Rubbers
The fat man thought:
In the evening I gladly walk in rubbers,
But also when the streets are clean and spotless.
I am never entirely sober in rubbers.
I hold the cigarette in my hand.
My soul skips in little rhythms.
And all one hundred pounds of my body skips.
The Patent-leather Shoe
The poet thought: ah, I have enough trash!
The whores, the theater, and the moon in the city,
The dress-shirts, the streets, and smells,
The nights and the coaches and the windows,
The laughter, the street-lights and murders—
I'm really fed up now with all the crap,
Damn it!
Whatever will be will be—it's all the same to me:
The patent leather shoe Hurts me. And I take it off—
People might turn around, surprised.
Only it's a shame about my silk socks…
Smoke on the Field
Lene Levi went out in the evening,
Mincing, her skirt bunched up,
Through the long, empty streets
Of a suburb.
And she spoke weeping, aching, crazy,
Strange words,
Which the wind tossed, so that they popped,
Like pods.
They made bloody scratches on trees,
And, shredded, hung on houses
And in these deaf streets
died all alone.
Lene Levi went out, until all
The roofs made their crooked mouths grimace,
And the windows and the shadows
Made faces
They had a completely drunken good time—
Until the houses became helpless
And the mute city passed
Into the broad fields,
Which the moon smeared…