"O, you know, while we're on the subject of translations, & since you asked about my translations of German dadaists, here's an old one: I think it was my first published translation (in a special dada issue of a mag called Ghost Dance) way back yonder in 1974. Anyway, I resurrected the little sucker for some poetry reading I happened to be doing in the month after Jerry Garcia died. & it seemed, to me & audiences, to be appropriate." - G P Skratz
& now there's no-one to steal away with the burning flag &
snap it every day in the dark cloud's braided hair.
no-one to crank the coffee-mill in the ancient cask.
no-one to conjure idyllic deer from the petrified grocery bag.
no-one to sniff ships umbrellas bee-keepers udders of wind
spindles of ozone no-one to filet the pyramids.
o god god god our good old kaspar is dead. lord lord
kaspar is dead.
heart-broken shark's teeth rattle with grief in the belfry
when we utter his given name. so i stick to his last,
sighing kaspar kaspar kaspar.
why have you deserted us. what form has your great soul
wandered into now. have you become a star or a chain of
water on a hot whirlwind or a plump breast of black light
or a transparent brick on the groaning drum of the rocks
of existence...
o now the crowns of our heads the soles of our feet wither
away & angels smolder on the funeral pyre.
the dark bowling alley thunders behind the sun & there's
no-one to wind the compasses & the wheels of wheelbarrows.
no-one to dine with the phosphorescent rat at the barefoot
table.
no-one to drive off the wind devil when he tries to seduce
the horses.
no-one to teach us monograms in the stars.
his bust will adorn all truly noble firesides but there is
no snuff & comfort for a dead head.