Vanishing point: personal altar, less art,
more contents, more...to know about
secrets to be sweet; my alter ego, the maniac dragged me
through supermarkets and department stores, up and down,
played on a piano directly adjacent the juice bar, glass
elevator, special offers a madman has thrown himself down in
mountain climbing outfit, loaded his gun and fired at the
bargain hunters' children, wheel reflectors in a 10 pack, own
child chased out the door because it got dirty; lashing the
waistband together, eyes pinched together, tightly blinded by
the light, illuminated, out of the city, the meadow, a tree,
the entire landscape, the stars daylight flashlights of a
hundred thousand watts
You can't get enough, you are an angel, and
I desire nothing but to hate you
trans. Mark Kanak
