Because conceptualism is/ and that’s – hmmm
yeah, understandable, a bridge, a passover, people
thinging about the thing, hinging on a conception –
like, ‘the’ pill or putting a ring on it or your finger or
writing a line in the sand or ‘zu verschenken’ on a spare
piece of paper, tired of always having to ask whether
we are contemporary yet, threatening to stop the
tarago, whereas I just sent you five minutes of affirm
ation and sourstuff, like, waking up for a dressing down
and strumming a liar, strung out like a metaphor, smiling
at the thought of a retour de force, or de form, or de
facto, ipso embargo, ablating the snow from the trees
with a hairdryer, laying another egg, convincing a lover
to crush it, functioning more or less like an author,
topping off another day in parasite, digging in, holding
on on on, stacking the stacks on one another, asking if
you’re coming home, and should I make the bedding.

This entry was posted in conceptualism, gedichte, poetry, things. Bookmark the permalink.

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