Squirrels and birds love to
sing about the void in the guts.
The sky is far away, the sky where
every step is a banality.
Time and again people inevitably visit
the roofs of their dentists and car dealers.
Kettles boil in empty houses.
Forearms of hapless foundlings rot on vertical ceilings.
You don’t want to know about their motherland‘s pets.
The sky of lost hair, teeth and earrings,
the sky of imbeciles is far away.
Words of magic are stale and sloppy.
Landing angels break their legs.


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