Little Lene took out of her pocket
A box of cigarettes,
Weeping took one
Out and smoked.
Dreaming
Paul said:
Ah, but who wouldn't want to drive a car forever—
We burrow our way through high-stemmed woods,
We pass by spaces that seem endless.
We pass through the wind and attack the towns, which speed up.
But the odors of the sluggish cities are hateful to us—
Ah, we are flying! Always alongside death…
How we despise and scorn him who sits on our lives!
Who lays out graves for us and makes all streets crooked—ha, we
laugh at him,
and the roads, overcome, die with us—
Thus we shall auto our way through the whole world…
Until, on some clear evening
We find a violent ending against a sturdy tree.
The Sad Man
No, I have no capacity for life.
I could be considered foolish—
Today I am not going to the restaurant.
I am after all this time weary of the waiters,
Who scornfully bring us, with their smug grimaces,
Dark beer and make us so confused
That we cannot find our home
And we must
Use the foolish street lights
To prop ourselves up
with weak hands.
Today I have bigger things in mind—
Ah, I shall find out the meaning of existence.
And in the evening I shall do some roller skating
Or go at some point to Temple.
Capriccio
Here is the way I shall die:
It's dark. And it has rained.
But you can no longer detect the imprint of the clouds
Which up there cover the sky in soft silk.
All streets are flowing, black mirrors,
Over the piled up houses, where streetlights,
Strings of pearls, hang shining.
And high above thousands of stars are flying,
Silver insects, around the world—
I am among them. Somewhere.
And sunken, I watch very seriously, somewhat pale,
But rather thoughtful about the refined, heavenly blue legs of a
lady,
While an auto cuts me to pieces, so that my head rolls like a red
marble
At her feet…
She is surprised. And swears like a lady. And kicks it
Haughtily with the dainty heel
Of her little shoe
Into the gutter.
The Turk
A totally perverse Turk bought for himself,
Out of grief for the recent death
Of plump Fatme, his favorite wife,
From his white-slaver, two former mannequins, in quite good
condition—
You could almost say: brand new—
Just imported from France.
When he had them, he sang, in celebration of himself: