over to us one of his shin bones, Keeled over and was finished.

Threats But know: I live animal days. I am a water hour. In the evening my lid sleeps like forest and sky. My love knows few words: it is so beautiful about your blood. - My royal mug! My wandering hyena! Come to my cave. We want to be fair skin. Until the cedar shadow ran over the little lizard: You - luck - I am monkey Adam. Roses bloom in my hair. My front fins are long and hairy. Tree-branch-lascivious. You can hang down for days on the strong thumb. - I love animals. Everything is decided on the first night. You grasp what you long for with your teeth. Hyenas, tigers, vultures are my coat of arms. - Now you are driving over water. Even so sailing. Fair-skinned. Cool game.But bitter red, the blood in it is dead, your mouth is a crack full of screams. You, that we don't end up on a bank! You make me love: bloody: I ​​want from you. - You are Ruth. You have ears of wheat on your hat. Your neck is brown with Maccabees blood. Your forehead is receding: for so long you looked like boas over the almonds. You carry them like a sea, so that nothing spilled in the game wets the earth. Now take a look through your eyelids: Look: the abyss of a thousand stars is approaching. See: throat into which you should pour it. See: I do. - Threats But know this: I live animal days. I am a water hour. In the evening my eyelids browse off towards forest and sky. My love knows few words. It is so beautiful by your blood. My queenly vessel! My roaming hyena! Come into my burrow. Let us be bright flesh. Until the shadows of the cedars rear over the little lizard: You! - Bliss! - I am ape-Adam. Roses bloom in my hair. My front paws are long and hairy. Longing for the boughs of trees. From strong thumbs you can hang down the whole day long. - My thing is animal love. All is decided on the first night. I grip with my teeth the thing that I desire. Hyenas, tigers, vultures are my emblems. You are now crossing the water. So like a sail yourself. Fair skinned. Cool in play. And yet bitter red, the blood inside is dead, the mouth is a crevice full of screams. You, let us not land on a shore! You make love to me like a leech: I want something from you.– You are Ruth. You have cornstalks on your hat. Your back is brown from your Maccabee blood. Your forehead flows: you spent so long looking over the stubs of hay for Boaz. You hold it like a sea, so that nothing spilt in play Should most the earth. Now, look through your eyelids and steel yourself: See: the precipice approaching from a thousand stars away. See: the jaws into which you must pour all. See: me.

The robber-Schiller I bring plague. I am stink. I come from the edge of the earth. Sometimes I get something in my mouth when I spit it, the stars still hissed and here the whole cowardly Pietzengeschlabber and Abel blood open up. Because my mother is crying? Because my father's hair is aging? I scream: your gray sleep! You born ravines! Soon a few handfuls of earth would be sowing for you. But my forehead rustles like clouds in flight. That little plague of whore slime seeped into my blood? A crumb of death always stinks from the corner - peek! Wipe him! Pah! The Robbers-Schiller I bring plague. I am stench. From the edge of the world I come here. At times, there is something that runs together in my mouth: If I were to spit it out, the stars would hiss, And the entire cowardly boozy lot and the blood of Abel would go under. Because my mother cries? Because my father’s hair is turning gray? I cry out: You gray somniac! You now impotent gorges! Pretty soon a few handfuls of earth Will be fertilizing you. In me, however, the brain rages like a flight of clouds. And that touch of infection that trickled into my blood from the slime of a whore? A crumb of death is forever stinking in the corner - Sod it! Give it one! Who cares?

The monkey song Your game of god! Heavens are the shadows of the great forests around your hide. Sleep, food and love ripen silently on your blood summer land. Your blessed mower. - A painful outgrowth, blown up by some epidemic. From your small, round, furrowless body - the brain is our soul. Dear blood! Hardly separated from mine! Exchangeable. Rush me through another day! See: hours earlier, lived out, Since we were still ripe on the shore: There is the sea and there is the earth - See these lived out hours, O these landings of all longing camps around you! Ape song You jest from God! Heavens are the shadows of the great forests around your fur. Sleeping, feeding, breeding quietly ripens on the summer land of your blood. Your holy reapings! - A painful execresence, Brought forth from some pestilence or other Out of the small round furrowless Diminuative brain of your body, is our soul. You, dear blood! From mine barely different! One and the same. Rage through me again for just one day! Look: hours, earlier ones, lived out, When we still blithely crouched by the river bank: There was the sea and there was the earth - See these hours once lived out, Oh, the return of all these longings Assemble around you!

