We are powdered characters
on easy chairs in the corner seating unit,
dimly lit, black velveteen.
These are the real establishments,
men in vests open the door.
But I am only eyes and ears:
Do people still clear their throats? Snort?
Mishear? "They were famished", at night,
in the room next door, late until three.
And we are sad characters
at the varnished table, night talk.
Eyes half open. Freshly shaved temples:
Do people still speak easy? Smoke?
Act the coke demon. The bag of sugar
that walked off with me, SANTORA, inhaled
in front of the rust-flecked mirror.
MAXIM FUTUR reflection: Do people
still drop? And I stand there
as if flavoured: hot, elder-ly
and weak.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock