Chapter 2

All things are seamless, As though forgotten, light and dull. From the sacred heights the green sky spills Still water on the city. Glazed cobblers' lamps shine. Empty bakeries are waiting. People in the street, astonished, stride Towards a miracle. A copper red goblin runs Up towards the roof, up and down. Little girls fall, sobbing From the poles of street lights.

The Trip to the Mental Hospital (II)

A little girl crouches with her little brother Next to an overturned barrel of water. In rags, a beast of a person lies gulping food Like a cigarette butt on the yellow sun. Two skinny goats stand in broad green spaces On pegs, and their ropes sometimes tighten. Invisible behind monstrous trees Unbelievably at peace the huge horror approaches.

Peace

In weary circles a sick fish hovers In a pond surrounded by grass. A tree leans against the sky--burned and bent. Yes... the family sits at a large table, Where they peck with their forks from the plates. Gradually they become sleepy, heavy and silent. The sun licks the ground with its hot, poisonous, Voracious mouth, like a dog--a filthy enemy. Bums suddenly collapse without a trace. A coachman looks with concern at a nag Which, torn open, cries in the gutter. Three children stand around in silence.

Towards Morning

What do I care about the swift newspaper boys. The approach of the late auto-beasts does not frighten me. I rest on my moving legs. My face is wet with rain. Green remains of the night Stick to my eyes. That's the way I like it-- Even as the sharp, secret Drops of water crack on thousands of walls. Plop from thousands of roofs. Hop along shining streets... And all the sullen houses Listen to their Eternal song. Close behind me the burning night is ruined... Its smelly corpse burdens my back. But above me I feel the rushing, Cool heaven. Behold--I am in front of a Streaming church. Large and quiet it takes me in. Here I shall stay for a while. Immersed in its dreams. Dreams out of gray Silk that does not shimmer.

Bad Weather

A frozen moon stands waxen, White shadows, Dead face, Above me and the dull Earth. Throws green light Like a garment, A wrinkled one, On bluish land. But from the edge Of the city, Like a soft hand without fingers, Gently rises And fearfully threatening like death Dark, nameless... Rising Without sound, An empty slow sea swells towards us-- At first it was only like a weary Moth, which crawled over the last houses. Now it is a black bleeding hole. It has already buried the city and half the sky. Ah, had I flown-- Now it is too late. My head falls into Desolate hands. On the horizon an apparition like a shriek Announces Terror and imminent end.

The Sick

Evening and grief and lamp light Bury our death-face.

We sit at the window and drop out of it, Far off day still squints at a gray house. We scarcely touch our life... And the world is a morphine dream... Blinded by clouds the sky sinks. The garden expires in dark wind-- The watchmen enter, Lift us up into bed, Inject us with poison, Kill the lamp. Curtains hang in front of the night... They disappear gently and slowly-- Some groan, but no one speaks, Our buried face sleeps.

Cloud

A fog has destroyed the world so gently. Bloodless trees dissolve in smoke. And shadows hover where shrieks are heard. Burning beasts evaporate like breath.

Captured flies are the gas lanterns. And each flickers, still attempting to escape. But to one side, high in the distance, the poisonous moon, The fat fog-spider, lies in wait, smoldering.

We, however, loathsome, suited for death, Trample along, crunching this desert splendor. And silently stab the white eyes of misery Like spears into the swollen night.

The City

A white bird is the big sky. Under it a cowering city stares. The houses are half-dead old people. A gaunt carriage-horse gapes grumpily. Winds, skinny dogs, run weakly. Their skins squeel on sharp corners. In a street a crazed man groans: You, oh, you-- If only I could find you... A crowd around him is surprised and grins derisively. Three little people play blind man's bluff-- A gentle tear-stained god lays the grey powdery hands Of afternoon over everything.

