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pastry,
pear slices in vanilla pudding
made my eyes want to see lots of whipping cream
and another waiter brought another pastry
hidden under whipping cream
all this in the open under sunshine
at round tables with red table cloth
so many people
so many eyes to look at
so many tables to turn to
and soon some tables converged
towards the beat in the backroom
eyes looked for eyes
past the bar
towards the beat
another smiling day
on an unending afternoon
talked under these trees
and leaves touched me
so many many one by one
as if still green from falling
as if flying towards you
and our glass touched our lips
while the waiter's hand tipped the bottle
one more time
and the wind picked us up
drove us into our smiles
add up fewer inhabitants
than big town restaurants
can count up customers
small town language
all encompassing totalitarian
as if looking down from some pedestal
god-like given rights
much bigger than big town cafes
with their profusion of cake eaters
lovers of coffee with cognac
and cream especially whipped-up for you -
for you individually
because you're precious
in the "you got to play the game"
always already uselessly subordinated
to everchanging ghosts:
language always plays towards revenge
while language's implicit purpose drives up the law
thus the weight of law's fog gets invisibly heavier
language always aims towards compulsory ends
demanding sacrifices for cultural ends
as if natural
but language acts contrary to neutral-
beast and nature succumb
are nothing to some
then all words learned are nothing but bought slaves
from yourself
to appreciate
the diminishing return from words