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Killing Fields

The thick weeds stood tall, devoid of any moisture
the movement hypnotizing as they swayed dangerously in the wind
The sun licking each strand as it slowly descended below shadow covered mountains
a breath is released, pushing against the atomsphere, bending space and time
our hands curl around inevietablity, so very tangible under this darkening sky
The dirt grinds hard against the souls of wayward men, exhausted and lonely
The gods stare down upon us, and hollow eyes stare back
memories of river banks and her skirt pulled up to catch a glimpse of smooth milky skin
her hair falling around her face as she looked deep into the water
slowly her eyes met mine and she smiled at me

Before Kafka There Was Walser

Max Brod, to the best of my knowledge, is dead, poor bastard. That, I conjecture, is what being friends with Kafka ends with; deadness. What a horror: my hair, if that is what it is, was whored, smeared upside against the fracture of my skull, brittle follicle remnants, arching, crestfallen, trying to form a hirsute whole. This, I can assure, was not a pretty sight, sadly enough for me, I suppose. Perhaps a Kafkaesque hair cut is in order, stiffened and terrorized by a monstrous paternal abusiveness. Poor black-lunged bastard. In one story a character, who we are led to believe is Kafka himself, throws himself from the parapet of a bridge into the black-roil of channel-water after his cuntish father admonishes him for wanting to marry. Such savage infanticide is criminal.

I now address an appeal to the healthy: don’t persist in reading nothing but healthy books, acquaint yourselves also with so-called pathological literature, from which you may derive considerable edification. Healthy people should always, so to speak, take certain risks. For what other reason, blast and confound it, is a person healthy? Simply in order to stop living one day at the height of one’s health? Damned bleak fate…I know now more than ever that intellectual circles are filled with philistinism, I mean, moral and aesthetic chickenheartedness, Timidity, though, is unhealthy.
Robert Walser (The Robber)

If I Were Kafka's Ghost

if I were Kafka’s ghost
I’d blind my eyes of sight
and eat the storm and carrion

that forever scolds the night
no Freudian recanting

nor blissful oedipal fright
just simple cunnilingus

tongue rasping in delight

Snowing again!

What about this chair in the snow outside Prästmon's discontinued railway station?

Dreams Dreamt While Sleeping

He dreamt he was wearing a coalman’s cap, a double-knit seafarer’s sweater and a pair of hobnail boots. He dreamt in his sleep, or so he said. His dreams were full to brimming with well-wishes, balls of string and an egg-tray with Beeves’ and Ives handle-ware. He slept in his sleep, dreaming dreams about a world he felt at odds and evens with, dreaming dreamt dreams dreamt while dreaming he was asleep sleeping. He put on his coalman’s cap, his seafarer’s sweater and double-laced his hobnails, all while sleeping and dreaming dreams about wearing a coalman’s cap, a double-knit seafarer’s sweater and a pair of hobnail boots. Dreams dreamt are never what they seem, or so he said.