The World

(Dedicated to a clown)

Many days tread upon human animals, In gentle oceans hunger-sharks fly. Heads, beers glisten in coffee-houses. Girls' screams shred on a man. Thunderstorms come crashing down. Forest winds darken. Women knead prayers in skinny hands: May the Lord God send an angel. A shred of moonlight shimmers in the sewers. Readers of books crouch quietly on their bodies. An evening dips the world in lilac lye. The trunk of a body floats in a windshield. From deep in the brain its eyes sink.

Prophecy

Some day--I have signs--a mortal storm Is coming from the far north. Everywhere is the smell of corpses. The great killing begins. The lump of sky grows dark, Storm-death lifts its clawed paws; All the lumps fall down, Mimes burst. Girls explode. Horses' stables crash to the ground. Not a fly can escape. Handsome homosexuals roll Out of their beds. The walls of houses develop fissures. Fish rot in the stream. Everything meets its own disgusting end. Groaning buses tip over.

Winter Evening

Behind yellow windows shadows drink hot tea. Yearning people sway on a hardened pond Workers find a soft woman's corpse. Glowing blue snows cast a howling darkness. On high poles a scarecrow, implored, hangs. Stores flicker dimly through frosted windows, In front of which human bodies move like ghosts. Students carve a frozen girl. How lovely, the crystalline winter evening burning! A platinum moon now streams through a gap in the houses. Next to green lanterns under a bridge Lies a gypsy woman. And plays an instrument.

Girls

They cannot stand their rooms in the evening. They creep out into deep starry streets.

How gentle is the world in the streetlights' wind! How strangely buzzing life melts away... They go by gardens and houses, As though very far off there might be a light, And they look upon every horny man As a sweet gentleman savior

After the Ball

Night creeps into the cellars, musty and dull. Tuxedos totter through the rubble of the street. Faces are moldy and worn out. The blue morning burns coolly in the city. How quickly music and dance and greed melted... It smells of the sun. And day begins With trolleys, horses, shouts and wind. Dull daily labor cloaks the people in dust. Families silently wolf down lunch. At times a hall still vibrates through a skull, Much dull desire and a silken leg.

Landscape

Like old bones in the pot Of noon the damned streets lie there. It's a long time since I saw you here. A young man pulls at a girl's pigtail. And a couple of dogs wallow in filth. I would like to go arm and arm with you. The sky is gray wrapping paper On which the sun sticks--a spot of butter.

Moonscape

The yellow mother's eye burns up there. Everywhere night lies like a blue cloth. There is no question that I am sucking air. I am only a little picture book. Houses capture dreams of motley sleepers As though in nets in the windows. Autos creep like ladybugs Up luminous streets.

Landscape in the Early Morning

The air is gray. Who knows something good for soot? Next to an ox grazing on the ground Stands an astonished deeply serious mountaineer. Soon there is a powerful downpour of rain. A young boy who is pissing on a meadow Will be the source of a small river. What should one do when nature calls! Be natural. Be yourself. A poet roams around in the world, Observes for himself the orderly flow of traffic And rejoices about sky, field, and dung. Ah, and he takes careful notice of everything. Then he climbs a high mountain Which happens to be close by.

Return of the Village Boy

In my youth the world was a small pond, Grandma and red roof, lowing Of oxen and a clump of trees. And all around the huge green meadow. How lovely was this dreaming into distance. This absolute nothingness as bright air and wind And bird cries and fairy-tale books. Far off the fabled iron snake whistled--

Summer Freshness

The sky is like a blue jellyfish. And all around are fields, rolling meadows-- Peaceful world, you great mousetrap, Would that I might finally escape from you.. O if I had wings-- One plays dice. Guzzles. Chatters about future countries. Each person puts in his own two cents. The earth is a succulent Sunday roast, Nicely dunked into a sweet sun-sauce. If only there were a wind... that ripped The gentle world with iron claws. That would amuse me. But if a storm comes... It would shred The lovely blue eternal sky into a thousand pieces.

Afternoon, Fields and Factory

I can no longer find a place for my eyes. I cannot hold my legs together. My heart is hollow. My head is going to burst. Mushiness all around. Nothing wants to take shape. My tongue breaks. And my mouth twists. In my skull there is neither pleasure nor goal. The sun, a buttercup, rocks itself On a chimney, its slender stalk.

