:::

 

The over-cut inn is paid for with hunger

the drunks chattered there

in childish light revelation

they touch the circumference fur and poles

the sound of a falling egg

is the absence of sound

in the elongated slow motion seconds

where someone is banged in a sidechamber

so the chandeliers swing

can it be said more clearly

I tear the tablecloth away with a snap

under the stacks of plates

just before the climax is reached

and the falling egg

the falling egg

falls silently

in elongated slow motion seconds

and never really seems to be united

with the gravity of earth

I myself am about to disappear

a ghost - almost nothing

without a single gasp

I hear the elongated howl

from a large insatiable mouth.