that one’s vision is infinite is an incredibly beautiful illusion
but utopias exist in order to make the pictures stretch
further that the coloring allows and open new revolving doors ..
last night we looked at the moon with fingers sewn together
not an evening of great gestures but lit up by reflection ..
I ran through your locked room like a horse
and ordered the entire ensemble into the circus ring
in such delusions things emerge from the pupils
to avoid having the inner stairway of the sun disappear in the heat ..
soon we run along the well-stocked shelves in the library
our fingers clutching the pen before the tableau is extinguished ..
now we hear the voices lose themselves in the labyrinth of sound
while the world brings us ever closer together ..
no great strides across prime meridians and the equator
but under silent bells chiming in the inner room
the way that love can remember every little wrinkle
in the other person’s face if one is able to retain it ..
or everything transforms itself into a kind of strange hypnosis
it does not suddenly appear in order to show its sun virility
but to yank all spoken letters up by the root
before the snake-crawling fear of parting takes over ..
everything may sneak into the text while it is about to
lose its overview on the easel of oblivion ..
the sand-filled winds which only wreak havoc in the canvas stretcher
may like thought be fixed directly to the cave wall
the timeless reflection arose however long before the words
which also whirl onwards over our erogenous zones
without the vagina thereby creating video images on her own cave wall ..
the course of history has been brought in to secure the fear of pictures
the abstract curve of the paintbrush which worships only colors
the way the cave-dwellers of the past fertilized a nocturnal darkness
enormous flame-cast silhouettes bent over a steaming carcass
while bones and wolf skins breathed in blood steam and sulphur
on board a blue earth apple .. cocooned by ozone ..
we find each other’s arms again and wake up from the vision
still the birds of language fly up from quivering guitar strings
and stroke our nerves with their colored wingspan
we provide shadow for the eyes in order to better observe the flock
as it slowly disappears in the flames ..
on the opposite side of the fabricated frame of text
we see a boat fish in its own mirror image and pull with its net
the clouds up from the ocean thus to transform a panorama ..
with a blue mouth and an extended tongue of sand you speak to the ocean’s dead calm
drawing the head’s bow and shooting the arrow of thought straight into the poem’s heart