after years of strictest convention something was
stirring in the previous poem something like a little
breeze just a tiny zephyr however. meanwhile others
know more. it is rumoured that the visceral (traditional

young bloods among them) are occasionally even the best
workers - as much inclined to confuse fame with achievement.
hence nothing much changes at first / the contest appears
to be relatively balanced: heavyweight aesthetic versus

easygoing good guy - they wanna write how they are!
HE's allowed - they aren't! he exploits it. enters the personal
parentheses (content's immaterial but it's true confessional graphic
and, he agrees a little deranged). there's a fateful collision:

lumpen elite versus critical prole muscle. on going
to press the result is open. faint suspicion is quickly
settled: we hope art can be clinched when the project(ile)
hits its target. alas. in the process they have dis-corporeal-ised.

translated by Joanne Burns