krum­mer als ein pisang,

pest du den hang lang,

                        gehst weg

und kehrst wieder,

     flugs klanglos

wi’im kreb­s­gang,

so lang wie mein fuß lang ist,

kommst du

immer wieder,

doch lässt dich kaum

ein­fan­gen

      und kreist und kreist so lang, 

bis du

allein­gangs,

von mit­ten­mang baumgangs,

                      mer­len­fang, pfaufang,

von deinem luftgang,

                   grenz

-gang und talhang

zu mir

zurück­kommst.

dein drall

zurück –                                           

drang nach

dem anfang :

zwar zwang nur,

wenn ‘s ziel verfehlt;

kommst immer

zurück.

 

 

 

und wäre es pjöngjang,

kämst du

zurück,

kämst du mit yinyang,

dugong und oolongduft,

     umgeben von linsangs,

                 in see­tang getauft.

wärs kanaan,

     kämst du

zurück,

kämst diaphan

als ein rührmichnichtan,

     esko­rtiert von zehn

xys­tus­van­dalen

mit khan­skur­tisa­nen,

von sch­neck­en­mi­la­nen

aus grün­cel­lo­phan.

     vielle­icht kämst dann

   toboggans

zu meinem wigwam,

mit pavianelan

und als trickschuft,

als mez­zo­het­man

      mit tukanuntertanen

– die merluschkamähne

stünde dir gut.

kämst

zurück wie ein mustang,

     kämst

tra­b­gangs, ganz frank

ohne gruß,

zwang, zug- oder zungzwang,

doch mit recht artigem

jubelge­sang – kein kappzaum

zurück, kum­merang,

von gim­pelfang

und von kulmen

zurück.

 

 

alle kum­merangsnück­en

(kum­merangsnuck­en),

kum­merangs­guck­er, dumpf,

die can­canieren­den kummerangstücken;

all das kummerkrummbücken –

kum­merangs rück­enkrüm­mung nämlich

ist krüm­mer,

als mein nasen­hang krumm ist.

so kämst du

mit stets krüm­merem rücken

zurück, kum­merang, zu mir,

krüm­mer, verkümmert

und immer viel schlimmer

         als noch beim let­zten mal,

da du mich sahst.

 

– doch wer warf dich,

kum­merang,

ganz sich­er mein arm nicht,

     bes­timmt diese hand nicht,

sie ver­mochte es nicht,

dich so zu wer­fen, dass du

zurück­kommst.

 

darf ich mal ?

würf ich nämlich,

kämst du nie mehr

zurück,

schöss­est zielhaft

aufs ziel zu,

ins schluck­loch des schummers,

und ver­schwän­d­est für immer darin :

 

kein schluck­loch des kum­mers bliebe hier mehr zurück.

 

 

aber du pest

und zim­perst nicht;

aber du säst

und pim­perst nicht;

aber du äst

und klimperst nicht;

aber du mähst

und wim­perst nicht

ein­mal.

 

aber du schläf­st nicht.

 

der schlum­merang kann dem kum­merang nichts anhaben.

 

 

 

 

wie bang ist mein fangdrang :

 

fang ! fang ! fang ! fang ! fang ! fang ! 

 

ihn, der kimm­lang den him­mel belangt,

mal seiger,

im wind­fang

des kumu­lus kumulonimbus :

du bist der versehgang,

das kum­merko­ma des flügelschimmels.

 

so lang kreist er

und kreist schon,

der kum­merang –

stunden‑, tage‑, nächtelang

kreist dieser kummerang

um den kopf

und im kopf rum

              und kommt immer

wieder zurück.

ging rum,

um den kummer

beim mor­genspazier­gang

abz­u­fan­gen,

zu befra­gen,

fing

aber nichts

und­soweit­er

und rang mit dem kummer,

rang mit dem kummer,

dem grab­skum­meran­drang,

kum­merangsan­drang

                                  bis sonnuntergang

seit mon­dauf­gang.

