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 

A beautiful song should never end. It should be paused in the middle. Yet I crafted some juicy, pulpy words for me 

To drown inside them as if it was my body my juice my sweet death 

To become a Stranger. a Strangel. Suddenly 

A no body. 





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