It Will Turn into a Head

the sphinxes carefully stick their noses out of the bark
for mister thread is bringing the rope
and mister rope is bringing the thread
to tie up the bag filled with obelisk butterflies

the bones in the stones grow faster and faster
in the foundation the kisses are festering
the sky revolves like an umbrella in the wind
the vases sigh like diamonds

if you sew a cackling bouquet on this happy holiday
it will turn into a head
that instantly looks at itself in a mirror
and wonders: is that me or isn't that me

the gloves ask themselves the very same thing
when their comfortable tongues recite the following litany
go up and push down
go down and push up
go forward and push back
go back and push forward
go right and push left
go left and push right

that's why it would be best to take down the mast-hats
the inner neckties
and the celibacy eggs from the thousandth floors
and to put them back on the table of creation
to ask the laurel-covered little quarter-hours to sit down on their ephemeral chairs
to arrange the ephemeral chairs and the table of creation rigorously in the shape of an interim pretzel
and then to discharge oneself of one's shoes as quickly as possible
and to leave the rest to the final eel that incorporates the gratis rural policeman.

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