Author: John Dutterer

One man smelled like roses – no, not him,
the other one with the green eyes,
always building his scale model of white-washed tombs.
“Flamboyant decay,” he’d say, as if that explained everything.
No, the raincoat that made us so sad back then
inspires boredom and nausea now.

“Go back! Go back to your oceans
with their prophet-of-doom hairstyles,
your seven seas like a pair of soiled pants.
The rest of us, we want to be clean.”

Everyone walking around
with what they most want
hovering right over their heads
Money
Mostly money
or a stray sex organ
(Making gloomy music
beloved of Germans)

Me, I’ve got a Mexican beer
right above me
I raise my chilly eyelids
to read the label
but it floats back
behind my head

Maybe I’ll get to drink it
after work
(All those other people,
will they get what they want?
Don’t know – don’t care)

Sometimes my hair gets cold
and an escaping drip
hits my nose
slips down
to my lips
It is cold
And it never tastes bitter