Madonna Don't give me back yet I'm so drowned in you And I'm so drunk with you Oh! Luck! The world is dead. The sky sings stretched out to the rivers of the stars Bright and ripe. Everything sounds in my heart. Deeper loosened and become beautiful Sing the spoil of my blood Hallelujah. Madonna Do not give me back yet! I have totally expired on you. And am completely intoxicated In you. This bliss! The world is dead. The heavens sing stretched out against the stream of stars, bright and full. Everything is resounding in my heart. Deeply fulfilled and so beautiful sings the hunting pack of my blood. Hallelujah!

About graves That toiled and bothered at night, crept on bad meat, the old baker's way. Finally the pig broke his bones. The fat is going rancid and has paired off. But we blow. the tides are Aegean. O what happened in the arbours of our flesh! Confused in your hair, in the sea. The breasts bleed from dance, from summer, from the beach and from Ithaca. Over graves This one slaves away and bakes, bent throughout the night with rotten meat, following an old baking method. Finally the pig broke his legs. His fat became rancid and fell away. We, however, drift. Aegean are our tides. Oh, look what has happened in the foliage of our flesh! Tangled in our hair, in the sea, our breasts bleed in dancing, in the summer, by the strand and Ithaka.

English cafe The very narrow-toed robbery, Russian women, Jewish women, dead peoples, distant coasts Sneaking through the spring night. - The violins are green. May is about the harp. The palms are reddening. In the desert wind. - Rahel, the narrow gold watch on the wrist: protecting sex and threatening the brain: enemy! But your hand is an earth: sweet brown, almost eternal, overflowing from your lap. - Friendly earring is coming. In Charme d'orsay. The bright Easter flowers are so beautiful: wide-mouthed yellow, with a meadow at their feet. - O blond! O summer of that neck! O that jasmine-infested elbow! I'm good to you I stroke your shoulders. You, we travel: Tyrrhenian Sea. A wicked blue. The Dorian temples. In Rose Pregnant The Plains. Felder die the Asphodelentod. - Lips, blurred and deeply filled like cups, As if the blood of the sweet place hesitated, rushing through a mouth first autumn. - O woe forehead! You sick one, deep in the pile of dark brows! Smile, get bright: the violins shimmer a rainbow. - English caféThe entire pinched-show pack of robbers, Russian women and Jewesses, defunct peoples, distant coasts, slink through the spring night The violins turn green. May surrounds the harp. The palm trees redden. In the desert wind. Rahel, a slim goldwatch at her wrist: Protecting her sex and threatening the mind: She is the enemy! Your hand however is as if from earth: Sweetly-brown, almost eternal, wafted by womb. Friendly Earring turns up. Wearing Charme d’Orsay. The bright Easter lillies are so lovely: Their wide mouths yellow, with meadows at their feet. Oh blonde! Oh summer ripened back! Oh These elbows drenched with jasmine! Oh, I am good to you. I stroke your shoulders. You - let's take a journey: Tyrrhenic sea. A wicked blue. The Doric temples. Pregnant with roses, The plains. Fields Expire into their asphodel death. Lips, bold and deeply filled like chalices, As if blood from its sweet place was hesitating, roaring through a mouth of early autumn. Oh the sorry brain. You sick thing, deep in the bloom Of your dark brows! Smile, be bright: The violins are shimmering a rainbow.

Cure concert About cripples and bathing rolls, parasols, lap dogs, boas, About the autumn sea and the Grieg song: Will Iris come? She freezes. The little gray stick in her hand freezes with her. Will be small. Wants deeper in the hand. The bluebells tied in the shawl, the white cross made of parting and teeth lies so sweetly in your brown when you laugh! You steep, white land! O marble light! You're rushing to my blood You bright bay! The great tiredness of the shoulder blades! The tenderness of the skirt around her knee! You pink dust! You shore with dragonflies! You, rising from the surface of a bowl. In a violet apron. Loudly blooming with breasts! O autumn and homecoming over this sea! The gardens are sinking. Powerless gray beach. No boat, no sail goes. Who will take me in in the winter ?! Blown together from so far, reborn on so many stars Until this shore: - Iris goes. Spa concert Beyond cripples and bathing proletarians, Sunshades, lapdogs and Boa scarves, Beyond the autumn sea and the ditty by Grieg: Whether Iris will come? It is freezing. The small walking stick in her hand Is also freezing. Gets smaller. Wants to go deeper into her hand. The bell flowers, enclosed in your scarve, The white cross of your parted hair and teeth Contrasts, when you laugh, so sweetly with your brown skin! You steep, white land! Oh marble light! You are the intemperance of my blood. You bright bay! The relaxed expansion of your shoulder blades! The delicacy of the skirt around your knee! You, rosy dust. You river bank with dragonfly! You, from the sides of a bowl ascending In bursts of violets. Surrounded by breasts loudly bloomed! Oh autumn and a return home across this sea! The gardens subside. The gray shores lie impotent. No boats, no sails flutter. Who will take me now in winter time ?! From so many distances blown together. From so many stars newly-born. Just before this river bank: - Iris leaves.

