But you are wandering through the waste lands.
Your dress hangs heavy. Your shoes are soaked.
Your eye is mad with greed and screaming.
And this urges you on--and you have no peace:
Perhaps in the midst of dark fire
The devil himself appears in the form of a pig.
Perhaps something completely horrible,
Foolish, brutal, nasty is happening.



Period


The deserted streets flow in gleaming light
Through my dull head. And hurt me.
I clearly feel that I shall soon slip away--
Thorny roses of my skin, don't prick like that.
The night grows moldy. The poison light of the lampposts
Has smeared it with green muck.
My heart is like a bag. My blood freezes.
The world is dying. My eyes collapse.



Reflecting upon a Human Lung in Alcohol


Without horror you devour dead flesh every day.
And dead blood is a sweet syrup for you.