Learning a language

There is this word 

called unruh.

Its restlessness

measured 

by its lack of syllables-

which have fed the moths

in the dusty closet

of another slang-

perhaps, the rendering of a mottenfraße.


Planted in a foreign flesh,

the cants of a novel tongue,

dawdle,

saumselig,

dithering to germinate alleys.

Sonant by sonant

searching their

own memories

for that one silbe of lullaby.


Scwindende,

Lächelden

Rauchshriftzeichen

im kneipe-

nostalgia of laughter

in a sidewalk cafe.

Whispers

that make the body blossom

into the palaver of pleasure.

But nothing!!!

Nichts!!!

Only a long screech of loneliness.

Mutterseelenallein,

which scars like bluterguß,

sounds like the name of a flower

but is just a bruise.


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