in the middle of a night

in weidling

when the night is clear

of chemtrails

even in the poet’s room

of 2,7 x 4,4 metres

you’ll sense the local air

the memory blanks off

like scales fall from eyes

and all don ffp2-masks

yet/ if you wish to stay

creatively motivated

take my seven year file

of production/ the artist

said to his shadow

there – in all the past

seven years

you’ll find no faces

without a mask/

in the early morn’ of the

new day

the poet’s laptop Len –

lost its –ovo.

unhinged it had a self-

inflicted rest

so then leave it until

the shops will open/ so?


meanwhile a plaster for

the broken limb

and gentle handling

carry on with what you


for an artist’s living.




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