A miserable long time ago at the inn
right at the town hall
an artist sat in front of the wall, drank
and listened to the drinks as they
whispered that he might be lenient
be and not just full, he heard
gone, three, four strokes long, then
he berated the fifth glass that
sixth spat back and he snapped
it gone, this sluggish, dreary beer, and
there was no more within the next
twenty nine minutes. With misery
a long time in the inn right next to
City Hall dunked his artist
Silence in the eternity of one
moments when the waiter smiles,
and said nothing at all, growled
and grumbled in the presence of the absent one
beer in this clumsy glass, what
between the fingers of the waitress none
Significantly more graceful, how stupid a glass can be
can, thought the poet, movies and
painting maker and snapped
all the voices in your head and around
his head out of the in one go
world, got up and left,
and his walking
gentlemen,
was exemplary every meter in the valley until
in front of the house in Burgstraße, in which,
like him, in a room without a name,
luck was there, and today
Night,
at last,
merciless and
forever
he would it from his sleep
ring, this
stubborn,
feigning deaf and blind,
overbearing with splayed
Fingers sipping fate
Beast.