Wanderlust in a glass of orange juice
Midnight in Paris. I am typing and typing and the poem Unshaped and aborted, it levitates in my stomach Full of love and confidence. This is a savage poem that Whirls in the distance like a wandering leaf in the storm Collected by a scavenger. Today in Strasbourg I’ve seen a bee trying to get some more food But it drowned and there was no escape. Death and pleasure turned out to be Nothing more than a glass of orange juice 2 calories to the body weight A form of disappearance through addition. Wanderlust. I was running through languages and spaces. My retina could not get attached to these fuzzy images of trees Dancing and growing with the roots outside, upside down Gutach was detaching from my eyes. I lost myself In someone else’s mind. I lost myself, unshaped, aborted. I wrote some letters from the hertz of this Black Forest. I left my luggage in the Gare de l’Est. I left It wasn’t the time but we said goodbye anyway because...