[ich hause breitbeinig in einem schwarzen Stachel]

                       ich hause breitbeinig in einem schwarzen Stachel                 

                                             wie der Herzog von Alba

                                                                                                                                                 
    in seinem blauem Himmel     
                                              



                                       als Kind schon vom Halse herab
 goldene Schocks gegossen bekommen haben chemtrails strähnchen durch ein                 Blech geflochten die Arme die Segel die Rüstung die Stürme                                                      
                                                                                                                                            
                     parallel zur Küste ohne dieser                                                                                          ansichtig zu werden



                                      über Stickel das Gesicht verteilt    


       an Kordeln weiterhangeln                        an Wangen mangelts ja, an                                                                                         Gnade ganz
                          
                                                                                                                            

                      
an Waden Bronze runterschmelzen lassen an die Brust
               sich fassen: ausgelassenes Budget                                                      

                                                                      “viele filigrane Kelche”, ein Bouquet

                                     aus Hungerzweigen

            Affekten, Training und ein Schisser der nie weiterwollte als bis hier 
       gibt uns aus Kragen, Kindheit, Kränkung passend raus

                                                                                                                                                                                                                und fand mich glänzend
                                                                ohne Zögern

© Charlotte Warsen
Aus: Seufzergruppen (Auszüge aus einem Klagegesang)
Audioproduktion: Haus für Poesie / 2016

[i dwell, legs splayed in a black thorn like the Duke of Alba]



                                                                              i dwell, legs splayed in a
                                                               black thorn like the Duke of Alba




                in his blue sky    
                                              



                                                                                                                             as a small child having golden shocks
                                                                               poured down my shoulders chemtrail streaks plaited through                                                                                                                                             tin the arms the sails the armour the storms   
                                                                                                                            

                                                                                                                                            

                                                               parallel to the coast

                                                                                                                             without catching                                                                                               
                                                                                                                 sight of it





                                                                              the face spread over stakes


                brachiating along on cords                                                                             given the dearth of cheeks, and                                                                                                                                                                                                  utter lack of mercy
                          
                                                                                                                            

                                                              
letting bronze melt down onto calves clutching
                                at my breast: a rendered down budget                                       
               

                                                                                                                              “myriad delicate chalices”, a bouquet


                                                                                 of hunger-twigs


                          affects, training and a wimp who never wanted to go any further
                gives us the correct change of collars, childhood and hurt




                                                                                                                             and was found resplendent
                                                                                                              without hesitation

Translated by Charlotte Thiessen and Joel Scott