Subway The soft showers. Flowering early. It comes out of the woods as if from warm skins. A red swarms. The big blood rises. The strange woman comes through all the spring. The stocking on the instep is there. But where it ends is far from me. I sob on the threshold: mild bloom, strange dampness. Oh, how your mouth squeezes out the warm air! You rose-brain, sea-blood, you gods-twilight, you earth bed, how cool your hips flow out the breath in which you walk! Dark: Now it lives under her clothes: only white animal, detached and a dull scent. A poor brained dog, heavily hung with God. I'm so fed up with my forehead. Oh, a framework of flower heads gently peeled them off and swelled with them and shuddered and oozed. So detached. So tired. I want to hike. Bloodless the ways. Songs from the gardens. Shadow and deluge. Distant happiness: a dying in the deep blue of the sea. In the subway The soft shudder. Early bloom. As if from warm fur, it comes straight from the forest. Red swarms up. Hard blood rises. Through full spring the new female comes. She wears her stockings, stretched. But there, where they come to an end, is beyond my reach. I sob at their edge. Sultry fecundity, alien moistures. Oh, how her mouth devours the tepid air! You: rose-mind, sea-blood, twilight-goddess. You: bed of earth, how your hips flow so coolly down the passage through which you walk. Dark. Life is now beneath her dress: all white animal, relaxed, with mute scent. I am a wretched dog-brain, heavy hung with God, sick of the mind. Oh, that a frame of clustered blooms should gently take its place, and swell and stream and shudder. So detached. So tired. I long to wander. Bloodless those paths. Songs from the gardens. Shadows and the Flood. A distant joy: a dying away down into the sea’s redeeming blue.

Night Café (Night Café III) And yet I have a tough man, three blue-gray tooth stubs bleating from their musty cave with. And yet love suggested to me, two whores' snouts arch before each other. - Matchiche: Ida adapts her forms to the music. Books in and out. Raises itself from very flat places: “Man, Ida, you have a joint too ville”. - A provincial is drowning in a minet's snout: Take me. I want to sink. Let me die. Give birth to me - Nightcafé (Nightcafé III) And anyhow I have a hard man, three blue-gray teeth stumps bleat together from their musty crevices. And anyway love hit me, the snouts of two whores bulge forward. - Tango: Ida molds her curves to the music. Gyrates in and out. Throws herself up from totally level places: "Ida, my dear, my dear, you have obviously got one joint too many". - Someone from the provinces is drowning in the snout of a damasel: Take me away. I want to lose myself. Let me die. Give birth to me. -

The young Hebbel You carve and form: the articulated chisel in a fine, soft hand. I knock out the shape with my forehead on the marble block. My hands work for bread. I am still very far away. But I want to be me! I carry someone deep in my blood who screams for his self-made heavenly heavens and human earths. - My mother is such a poor woman that you would laugh if you saw her. We live in a narrow bay, developed at the end of the village. My youth is like a scab to me: a wound underneath, blood oozes out every day. I'm so disfigured by it. - I don't need any sleep. Eat only enough so that I don't go mad! The fight is relentless and the world stares from the point of a sword. Each one hungers for my heart. I have to melt each one, unarmed, in my blood. Young Hebbel You chip away and fashion: with supple chisel and a fine soft hand. I beat form out of the marble block with my brow. My hands work for my daily bread. I remain to myself still distant, but I will become me! There lies someone deep in my blood who cries for heavens of gods and earths of men, which he has made for himself. My mother is so poor: you would laugh if you saw her. We live in a narrow sty, built at the bottom of the village. My youth is like a scab to me, with a wound beneath. Blood drips everyday from it. That is why I am so disfigured. Sleep I do not need, and food only enough to stay alive. The struggle is relentless, and the world bristles with points of swords, each of which hungers for my heart. Everyone of them I must melt into my blood: me, the defenseless one.