 

der kum­merang­ef­fekt

unter­schei­det sich also

von jedem andern :

 

er färbt wellen

in das kleidgrau

der klageweiber;

er zer­rt welt

durch den blaubau

der sagelei­der;

er lehrt, bellt

das chałchał

der wid­der­mei­der,

behrt die welt aus dem pfau. –

 

 

 

 

pomuchel der kopf,

der glaubt, er mäandert :

 

denn er pest

und zim­pert nicht.

denn er sät

und pim­pert nicht.

denn er äst

und klimpert nicht.

denn er mäht

und wim­pert nicht

zweimal.

 

dies jedoch vor allem :

 

er schläft nicht.

 

 

(spin­ner­lied, auf eine melodie aus mary pop­pins)

 

                       kummkum­merang, kummkum­merang, bumsklenguruh,

     der kum­merang hüpft nicht, hat kein blut, keinen schuh;

kummkum­merang, kummkum­merang, bumsklenguruh,

           der kum­merang ken­nt nur den schnellwendeflug;

          kummkum­merang, kummkum­merang, bumsklenguruh,

den kum­merang nen­nt kein spezialwörterbuch;

kummkum­merang, kummkum­merang, bumsklenguruh,

der kum­merang hockt am pistolenabzug.

 

 

tor­na­da

 

enlai­diert enziane;

fern spreizen

       geköpfte

vulka­n­pe­likane

speiend die riesischen

feuerss­chnä­bel.

du liegst neben mir, wach, kummerang

– die sum­ma vielle­icht etwa wäre :

ver­rückt, wie gut wir doch

in löf­felchen­stel­lung ineinanderpassen,

ich und mein buh­le, der kummersatan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fakul­ta­tive beschwörung

 

 

 

komm, kum­mer­com­brus, komm, kummercombrus,

kummkum­mer, komm. kummkum­mer, komm :

komm, kum­mer­com­brus.

kum­mer­cum­brus.

kumm­com­boros. kum­mers oroboros

(uroboros), kumm­riger boris, komm, kummerbolos.

kum­mers küm­mer­ling, o komm, kum­merk­loß, ‑joch,

-last,

-see,

-los.

hab nur paar

kum­merkru­men –

o kum­merkrume, komm;

                  hab einen kubbenkrümel,

ach kum­merkubbe, komm;

     komm krümeln,

so him­mele, komm.

und wenn ?

warum in dieses

kum­merkruch verkrümeln ?

 

     die kum­mer­runen. kummerline.

daginias kum­mer­nun.

dagini­akrümelkrumm.

mit kumpfets kum­merkamm (das nur für den frank), klamm,

     kump kum­mer­mann und hier die galgenmiene,

klump­klar, kleinlamm.

 

     die kumbermuhme.

mein fieberkum­ber­muh­men­bann.

ne muh­menkumpe flammt und fumpt den kummermann.

 

da : dies ist seine bumsal.

 

kum­bers cum­brus – cum­ber­sam­ba – kum­ber­cum­brus – kummerrumba

kum­mer­tan­go – ummen mam­ba – kum­mer­mam­bo – warum das ?

   kum­bers cum­brus – cum­ber­sam­ba – kum­ber­cum­brus – kummerrumba

   kum­mer­tan­go – ummen mam­ba – kum­mer­mam­bo – warum hast ?

      kum­bers cum­brus – cum­ber­sam­ba – kum­ber­cum­brus – kummerrumba

kum­mer­numb­fuß – kum­mer­lamb­da – dum­mer cum­brus – KUMMKARAMBA –

 

 

 

 

auf kum­merun. ins umbad – schnell, schnell,

aber geht das ?

 

kum­mer­skunde

kün­det pfunde.

 

doch hier vom kummergan.

kurz­fuß, armekurz, kratzfuß :

da kommt der kum­merang mit seinem kummersklan.

(tak, tak : szklany.)

(sind fahrende.)

 

postkarte

 

kumm’rang heut

in sankt kummer

und como

(pagane ver­anstal­tung)

 

                                                           karawa­nen kom­men herum.

