“Luna Lenina”

…Luna Lenina…

At Cafe Marx

fast funky flight
on pseudo-Indian spirit parachutes
late 2013, a man I should turn to have seen
Luna Lenina, like someone from a z-movie
or early dystopian books
came doddering the brave sultry dawn
on a black pomada fluttering saucer
labeled unflyable
by hack eye
arcane fingers
suffocating in her tides’ investigation
she missed our nature trails
but we landed in bed together
at quark lakes’ bottom or in swing chandelier rowboats
dawn rainbows, in Earthly tongue
high and highly Germanic
playing arrhythmic acoustic guitars
writing awful poems
dancing to the tune of ’68 Detroit
like it was still a dream of future generations…
bad apple baby, chocolate-coated
Cafe Marx is now closed
Berlin in aluminum fruit cans, rotting
pineapple soda remains
tastes terrible

Chrome Tree Chirrup

born white polluter
she kissed the humane killer om/on the masthead
pasted me blind
in writing process control
sleeping problem case
but, heigh-ho,
we found eject buttons nonpresent
onwards then, from pale 90s
golden garden garage America
lead galop
topographical banana with a wrecking bar
plus minus garbage
run the bikes, old Angels
so we can dawn the present
in from the future death mess
of chrome tree chirrup
teaching to kill
the primal forest dusking
new breeds

Junk Whales

soft junk whales we, on frostbitten forks
of bigger giants
traveling irreversibly
with Polaris
a puzzler of drugs and faces
her inspiring neckline
compared to new New Mexico
or new moon on basalt lava donuts
vitamin mumble hey boobs
lead story was
the sun at night
her murder mural mansion
cut-price hippie cathouse
full of fast food books
hanging there in lunch space
boiling with my sex
old sci-fi stories
kids’ love poems on riot bricks
served early with mate through the bedroom window
a fibre optic ghost of time
drifting on Afghan clouds
retiring to their sky hash
and drift bones
jamming with Kupferberg
or someone else unlike him

Aftertaste (Freedom Pack)

she dealt with fake 60’s paintings, trip advisers, laced vodka
love?, why
yes, because she’s my woman
I’m high on
Luna’s naive scented schedule and 16y/o plans
rock cake carving climber
where toll neutron stars fade in from
run-up mock incidental music
I thought I composed
breathing her
out of a teenage dictionary
flute multiplier
to radio anarchy echo
then „Space Hymns”
hey baby, you’ve got to listen to this…
„I’m gonna screw you”
in astral years of flesh’s parody
the aftertaste
of our latest free freedom pack, gazing.