Rainy Night

The day is ruined. The sky is drunk. Like false pearls, little stumps Of chopped up light lie around and reveal A glimpse of streets, a few clumps of houses. Everything else is rotten and devoured By a black fog, which, like a wall, Falls down and is rotten. And the rain Crumbles like rubble in the grip--thick--gray-- As though the whole contaminated darkness Wanted at every moment to sink. Down in a swamp you see an auto flash, Like a strange, drunken plant. The oldest whores come crawling Along out of wet shadows--tubercular toads. There goes one creeping by. Over there a pig is being stabbed. The gushing rain wants to wipe out everything. But you are wandering through the waste lands. Your dress hangs heavy. Your shoes are soaked. Your eye is mad with greed and screaming. And this urges you on--and you have no peace: Perhaps in the midst of dark fire The devil himself appears in the form of a pig. Perhaps something completely horrible, Foolish, brutal, nasty is happening.

Period

The deserted streets flow in gleaming light Through my dull head. And hurt me. I clearly feel that I shall soon slip away-- Thorny roses of my skin, don't prick like that. The night grows moldy. The poison light of the lampposts Has smeared it with green muck. My heart is like a bag. My blood freezes. The world is dying. My eyes collapse.

Reflecting upon a Human Lung in Alcohol

Without horror you devour dead flesh every day. And dead blood is a sweet syrup for you. Aren't you afraid?-- Indeed your earliest fathers also had, And before you awoke, Crammed thousands of the dead into your body.

However, how deeply frightened must the first person who killed An animal have been-- Because, when he saw that what roamed about, What could jump and cry out and in the moment of death Still could watch the beseeching world, In a moment Was not there.

In the Tuberculosis Sanitarium

Many sick people are walking in the garden Back and forth and lying in the porches. Those who are the sickest burn with fever Every wretched day in the hot Grave of their beds. Ah, Catholic sisters float Around wearily in black clothes. Yesterday someone died. Today another can die. In the city Fasching is being celebrated. I would like to be able to play the difference On the piano.

Signs

The hour moves forward. The mole moves out. The moon emerges furiously. The ocean heaves. The child becomes an old man. Animals pray and flee. It's getting too hot for the trees. The mind boggles. The street dies. The stinking sun stabs. The air becomes scarce. The heart breaks. The frightened dog keeps its mouth shut. The sky lies on its wrong side. The tumult is too much for the stars. The carriages take off.

The End

Like a white fungus, a lump of wind covers The green corpse of the lost world. Frozen rivers form an iron dam Which holds together the rotten remains. In a small rainy corner stands The last city in stony patience. A dead skull lies--like a prayer-- Slanted on the body, the black penitential bench.

My End

Half hands hold my fate. Where will it sink... My steps are tiny, like those of a woman. One evening lay waste all dreams. Sleep does not come to me--

Song of Kuno Kohn's Longing

The folds of the sea crash like whips on my skin. And the stars of the sea tear me apart. The evening of the sea is one of screaming wounds for the lonely, But lovers find the good death of their day dreams... Be there soon, you with pain in your eye, the sea hurts. Be there soon, you who suffer in love, the sea is killing me. Your hands are cool saints. Cover me with them, The sea is burning on me. But why don't you help me! But help!... Cover me. Save me. Cure me, friend and woman. Mother... you--

Invasion

Decline already-- But that was quick... Hardly a trace of rising-- I have grown above the whole world. I have become the complete God And horribly awake. And now I must cast away death. My death is mute And without images... Without redemption--

Pathos

You don't love me... I have never appealed to you... Was never your type... And my hard eyes annoy you, my darling... I'm too dark for you. And too coarse-- And my white teeth have such a brutal shine And my bloody lips are so terribly like sickles. Ah, what you say-- Yes you are really right. I set you... free. ... And early in the morning I am going to an ocean That is blue and eternal... And lie on the beach... And play with a smile on my face, until a death grabs me, With sand and sun and with a white Slender bitch.

