To R.Normand (IV) or The Last Song

Go back to your books, yes you must go back

to these yellow pages of your poems,

for no one is ever kind

and no bells toll for the likes of you .

 

Just go , to Cavafy and Rilke

for their words were true and compassionate ,

and there was love most innocent .

 

Just go, under the cover of the night

when the nonchalant footsteps come

with the stench of a dead sky.

For he’ll never love you any more , nor he ever did,

it was a game of flesh after all .

 

Just go , there’s love
(if that’s the love he knows )

in the crotch of too many men on the street

beckoning to be had,

 

Just go now, if you must

let the candle continue her soundless cry,

let the dirty lips continue the moderate vice ,

for tonight there won’t be any stars

Oh dein Herz und dein verwestes Gestalt .

To R.Normand(III)

It almost felt like love , at least for me ,

when you leant on the couch, full of smile ,

half hidden in the rising heat of a summer’s day ,

It was not too unusual for you ,I guess,

this little secret indecency ,

 

It almost felt like love, I thought ,

these sweet words on the lip of my tongue

almost escaped and found the nest in you ,

and I kissed you on your lips,

you had the taste of a thousand splendid suns,

 

yes, the kiss, the hugs almost too intimate

and the quick baring of the flesh –

the night was dosing on the staircase , and became alert.

 

soon came the distant saxophone

singing to you ,like I did in our room

for each heart beat was like the song

from my most innocent childhood…

Alone In Zhabei

I’m alone here , so very much alone ,

at this ominous hour of eight o’clock.

Footfalls ebb like distant waves and lost

to some infamous rendezvous .

In front , full of the colonial stench of the 1920s,

the uncharted building , dark and morose,

looms in and hovers , hovers ; by walks a listless dog.

Yes I’m alone here , so very much alone,

drunk and the night falls young.

On The Picture Of P.S

you sit in front of the French window, shirt half open,

the line of beauty flows down your chest

and your cream white belly, lost

to a belt of lazy sun;

the noise of the day falls into your collar

and becomes quiet,

will soon crystallize, like you do now ,

into the eternal grace of a picture.

But sadly that’s all I’ll know about you.