Beetle step on your open eyes. Green
velvet mold relax your breasts.
Look at the loneliness you are sending me.
Grind your teeth; eat up your lips.
Your face should fall off like dry sand,
the dear. And if you’d caress me,
since in place of your lap there’s an empty land:
your working fingers should be tied off by weed.
See, this is you, these are disgusting wishes.
Still, you wouldn’t flutter if people were
gathering silently to see like around witches:
who made me so evil.
Whom are you grabbing now? If you give birth to your son
it will be his pleasure to spin around,
you blink at him while it gets surrounded one by one
with full-length alligators around.
I lie motionlessly on my back, on the bed,
I see my eyes: you look at me with them.
Die! I already wish so wordlessly the end
that I might think I am going to die in it, damn.