And the way the person who stuffs himself
Starts to burp,
Like a mother in labor: 
The great yawn might perhaps be a sign,
A nod from fate,
To lie down to rest. 
And the thought would not leave him. 
And then he began to undress... 
When he was stark naked, he lifted something.

Rubbers

The fat man thought: 
In the evening I gladly walk in rubbers,
But also when the streets are clean and spotless. 
I am never entirely sober in rubbers. 
I hold the cigarette in my hand. 
My soul skips in little rhythms. 
And all one hundred pounds of my body skips.

The Patent-leather Shoe

The poet thought:  ah, I have enough trash! 
The whores, the theater, and the moon in the city,
The dress-shirts, the streets, and smells,
The nights and the coaches and the windows,
The laughter, the street-lights and murders—­
I’m really fed up now with all the crap,
Damn it! 
Whatever will be will be—­it’s all the same to me: 
The patent leather shoe Hurts me.  And I take it off—­
People might turn around, surprised. 
Only it’s a shame about my silk socks...

Smoke on the Field

Lene Levi went out in the evening,
Mincing, her skirt bunched up,
Through the long, empty streets
Of a suburb.

And she spoke weeping, aching, crazy,
Strange words,
Which the wind tossed, so that they popped,
Like pods.

They made bloody scratches on trees,
And, shredded, hung on houses
And in these deaf streets
died all alone.

Lene Levi went out, until all
The roofs made their crooked mouths grimace,
And the windows and the shadows
Made faces

They had a completely drunken good time—­
Until the houses became helpless
And the mute city passed
Into the broad fields,
Which the moon smeared...

Little Lene took out of her pocket
A box of cigarettes,
Weeping took one
Out and smoked.

Dreaming

Paul said: 

Ah, but who wouldn’t want to drive a car forever—­ We burrow our way through high-stemmed woods, We pass by spaces that seem endless.  We pass through the wind and attack the towns, which speed up.  But the odors of the sluggish cities are hateful to us—­ Ah, we are flying!  Always alongside death...  How we despise and scorn him who sits on our lives!  Who lays out graves for us and makes all streets crooked—­ha, we laugh at him, and the roads, overcome, die with us—­ Thus we shall auto our way through the whole world...  Until, on some clear evening We find a violent ending against a sturdy tree.

The Sad Man