WEBVTT

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(RHYTHMICALLY) A glass tube
for my leg, says Hugo Ball.

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My hat, a cylinder
in blue and white.

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The night, the German ostriches,
the sink he pisses in,

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all these become his world.

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His Dada song begun there holds
the image until it comes at us.

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The image from its
cross looks down.

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A ribbon, a revolver, mud, these
contribute to his death also.

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To what his death contributes
later too hysterical,

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too sick with God and time, a
carousel, a roasted poet, fish,

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the queen says through
his mind and enters where

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the street of mirrors starts.

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She sees his face reflected in
hunger of the world of pain.

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The consciousness of
death, not why we die

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but why we dream about it
and why our dreams can't

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save the dying remnant.

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Hugo, as I write
this poem, the voice

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cries from a further room.

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The dancer/singer calls me.

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From a further room, I
step into an obelisk.

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Below the waist, my
mouth opens to sing

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but freezes shut
in grief for you.

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Ombula, bitdli,
solunkola, the collapse

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of language, tabla, tokta,
tokta, takabala, taka, tak.

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A glass tube ecstasy,
escapes from time.

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Babula m'balam, the image and
the word over your bed hang

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crucified.

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Again, the cabaret
explodes again, again.

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Fatigue, one foot in glass, a
glass nerve and a priestly gas

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pump pulls her hair out.