STRAW
Für Anselm Kiefer
A sea of love. There must be a sea of love behind it. “It's chess” the blood relation says. “Don't touch it,” the gatekeeper says. “Why not? This hair is made of straw, Margarethe's hair is made of straw.” “Because Anselm won't like it.” “We don't speak Danish,” the chess lover says. “No, but you understand it. Now move away.” “Yes, sir, Hitler sir,” we say in perfect Danish and vanish in Shulamit's painting. In the alcove where the Ice and Blood awaits, I hear the sister of mercy asking: “What do you see?” The alcove's resonance goes like a bullet through the surface, it ricochés on the hero's palm, and glides into the sea of love, vibrating. I'm cutting a wave with Anselm's scissors and plant it on Shulamit's head. She starts talking: “Du bist Maler, Wort Gewitter Eis und Blut.” Maybe. Maybe. “What do you see?” “I see a theory of the moon,” the pianist says. “You are the crystal woman.” “Who taught you to talk like that?” “You did.” I sip ashes through the straw, and imagine another feedback. I'm the crystal woman. I cast my reflection on your strength and your power gets divided by four. Das ist Melancholia für Paul Celan, Sol Invictus für Jean Genet, Konstellation für Margarethe, und Sternenfall für Shulamit. You can't drown in the last straw. I make a wish for the utterance: You are powerful, my love, and I believe you.
A sea of love. There must be a sea of love behind it. “It's chess” the blood relation says. “Don't touch it,” the gatekeeper says. “Why not? This hair is made of straw, Margarethe's hair is made of straw.” “Because Anselm won't like it.” “We don't speak Danish,” the chess lover says. “No, but you understand it. Now move away.” “Yes, sir, Hitler sir,” we say in perfect Danish and vanish in Shulamit's painting. In the alcove where the Ice and Blood awaits, I hear the sister of mercy asking: “What do you see?” The alcove's resonance goes like a bullet through the surface, it ricochés on the hero's palm, and glides into the sea of love, vibrating. I'm cutting a wave with Anselm's scissors and plant it on Shulamit's head. She starts talking: “Du bist Maler, Wort Gewitter Eis und Blut.” Maybe. Maybe. “What do you see?” “I see a theory of the moon,” the pianist says. “You are the crystal woman.” “Who taught you to talk like that?” “You did.” I sip ashes through the straw, and imagine another feedback. I'm the crystal woman. I cast my reflection on your strength and your power gets divided by four. Das ist Melancholia für Paul Celan, Sol Invictus für Jean Genet, Konstellation für Margarethe, und Sternenfall für Shulamit. You can't drown in the last straw. I make a wish for the utterance: You are powerful, my love, and I believe you.
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