long lines of bugs marched all day

largely foreigners

at twenty-five centimes a sock

six liters on Saturday’s


he declaims

that shiver

the stones


a piece of bad luck

the thing you knew

your food is bread and margarine

food insulting you

only food


no clothes

hardly ever without

writing is bosh

the dirtiest hotel on the street

his coat wound around his shoes as a pillow


who does

Boris’ friend, a waiter

a fortnight from today in time for lunch

you may be useful, come on down

a blue apron

at the other, an ice cover


apart from the dirt

unlabeled tins

only salt and water


tongue and lips

perfectly and wildly happy