Poem
Sonja vom Brocke
SONAR’S SUPPER OF WRATH
»I am boarded in – and they are juggling!«
you pile the bats into clumps of rage
chewing on leather tunics, work muscles
cram yourself into the heart
and nerve strangulators, a heart-nerve strangulator
machine gender, calibrated.
Of course calibrated! And it’s abandoned by all reason
with the mini-jugglers in the courtyard of death
you feed in tassels, dried hermaphrodites, crust –
you bite into foam. Huh.
Nibble it off . . .
ECHOLOODS KWAADMAAL
»Ik ben bekist – en zij goochelen!«
grist de vleermuizen tot woedeklompen
kauwt op leren wambuizen, werkspieren
dwingt je binnen in de hart-
en zenuwwurgers, een hartzenuwwurger-
machinegeslacht, geijkt.
Natuurlijk geijkt! En door alle goede geesten
bij de minigoochelaars in de doodshof gelaten
spuug je in kwasten, gedroogde hermafrodieten, korst- –
bijt in schuim. Ach.
Haak maar af . . .
ECHOLOTS ZORNESMAHL
»Ich bin verschalt – und sie gaukeln!«
raffst die Fledermäuse zu Wutklumpen
kaust auf Lederwämsern, Arbeitsmuskeln
zwängst dich ein in die Herz-
und Nervstrangulierer, ein Herznervstrangulier-
maschinengeschlecht, geeicht.
Natürlich geeicht! Und von allen guten Geistern
bei den Minigauklern im Todhof gelassen
speist in Quasten, getrocknete Zwitter, Krust- –
beißt in Schaum. Ach.
Nippels ab . . .
© 2015, Sonja vom Brocke
From: Venice singt
Publisher: kookbooks, Berlin
From: Venice singt
Publisher: kookbooks, Berlin
Poems
Poems of Sonja vom Brocke
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SONAR’S SUPPER OF WRATH
»I am boarded in – and they are juggling!«
you pile the bats into clumps of rage
chewing on leather tunics, work muscles
cram yourself into the heart
and nerve strangulators, a heart-nerve strangulator
machine gender, calibrated.
Of course calibrated! And it’s abandoned by all reason
with the mini-jugglers in the courtyard of death
you feed in tassels, dried hermaphrodites, crust –
you bite into foam. Huh.
Nibble it off . . .
From: Venice singt
SONAR’S SUPPER OF WRATH
»I am boarded in – and they are juggling!«
you pile the bats into clumps of rage
chewing on leather tunics, work muscles
cram yourself into the heart
and nerve strangulators, a heart-nerve strangulator
machine gender, calibrated.
Of course calibrated! And it’s abandoned by all reason
with the mini-jugglers in the courtyard of death
you feed in tassels, dried hermaphrodites, crust –
you bite into foam. Huh.
Nibble it off . . .
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