A troop of run-up sons screamed A troop of run-up sons shouted: Guarded, bound the child's limbs by love that was only fear; Having been given weapons to free us, we have become haters, without salvation. When we were born wet with blood, we were more than we are now. Now worries and prayers have circumcised us and made us small. We live small. We want small. And our feeling eats like tame cattle out of the hand of the will. But at times desires, strengthened in our earliest blood, gape their wings like an eagle, as if they wanted to venture out of the earth's shadow. But the mother of worries and prayers, the earth, allied with you, does not leave her wrinkled old body. But I want my own blood. I do not tolerate gods next to me. Means: being a son: being mocked by his blood. Cowardly lord, cowardly lord! Veiled in purple, my beauty stands for you day and night. What are you trembling I practiced nimble sinews for your desires, O give them to me! Let me dance Sweep my room. Yellow salivating skeletons of white-haired, grouchy blood threaten me. But I want to dance your blood through you without a veil. A Troop of strident sons did cry A troop of striding sons did cry: Guarded, chained were the child’s limbs from the start, through a love that was, in fact, fear. Made adroit with weapons, to free ourselves, we have become haters, beyond redemption. When we came into this world blood-stained, we were more than we are now. Now sorrow and praying have cut us down and made us small. We live small lives. We want small things. And our feelings, like tame animals, are eating out of the hand of our will. But there are times when desires well up, strong from deep within our blood, their wings like the eagle, as if they wished to broach a flight away from the shadows of the earth. But the mother of cares and prayers, the earth, allied to you, will not let them go from her old and wrinkled body. But I will have my own blood. I tolerate no other gods beside me. That means: to be a son: to be sneered at by one’s blood: cowardly sir, cowardly sir! Covered in purple, my beauty persists day and night for you. Why are you trembling? I trained my tendons to be swift for your desires. O give them to me! Let me dance! Clean out my hall. Yellow salivating skeletons of white-haired and sullen blood threaten me. I, however, will dance. through you, uncovered, your blood.


mother I carry you like a wound on my forehead that won't close. It doesn't always hurt. And the heart does not flow out of it dead. Only sometimes suddenly I am blind and feel blood in my mouth. Mother I bear you like a wound upon my brow that will not close. The pain sometimes abates, and my heart flows from it still alive. Only now and then I suddenly become blind, and feel blood in my mouth.

threat But know: I live animal days. I am a water hour. In the evening my lid sleeps like forest and sky. My love knows few words: it is so beautiful about your blood. - Threat But know this: I live animal days. I am a water hour. In the evening my eyelids browse off towards forest and sky. My love knows few words. It is so beautiful beside your blood.

A man speaks A man says: There is no consolation here. See the country awaken from its fevers too. Hardly a few dahlias are still shiny. It lies devastated like after a cavalry battle. I hear new beginnings in my blood. You, my eyes are already drinking the blue of the distant hills. It's already brushing my temples. A man speaks A man speaks: Here there is no consolation. See how the land also awakens from its fever. Almost all the dahlias have stopped gleaming. Everything lies wasted as after a cavalry battle. I hear an upsurge in my blood. You, my eyes are already drinking in the blue of distant hills. It is already caressing my temples.

There is no consolation here Nobody will be my wayside. Just let your flowers wither. My path floods and goes alone Two hands are too small a bowl. A heart is too small a hill to rest on. You, I always live on the beach and under the fall of the sea blossoms, Egypt lies before my heart, Asia dawns. One of my arms is in the fire. My blood is ashes. I always sob past breasts and bones to the Tyrrhenian islands: dawns a valley with white poplars, an Ilyssos with meadows, Eden and Adam an earth of nihilism and music. - I offer no consolation No one is the border to my path. Let your blossoms whither. My path flows and runs alone. Two hands are too small a bowl. One heart is too small a hill to rest on. You, my life is lived on the beach and under the falling blossom of the sea. Egypt is spread before my heart, and Asia is dawning. One of my arms lies in the fire. My blood is ash. Leaving breasts and bones behind me, I sob my way towards the Tyrrhenian islands: There glimmers a valley with white poplars, an Ilissus with shores of meadows: Eden and Adam: an earth out of nihilism and music. -

