5 Surreal Poems, 2024/11/26.

***

try compromise with the dealer of time - cliche
captures of a camera
joint perspectives of the city
where is the youth of this vault
where is the vault
in this yawn
and yeah, have you tried religion?
there are endless possibilities of Christ
only he didn't exist
when Earth rotated its first turn
and the sun was the boiler of some pre-white demon
circling alcoholic pastures
perhaps you should quit verse
as the dawn rises into yawns of the girl in your chair
she used to fly for Saudia
you used to roam the endless moor of the moon
but stories of youth are done
the vault is empty
and her yawn is nowhere to be found
in the climax of an
anthill

***

hey, I still find some good stuff on vinyl
I search for stuff your regular customer
wouldn't touch - receive the gift
from an alternate Alpenreality
where zithers blow with the flowers of the mountains
and old men tanz der Polka
Polka is also a Polish girl, quite plainly
I search for her where your regular lover
wouldn't go - receive the gift
from an alternate Alpenreality
where she wears a wooly sweater in yellow, reads only
German poets, and sleeps with the sheep and cows
thinking to myself
she must be Goloka
there's nothing to sell, nothing to trade, and
nothing to lose
where the final highest planet calls
in the form of a Polka, in the old men's eyes
in barbarian leaps of lotus
this must be it
this is the door
now cross it eternally through dawn
and bleib alien with Roky

***

the last cigarette - the last sip of wine
the first kiss from your drooling pillow
the last to remain
the first in the quietude of art
there, splash the canvas with twilight, try something
nobody can copy
copy something
nobody can have
steal from Picasso, he was never an asshole
there's an endless watercolor waiting
for your lady's skirt
dip sun in moon
make sunlight your crayon
be a kid
kid no-one
no-one can measure your
spirit

***

is there a way to pose with death, but act cool
when chess is not the option,
where lights are omnipresent
where the viaduct ends with rusted trains
scattered like birds over the ocean
and the viaduct over the ocean
acts cool when approaching
what we consider death, so is there a way to pose
with the angels, but act cool
when symmetry is only Blake's invention,
where high rise is your only friend
grey fades blank into
mirrors of passing trucks
carrying milk to the Soviet Union
is there music in the cabin
is there void
after void
after word
and whose word was first
was it the blind bluesman's howl, or was it the lemon squeezing lady
of the full blown latin highway
nowhere near USSR
nowhere near Europe.

***

pawns send love
pawn cocktails and muzak
heart of the lemming
sing of something old - bathe in the reverb of your room
natural stink of the folklore
working class zero
there seems to be a road
there seems to be some wine left in the cellar
after the concert where tall guys spread LSD among the crowds
pawns send care
in whispers of the mourning
it used to be sunny
but now it's drench and stink, and strumming madman
high on the promise of a record deal
we'd do anything for acceptance
hey, don't frown
there are people who send love regardless
try them and boil the rest with the muzak

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Words by A.J. Kaufmann, 2024.
Photo by Hugo Marcel, 2024.