A SONG ABOUT FOUR STARS AND ONE BUTTERFLY
Oh as the country behind the port in Rotterdame
waved like the sea and the only way of escape
was so dully coloured.
As… oh, the sea.
The breast of unfinished breakfast,
doors to a bar toilet you can’t close properly.
Fullness of empty pockets
written on a nail with a broom.
As the walls were wide enough
for three carts side-by-side.
They thought of concrete,
the veinscot mournays.
The sound of certainty of order and
the necessity of turtles’ tears,
as if the dreams of mice
became prey of projected owls,
or fresco-like idea of prey,
where I used to dream in colours
of reeds of the meaning of “sofa”.
The wail of yellow blackbirds softened,
blue colour took the little garden’s hand:
it was at the moments of three “v’s”
when the sand in the fur
of the Nasreddin’s donkey
turned into a jest.
White light of yesterday.
Red light of tomorrow.
And ravens, whitened by the climate
of three-legged deciduous hedgehogs.
Sea apples did threw-ins
from water which flew through servant girls
onto pitches, where it was almost all over with us,
by wheeled pots with hotdogs and co,
but you have the septet of colours of bondecolette,
the water of pubic hair,
the shining-white nudity of a yacht.
Oh let us run, and follow the colours of star fish,
before the crying strikes the corridors too!
How many parts, how many cords do have the bolas
into which the horses who were granted
to see red onion
catch cargo fish which, while pulling out the nets,
roar “Death originates from cats!”
Undermined spray-eyed fish,
friends and relatives,
friends, friends (cannery), friends.
They invest via trilobites
into interdental betrothals,
into the ochre of basket-flower wallows,
because you can capture the fur when it runs too.
Oh, those bolas, such closeness
of their cords!
What a child I’d be,
if I were not able to unknit the igneous flight of their lianas.