Express train The sliding thing that stands in the windows! The fields, the arbors and the growing villages peel off my shoulders; missing mothers; the whole country a grave full of fathers: - now the sons are great and show off the red foreheads of the gods, naked and in the delirium of the blood they have given birth. - The festering sends up sick voices: Where did we border on happiness? We little forests, no eagles and no game! Poor blossoms are dulled in our hallway. - The heart cries out: O hair! You dagmar blond! You nest! You comforting blossomed hand! The vast fields of abandonment! The red of the mountain ash already has blood. O be with me! It is so silent from the gardens. - But sliding things that stand in the window: The fields, fathers and hill mounds and hill fortune peel off my shoulders -: The sons grew up. The sons walk naked and in the grief of the blood they have given birth, their foreheads reddened by an abyssal happiness in the distance. The Express The passing images that face me in the windows! Past my shoulders crumble the fields, the arbors, and the overgrown villages; long-forgotten mothers; the entire land, a grave full of fathers: now it is the sons who are great and prance naked with their red god-like brows, in a whirl of unleashed blood. That which is festering sounds loudly with its sick voices: Where did we ever come close to happiness? We, a small forest, without eagle or game. Paltry blooms blossom in pale tones in our meadows. The heart cries out: Oh, hair! You Dagmar-blond! You nest! You comforting, blossoming hand! The broad fields of abandonment! The red of the rowanberry already is of blood. Oh, be with me! It is so silent in the gardens. But the passing that faces me in the windows. Past my shoulders crumble the fields, fathers and the grief of hills and the happiness of hills -: The sons have grown tall. The sons go naked and in the grief of unleashed blood, their red brows reflect a distant abyss of joy.

Flowers I-II I In the pastor's room between crosses and Christs, Jerusalem woods and gold wreaths, a bouquet of roses rushes blissfully over the banks: We may pass away in happiness. There is no thorn in our blood. October animals right and left: We flawless, we last July brood. - II A lake, completely poisoned by the gray blood of autumn, made me sick too. Sorrowful the bank, empty of happiness and covered with leaves, like grave earth, received my step. Then a flower bed can be in a park: all the misery overflowed, the lake, the clouds and the storm in the garden and shouted: I am completely indestructible! I scorch the cold face of death. Hey! How everything red, glowing and flaming hurts from my thighs! Good day! Flowers I-II I In the room of a pastor between crosses and images of Christ, Jerusalem relics and Golgatha wreaths a bouquet of roses blooms blissfully beyond the shores: We may now happily pass away. There is no thorn in our blood. October animals to teh right andleft: we the immaculate ones, we the final ones, July’s brood. II A sea, entirely poisened by the gray blood of autumn, has made me sick. Startled, the river bank, devoid of joy and barren of leaf receives my final step as words of commital. Then in a park there was a flower bed: It bloomed over this entire misery, the sea, the clouds and the storm in the garden. And I cried: I am completely indestructible! I burn away the cold countenance of death. Stunning! As everything red, glowing and flaming rushes from my limbs! Good morning to you!

finish I The spigot - not remotely equal to the eruptions of so great green, warm rivers - finally struck down. The moon fell behind. Hung deep. Pulled back gulps of vomit. Disappointed every trust. Gave stone instead of bread To the breathless blood. II The little lump smelled like a chicken coop, pounding back and forth. Growth. Be still. The granddaughter played the old game: When grandmother sleeps: it was so sunken around the bowl legs that she hid beans in them. A ball even fit in the throat If you blew the dust out. III For him it was a spittoon with plum seeds. So he crawled up and bit the stones open. He was thrown back in his cot, and he buried himself in his litter. Towards evening the head guard came and snapped at the guards: You damned sloths, why isn't the box cleared yet? IV Her children had been holding her for weeks, When they came back from school, their heads up high: Then some air went through and she could sleep. One of them suddenly bent down and his head fell from his hands. Turned over. Hung over his shoulders deep blue. V Requiem: A coffin gets work and a bed becomes empty. If you think about it: a few lost hours have now found their way into the silent night And blow to and fro with the clouds. How white they are! The lips too. Like sheaves of snow. O hem of the great winter land of comforting snow: released from the deception of colors, hills and valleys in one hand, near and far one and balanced. We flakes blow into the field, then another piece, Then the last spark of the world has faded. O hard to think! This distant happiness! About graves That toiled and baked broken at night On bad meat, the old baker's way. Finally the pig broke his bones. The fat is going rancid and has paired off. But we blow. The tides are Aegean. O what happened in the arbours of our flesh! Confused in your hair, in the sea. The breasts bleed from dance, from summer, from the beach and from Ithaca. finish I The spittoon - not in the least able to contain such large warm green emissions - finally broke apart. The moon dropped down. Hung deeply. Sucked Backed the vomit in gulps. Dissapointed all trust. Gave to breathless blood Stone instead of bread. II The little clot smelled like a chicken coup, moved here and there. Grew. Became still. The grand-daughter palyed the old game: When grandma is asleep: Around her collar bones the cavities were so deep That she could hide beans in them. A ball could even be fitted into her throat, if one blew the dust out of it. III For him it was all about the spittoon with plum stones. Then he crawled in and cracked open the stones. He was thrown back into his box bed. And he burrowed into his straw. Towards evening the head keeper came And rebuked the warden: You bloody lazybones, Why has the box not been cleaned up yet? IV For weeks they held the heads of their children, When they had returned from school, high in the air: Then a little breeze went through and she could sleep. Then one bent down once by mistake And his head fell out of his hands. Turned around. Hung over his shoulders Deep blue. V Requiem A coffin gets work and a bed becomes empty. When one considers it: a few lost hours have now in stillness found the night and drift with the clouds here and there. How white they are! So their lips. Like sheets of snow. Oh, border of the great winter land of comforting snow: freed from the deception of colors, hills and valley in a flat hand. Nearness and distance are one and made equal. We flakes blow into the field, and then a piece, then is the final spark of the world exstinguished. Oh, it is almost unthinkable! This distant happiness! VI Beyond the Graves This one slaves away and bakes broken throughout the night With rotten meat, following an old baking method. Finally the pig broke his legs. His fat became rancid and fell away. We, however, drift. Aegean are our tides. Oh, look what has happened in the foliage of our flesh! Tangled in our hair, in the sea, our breasts bleed in dancing, in the summer, by the strand and Ithaka.

