At a ripping pace in
trot and backstroke enamoured
maids with glints in their eyes black holes
in their eyes that suck in buttons
seams fabric coins and Russian
steel-teeth Bulgarian chinagums
nobody sinks to the
bottom in boiling
water nobody
soars
to the clouds when it's raining
golf balls but rather lets oneself
sink into shelter pulls
together celestial bodies and
counts the krónas
one has counts
the crowns
one has
shoves
unread
bills into the grates
of storm drains so everything clogs up
and when the slobber of skies
floods over
windowsills the glints
of eyes go out
the black holes go out
and the girls suck
the blood out of the moon like the juice of an orange.
Translation: Jonas Moody