Translated with the author.
Discus hit in the golden field.
The tent endures downpours of wine.
the sound defining the pitch of color.
sorting out thunder.
Manage Your Field
Spit on the sun.
Wipe your forehead.
Make tired the hungry ones.
The entrails start to tremble.
The leg trembles.
The trees chain trade.
The felloes, all
askew, the celery with
the golden edge. Again, horse
swam in, drowned.
Juice is always.
Herd is always.
There’s always a Boer.
are you the one
are you the one who stuck the knife in his own belly
i’m the one who stuck the knife in his own belly
what did you think while doing it
while doing it i thought i have to stick the knife in my belly
was the edge well honed
the point is the point the edge is not that important
the point decides if the knife takes it nicely
how comes the idea just a knife should be used
idea is good better than the others
only it’s hard to rip up one’s belly
much more difficult than to pierce it
the knife feels good doesn’t want to move any farther
what do you have now on that spot