(RHYTHMICALLY) A glass tube for my leg, says Hugo Ball.
My hat, a cylinder in blue and white.
The night, the German ostriches, the sink he pisses in,
all these become his world.
His Dada song begun there holds the image until it comes at us.
The image from its cross looks down.
A ribbon, a revolver, mud, these contribute to his death also.
To what his death contributes later too hysterical,
too sick with God and time, a carousel, a roasted poet, fish,
the queen says through his mind and enters where
the street of mirrors starts.
She sees his face reflected in hunger of the world of pain.
The consciousness of death, not why we die
but why we dream about it and why our dreams can't
save the dying remnant.
Hugo, as I write this poem, the voice
cries from a further room.
The dancer/singer calls me.
From a further room, I step into an obelisk.
Below the waist, my mouth opens to sing
but freezes shut in grief for you.
Ombula, bitdli, solunkola, the collapse
of language, tabla, tokta, tokta, takabala, taka, tak.
A glass tube ecstasy, escapes from time.
Babula m'balam, the image and the word over your bed hang
crucified.
Again, the cabaret explodes again, again.
Fatigue, one foot in glass, a glass nerve and a priestly gas
pump pulls her hair out.