Night cafe A medallion of the middle class is amazed The chin dreams of fat: there you are. The man's eye slides back and forth. A little nose smears a laugh in the air: I've already had it. If you're still coming, I can bake my bread and ham for me. Inseminable sits at every table with feathers on the hat and stands the leg, sucking the hips of the sperm hotter and hotter in the lap. A song arches a dome into the glass ceiling: The cold night clouds the stars. The moon strays its gold in this grief. Night café A prime example of the middle-classes gapes Its chin embroidered with fat: there you are. His eyes slide to and fro. A little snout daubs a laugh into the air: I've already had one. Will you still come with me, I can still fit a bit of ham on my bread. Semen-ready sits at every table with feathers In her hat and puts out her legs, sucks up her hips Full of semen ever more brazenly to her womb. A song curves a dome into the table Of glass: the cold night covers teh stars with clouds. The moon mixes its gold into this misery.

Night cafe I It's hardly worth the cocoa. Then one pushes in and rushes: I am at the edge of God; Do you love me too? I was so very alone. The Weserlied arouses the sow comfortably. The lips cry too. Down the stream. The sweet valley! There she sits with the lute. The waiter rows with the slumber wishes. He swims freely. Meat leaves and harlots autumn, a withered streak. Fat is afraid. Roar pits: the flesh is runny; pour it as you want, around you. Our mouths scream a crack. - Night café I. It is hardly worth noting. Then someone lurches in And if. I have just gone past the edge of God. Do you love me too? I was so very much alone. The Weser song bucks up the spirits of the jerk. Lips cry along to it. A stream flows down. Sweet valley. There it sits with its lute. The head waiter flails around with his nightcap. He manages to stay upright. Flesh foliage and whore autumn, a withered strip. Fat rumples up. Pockmarked roars: the flesh is fluid; pour it as you want, around you. Our mouth is a crevice of screams. - N

eight café II He gives in a soft tone of relatives, of cities where he has been - that's enough for the knee. The palate pushes forward the dumb bouquet. The citizen puddle steps out on the benches: pack, pimples, marriage, beards and medals: Many four liters of blood, three of which are fattening on the intestines: and the fourth is bristling with the sex. The whore To undresses one hand: soft, as if made of flesh from your lap, leaned against where pleasure is felt. - Night café II He talks in ingratiating tones of relationships, of cities that he's been in - that's enough to get to her knee. He pushes through the dumb bouquet of her palate. The murky bourgeois steps out onto the benches: Herd, pimpels, marriage, beards and medals. Many four liters of blood, from which three Is gorged in the intestines: and the fourth Brims around the sexual organs. The whore To uncovers her hand: Soft, like the flesh from the womb, half-open, just there where desire is felt. -

Marie You full woman! Your measurements are normal, every child can go through your pelvis. Placed wide, you receive up to your forehead and go. - Maria You all-woman. Your measurements are normal, Any child can come through your pelvis. Widely girthed you take in everything, right up to your brain and then leave.



Poems of Transcendence, 1915-1917.Benn had attended a military medical school as a student, and in 1914 he was called up a doctor at the outbreak of Word War One to serve with his local regiment. He was stationed in Brussels, where he worked in a hospital treating soldiers with sexually transmitted ailments. During this time, Benn wrote a number of semi-autobiographical stories, cented on the experience of a young doctor simply called Rönne who pushes himself to the limits of mental dislocation in an attempt to transcend his environment. The poems that Benn wrote during this time, and published in Flesh (1917), also explore the vitalistic enhancement of selfhood, as in “Ikarus” and “Karytide”, where Benn employed motifs from Greek legend. At was also during this time that Benn experimented with cocaine, and this forms the theme of “O, Night” (“Oh, Night”) and “Cocaine”. Other poems yet explore, argue for the need to structure experience, to prevent exertion becoming formlessness. Indeed, the tension between form and fantasy provided the central theme of many of Benn’s poems at this time, most notably in the concluding poems, “Synthesis” and “Poplar”.

