The modern poet of the keys
today inscripts his frieze
on the sketchy fleeting screen
with the tongue of the Queen.
By the strange words, far born,
he uses for his poetry,
he can not get a simple bread
nor ticket for the local train.
He will not write a Scottish play
nor put in words one Irish day
but with working and allies
he could win the Austrian prize.
He left his home, it’s going to decline
like all the other empty hives,
it remains the worldwide one,
a lonesome bee, the swarm is gone.
my dear, it could well be
that the poet is a she
and her only reason to use
queen’s tongue is the abuse
of the angelchild man
she could not get in 25 years —
screen-lined,
she finally blows the fuse
and gets reward for her abuse.
is this my reward for re-establishing the fashion of triangular-relationships?
Lass uns Holz hacken im Wald, so lange, bis der Engel aus seiner irdischen Krone kippt.