Love Song

Your eyes are bright lands. Your looks are little birds, Handkerchiefs gently waving goodbye. In your smile I rest as though in bobbing boats. Your little stories are made of silk. I must behold you always.

The Suicide

White, I lie On the remains of an amusement park Between jagged buildings-- Burning flower... shining sea... Toes and hands Reach out into emptiness. Longing tears the weeping body to pieces. The little moon glides above me. Eyes grope Gently into the deep world, Sunken hats Wandering stars.

Touched

I gladly left The noisy death of the city, With its thousands of leering faces, The yellow night of the alleys. I stride into the broad, Silver sky; The pious limbs glide Deep into gently being. I am in the white brightness Of cloud, meadow, wind. Am tree, am town, am child... How wet are my eyes! Soon the green evening will stand At its silver end... I raise blessed hands-- I want to go to meet it--

Prayer to People

I go through the days Like a thief. And no one hears My heart lament to itself. Please have pity. Like me. I hate you. I want to embrace you.

Wanderer in the Evening

Kuno Kohn sings: Dusty Sunday Lies burned to pieces. Charred coolness Mothers the land. Dissolute longing Gapes once again. Dreams and tears Stream upward.

Evening

Houses stand stiffly next to their fences. Let your eyes, last sparrows, flutter. Bluebottles alight on your face. Don't you, Kuno, feel the eternal mills-- The unfeeling one bores holes in your head. Look once more at the moon, the mustard-pot murderer.

Spring

All men are now greedy, All women are shouting, Hide yourself in your hump, Remain alone--

Kuno Kohn's Five Songs to Mary

First Song:

So many years I sought you, Mary-- In gardens, rooms, cities and mountains, In dumps, whores, in acting schools, In sick beds and in the rooms of mad people, In kitchen maids, screaming, celebrations of spring, In every kind of weather and every kind of day, In coffee houses, mothers, dancers-- I did not find you in bars, motion pictures, Music-cafes, excursions into the summer mist... Who knows the agony, when I, in the night on the streets, Cried out for you to the dead sky--

Next Song:

He who looks for you in this way, Mary, becomes quite gray. He who looks for you in this way, Mary, loses his face and legs. The heart crumbles. Blood and dream escape. If I could rest... if I were in your hands... Oh, if you would take me up in your eyes...

Song of Praise

Mary you--to think of how I felt about you... my heavy head sinks-- Sea only and moon--sea-moon and wind and world-- White sand encircling your white skin, Mary-- Your hair... your smile--all around is sea and distress And shouts and longing and a gentle happiness-- All this singing, that makes for such weariness... Doesn't heaven come to us slowly like a mother's song To the forehead of her child again and again--

Sad Song

Now I go once again among days, animals, Rocks and thousands of eyes and sounds-- The most foreign one. I had to lose you... Your sinful body, Mary, was so lovely-- Now I once again in vain look among days, animals, Rocks and sounds for a trace of you. Now I also know: I had to lose you... I did not find you--it was only your name--

Last Song

Only come, my rain... fall against my face Yellow street lamps... overturn the houses-- I don't want unbroken, smooth roads. Now it is lovely... only in the light of street lamps... Mary... surrounded with dark rain-- This is the way it should be. I would like to be with you. What are mountains and the flat land to me-- What are cities to me and colorful hypnotic nights-- Back to the ocean... back to the starry shore. You are not entirely Mary, whom I sought. But you are also Mary--boundless... Beloved... a fool... cursed with longing...

