The air is skank
with innocence
Tibetan meditation
gangrene wallpaper

crumbly carpet
has beanbags
satinette cushions
ketchupy plates
bitter chips
holy, holy, holy
shoddy shoes
read Oz, red Rizla, Pink Floyd
purple haze
don't know
if it's day or night

~ ~ ~

At dawn my lover comes to me
and tells me of her dreams

It was the only good song on the juke box
I'd heard Rolling Stone
more times than I'd had breakfasts
1965, a small café in Melchtal, Switzerland

One evening some guys started to yodel
folk songs
I'm not making it sound as good as it was
but I'll never forget
same as Pia
who fed me sugar cubes
soaked in schnapps

~ ~ ~