Icarus IO noon, who weakens my brain with hot hay To meadow, flat land and shepherds, So that I run into it and, with my arm in the brook, pull the poppy to my temple - O you arched one, nevertheless, quietly revealing the curse and grief of what is and what is happening My eye. Still through rubble of the dump, still through land, dusty things, through beggarly jagged edges The rock - everywhere the sun drifts, everywhere The deep mother's blood, the streaming matted mat. The animal lives day after day and has no memory of its udder. The slope is silent its flower in the light And is destroyed. Only me, with guardian between blood and paw, a brain-eaten carrion, with curses crumbling into nothingness, spit on with words, defiled by light - O you arched man, water my eyes for an hour of the good early foresight - melt away the deception of colors! Swing the excrement-filled caves into the rustling of the suns of trees, the fall of the suns-suns, O of all suns eternal gradient. - II The brain eats dust. The feet eat dust. If the eye were round and closed, then sweet night, bushes and love would break through the eyelids. Out of you, you sweet animal, out of your shadow, sleep and hair, I have to climb my brain, all turns, the last dialogue - III So much on the beach, so much already in the boat - In the crocodile-colored dress of the consecrated and around the limbs already the light fluff - you rush out of the wrinkles, sun, nightly worlds into the room - O one of the forgetfully sprayed with young glow melting my temples, drinking the blood that has become astrayed -. Icarus I Oh midday, that with scorched hay dims my brain To field, flat land and shepherd, So that I run and, and arm in the stream, Draw poppies to my brow - Oh you, expanse of sky, Drifting over curse and sorrow, Being and becoming, Divest my eye of vision. On through the rubble of the hillside, on through the carrion of the land, turning to dust, on through the miserly jagged shapes Of rocks - everywhere Blown by the sun - everywhere, Deep mother-blood, streaming, Mindless Drained Borne along. The animal lives only for the day And, suckling, has no memory. The slope in silence brings its flower to light, and is destroyed. Only I, with sentry between blood and paw, A carrion eaten away by mind, with curses Screaming into the void, spat upon by words, Mocked by the light - Oh, you expanse of sky, Balm my eyes for an hour With that healing early light of primal vision - Melt away the lie of colors, Hurl these cavities pressed by filth into the roar Of rearing suns, the whirl of the suns of suns, Oh, the eternal fall of all suns - II My brain eats dust. My feet eat dust. If only my eye were round and complete, Then through their lids would break Sweet night, brush-wood and love. Out of you, my sweet animal, Out of your shadows, sleep and hair, I must needs bestride my brain, All its convolutions: The final dialogue. III So near to the shore, already in the ferry, in the crocus-colored garments of the supplicant. And around my limbs the delicate down - Oh sun! Every night from out of your folds You roar new worlds into space - Oh, that one of these obliviously scattered here Freshly ablaze would melt my temples, And drink up my instinct-blood!

caryatid Escape the stone! Break through the cave that enslaved you! Rush but in the hallway, mock the cornices - -: See: through the beard of the drunken Silenus From his eternally intoxicated sounds unique drizzled blood Drips wine into his shame. Spit on the columnar addiction: deadly old hands shook them to cloudy skies. The temples fall before the longing of your knee, In which the dance desires. Spread out. Bloom. Oh, your soft bed bleeds from large wounds: See, Venus with the doves girds roses around her waist Love gate - See this summer's last blue breath floating on the seas of astronomy on the distant tree-brown shores, See this last hour of happiness and lies for ours Southerly, high arched. Caryatid Free yourself from stone.Burst apart those sockets that enslave you! Rage into the fields. Mock the cornices - Look at the drunken Silenus: through his beard, from his loud blood forever drowned in roars, enthused by exotic music, wine drips into his manhood. Spit on this obsession with columns. Senile hands, done to death, lifted them trembling towards sullen skies. Pull down the temples before the desire of your limbs which crave to dance. Choose expansion! Bloom to excess. Oh, let your soft meadow bleed from deep wounds. Look! Venus with her doves garlands roses around the love-gate of her hips - And look too, how this summer’s last blue breath is drifting on seas of asters towards the distant tree-brown shore. And see this final hour of blissful deception: our southern vision in the vaulted sky.

