and flinch when they touch:
that is how far
the parts ofyour own body
have been turned inside out
into a revolting outer world
where everything separates into things
that repell each other.
Yes, everything has turned into abrasive outer world in this state
and in the open-skull an unappetizing something, once called brain,
puffs itselfup in the draft.
Instead ofconsciousness nettle-like vegetation,
skin sensation and allergy:
an incalculable time ofrashes, of goose bumps, ofexcemas, of soreness.
An unpleasant itch
when the lips accidentally touched each other
-you have become ticklish to yourself.
On a scaffold high above the street construction workers
with colored hard hats on their heads wave for a crane-load:
come on down, to the same level,
and take offyour ennobling hats,
you extortionists,
then we'll see who's at more of a loss!
The sky above the crane could be a picture,
which rekindles the necessary patience,
but the well-worn sky heals nothing either,
nor the word that yet soothes so often,
which you say to yourself:
the clouds glow repulsively,
lie in unholy havoc,
wind-wrecked,
and the earth too, leveled to the horizon.
Everything wind-wrecked.
Everything mixed up.
And everything expressionless.
AND EVERYTHING COMPLETELY EXPRESSIONLESS.
Still you feel cross
that the many who are underway
don't simply lie down on the street and fade out,