Kuno's Nocturne

Every day, when it gets so very dark That I can read no more, I walk along the street singing, Look at every girl... Whether perhaps--who knows-- Today of all days a miracle will take place: That I shall come home redeemed, Peaceful and forever free... From such pursuits I come back To the house tired and confused, I know a secret remedy That can extinguish all suffering--

Going for a Walk

Evening comes with moonshine and silky darkness. The roads become weary. The narrow world widens. Winds of opium move in and out of the field. I widen my eyes like silver wings. I feel as though my body were the whole earth. The city lights up: thousands of street lamps sway. Now the sky also piously enkindles its candlelight. ... Huge above everything my human face wanders--

Ash Wednesday

Yesterday I still went powdered and addicted Into the many-colored sounding world. Today everything has long since drowned. Here is a thing. There is a thing. Something seems like this. Something seems otherwise. How easily someone blows out The whole flowering earth. The sky is cold and blue. Or the moon is yellow and flat. A forest has many individual trees. There's nothing more to cry about. There's nothing more to scream about. Where am I--

The Son

Mother, don't hold me, Mother, your caress hurts me, See through my face, How I glow and wane. Give the last kiss. Let me go. Send a prayer after me. That I broke your life, Mother, forgive me.

To Frida

(Dedicated to L.L.)

Walls separate us. Strange spider webs. But I often fly, gaunt in my sinking Hand wringing room, a bleeding chirping twit. If only you were there. I am so murdered. Frida.

Lonely Watchman

City and beloved are far behind. I am so betrayed and alone. Slowly I move from one Leg to the other. Around me strange doors screech. I reach for dagger and gun. Ah, if I were only at home With my mother.

Soldiers' Songs

1

It's good and beautiful to be a soldier for a year. You live longer that way. And one is certainly pleased With each scrap of time that one snatches from death. This poor brain, shredded by longing for the city, Bloody from books, bodies, evenings, Inconsolably sad and filled with every sin, Three quarters destroyed already--can only, Standing at attention and marching on parade, Swinging arms and legs, Rust gently in a corner of the skull. Oh, the stink in a marching column. Oh, speed-marching across a lovely land in the spring.

2

I must come one hour before the others, Because I have shot badly. I certainly won't be promoted. And I must do extra drills as punishment, Because, while the others, in accordance with orders, Looked steadily at the caps of those in front of them, As we were marching under the red sun Across the shining fields, I squinted carefully at the little pilot Who was humming above me like a bee In the glowing evening sky.

3

I know, I know; this life is healthy. My rifle drill is hardly heard, But I cut my hand badly. Instead of the damned barracks yard I could now be in a meadow. In front of the assembled troops a man begins To cry bitterly.

4

Sometimes I am afraid: a year is long, Endlessly long. And always legs swinging... The whole lovely day spent molding bodies And parade marching, and firing blanks. To have to forget the world... that in the evening One is still senseless, drinking beer, when one goes to sleep One still feels the heavy helmet on his forehead-- And at night dreams of sergeants--

5

Even when Sundays and evenings come, Completely empty and listless I move about, I am completely glassy-eyed, play with dogs for fun, Ah, or with little stones that I find, Weary, without a thought, drag myself through the streets. I often also stand around at my window, At loose ends; should I just hang out at the local bar With my dull comrades, kill my weary Miserable hours in flickering movie houses And, to pass the time of day Look for willing girls: or should I merely Go back and forth in my room. I, who ran through the nights like a fool, Shrieking to the sky, sought a thousand miracles.

Songs to Berlin

1

O you Berlin, you colorful stone, you beast. You cast me with street lamps like briars. Ah, when one flows in the night through your lamps After women, silky, plump. A man gets dizzy from the eye-play. The little moon-candy sweetens the sky. When the days struck the steeples. The head still glows, a red Chinese lantern.

2

Soon I must leave you, my Berlin. Must again travel into the desolate cities. Soon I shall sit on the distant hill tops. In dense woods carve your name. Farewell, Berlin, with your bold fires. Farewell, your streets full of adventures. Who has known as much as I have of your pain. Saloons, you, I press you to my breast.

3

In meadows and in pure winds peacefully Cheerful people may glide along gleefully. We, however, rotten and poisoned long ago, Would deceive ourselves with this stepping into heaven In strange cities I move about without direction. The strange days are hollow and like chalk. You, my Berlin, you opium rush, you bastard. Only he who knows longing knows what I suffer.

Monday in the courtyard of the barracks