travel O this light! The island wreaths star-blue waters. Satisfied at the edge, added to the beach, And daily satiated by the sea. Nothing has to go towards each other. The alkene, the lobed foliage come true; its meaning lies in the center, which nothing deprives. I too: brown! Me to: sunny! To something flat that names itself! The eye deep on the horizon, Who knows no vertical. The urge to connect is already disappearing. The reference system is already loosening. And blood Methuselah rises beneath the dark-skinned song. Journey Oh, this light! The island wreathes Around itself star-blue water. Stilled at its edge, completed by the beach, It sates itself daily on the sea. Nothing needs to be connected. The seabird, the lobed foliage, find their fulfillment here. Their purpose lies right at their center, which nothing can steal. I too become brown! I too receive the sun! To that flat space, which it alone will name. The eye deep on the horizon That knows nothing vertical. Already the rage to connect is disappearing. Already systems of references are dissolving, and under the dark song of flesh rears up the blood-Methuselah.

Look up Home electricity swells to hunger and sex. O mill luck! O slope! Ember gradient still storms the old sun; new fire already mocks them and around Andromeda the fresh mist already, O wandering world! Wearing things: night love, meadow act: I: lying down, bumped, my face full of stars, from paws, crushing showers, blue coastal like bay blood with me harrow, dagger and horns. Still the way is crooked through the houses of the immanent pack. Existed with grimaces of space, threatening infinity. But the morning light of empty spaces glows around my knees, A shepherd's song like a squirrel in the leaves, Euclid by the sea sings to the triangular flute: O rosewood! Past! Amati cello! A glance upwards The incoming tide surges to hunger and sex. Oh, the happiness of milling! Oh, decline! The old sun still storms Forth bright embers; new fire Already mocks it, and around Andromena There is already fresh mist, Oh, wandering world! Devestation of all matter: night-love, done in the meadows. I: lowering, imposed upon, my visage full of stars, from a blow of paws, the shudder of destruction blues like a coast of blood towards me, with harrow, dagger and horns. The causative way moves rugged through the dwellings Of the immanent mob, with the emptyings of space provided Threatening Eternity. To me, however, the morning light of roomless rooms Glows around my knees, A process of shephards squirells through the leaves, Euclid by the sea sings at a threecorned flute: O wood of roses! Decay! Amati cello!

Cretan vase You, the lip full of the smell of wine, blue clay fence, rose rotte, Around the train of Mycenaean light, non-devices, longing for potions blown away. Relaxations. The release takes place. Lots of bright animals, rocks; Light and purposeful: stripes of violets, mild skulls, meadow flowers. Wave against stiffness and forehead, glowing deep bacchanals Against the annihilation marks: growth and consciousness brain - sink, dust! Boy's hands, runner's limbs, wrapped around space, strand yourself to jug and slope, When with fish head, onion, flute Leda festivities rose-red pairing, surface, decline. - Cretan vase You, your brim redolent with the smell of wine Blue enclosure of clay, rose formation, Around a draft of Mycenaean light, Not a utensil, its longing to be a vessel, Long since gone. Loosenings. There takes place Unrestricted birth. Freely shining forth Beasts, cliffs, bright things without purpose: Strips of violets, tepid skulls Meadow-bloody. Wave against torpor and brain, The burner of a deep bacchanalia Set against the mark of annihilation: Upward growth and the conscious mind. - Wash away, turn to dust! The hands of youths, Athletes limbs, closed by space, Land you on the shore as jug and slope, When with fish-head, onions, flutes The festivals of Leda turn rose-red: Copulation, the plains, and decline. -

O night -: O, night! I've been on cocaine, and blood distribution is in progress. The hair turns gray, the years flee, I must, I must in exuberance, bloom once more before passing away. O night! I don't want that much. A small piece of agglomeration, an evening mist, a surge of displacement of space, of sense of self. Sensory corpuscles, red cell border A back and forth, and with smells; Torn by words - cloudbursts -: Too deep in the brain, too narrow in the dream. The stones fly to the earth. The fish snaps at small shadows. Only treacherous through the thing - Becoming the skull tumbling - Flederwisch. O night! I hardly want to trouble you! Just a little piece, a clasp of sense of self - in exuberance, bloom once more before passing away! O, night, O lend me forehead and hair, dissipate around the day that has faded! Be who brought me home from the nerve myth To Cup and Crown. Oh, hush! I feel a little ramming: It stares at me - It's not a mockery -: Face, I: myself, lonely God, gather around a thunder. Oh, Night-: