19.09.25
Our illnesses are mostly political illnesses.
Peter Weiss
Through which nothing passes
its wind black code minutes
sleepless in the Interbau
love drifts to tariffs graphic file
the remains of the city
of tomorrow its twilight
of stars or buildings sibilant
tears cyanide moves through us
in the Tiergarten rond-points
turns on a ruined feeling
its premature breath falls toward
the other side a song of neglect
here’s your new image of freedom
under the factory of the sun