                                                                von makaras karakaras

beset­zt ganz karaman;

     und kommt dagmara,

     kommt auch kumm’rang

                                                                       klags auf den karagan.

                                   (immer will sie

                                                    dann zu ihm sagen :

                                                      huste mal.

                                              yychu. yychu, yychu.)

 

ich komm wohl nicht

da kum­mer­rum,

ums kum­mer­garn,

ums kum­mer­nun,

     und karakumschwarz,

hum­mer­hun­grig,

komm ich tumb,

komm lum­mer­lungig,

     komme, komme,

komm ich, komm ich,

            kumm’rang, komich komm ich

um.

 

 

 

gloomerang

 

Trans­lat­ed from the Ger­man by Joshua Daniel Edwin

 

 

 

 

 

 

you race along the furlong,

crooked­er than a barong,

                                                                                                          you go away,

                                                                       u‑bend again,

                        in side­long zippersong 

            as in crabwalk;

                                                           so long as my foot is long, 

                                   you’ll always

come again,

                                                                                              but you can’t be

                        snagged

                                               cir­cling and cir­cling, so long,

            till you come,

                                                                                                          alone all along,

sprung from the oak-rungs,

                                                           you fan out, fangs out,

                                                                                  from your flightpath,

                                                                                                          (carv­ing headlong

down the valleyslope),

                                                                       you return

                                               to me.

                                                                                              your spin

            returns—

                                                                                  (oblong) a crav­ing to

begin—

                                   it descends

                                                                                  when you miss a target;

                                                                                                          that’s when the gong

gets rung.                   

 

 

 

 

 

    and were it pyongyang,

                                                                                  you’d come back,

                                                                                              you’d come with yin-yang,

                                                                                      dugong, and oolong-scent,

                                                                                         sur­round­ed by linsangs,

                                                                                                chris­tened in kelp.

                                                                                              were it canaan,

                                                                                  you’d come back,

                                                                                              you’d come diaphanous

                                                                                      as pale touch-me-not,

                                                                                      escort­ed by ten

                                                                                              san­daled vandals,

                                                                                      genghis khan’s courtesans,

                                                                                              their pri­vate scandals

                                                                          ban­daged in green cellophane.

                                                                                     per­haps you’d come

                                                                                                                      by toboggan

                                                                                      to my slack-walled wigwam,

                                                                                                          with baboon-elan

                                                                          and legerdemain, 

                                                                                              as mezzo-hetman

                                                                                      with a toucan-right-hand-man

—the astrakhan mane

                                                                                              would suit you well.

                                                                                  you’d come back

like a mustang,

                                                                                              you’d come trotting,

                                                                                      com­plete­ly frank

                                                                                  with­out salute or stink,

                                                                                      sturm und drang or harangue,

                                                                                              but with quite correct

                                                                                        oberek-step,

you’d come back

                                                                                        as bri­dle, from scamming 

                                                                                       and sum­mits. gloomerang,

                                                                       wel­come back.

 

all this gloomerang-caprice

                                   (gloomerang, capiche?),

     —oh gloomerang-gaz­er, book-nosed schnook—

the can­can-ing gloomerang-beats,

                                   all the gloomcrookedstoop:

                        gloomerang’s hunch­back, hooked as a scythe,

will out­hunch

my nose­bump (plumb out of line). 

                                                                                  then you would come,

                                                                       with your ever-bent back,

                                                                       back to me, gloomerang, bent

                                                                                  on return, vestigial,

                                                                       and always much worse than you were

                                                                                  the last time you bent

your flat gaze back to mine.

                                   but who threw you,

                                                           gloomerang,

                                   not my arm, certainly,

                                       not this hand, there’s no doubt

 it’s in no condition

to throw you so that you’d

                        come bend­ing back.

 

                                                           so may i, this time?

                                                           i’d toss you, somehow,

                                                                       so that you’d never

                                               come wind­ing back:

                                                           you’d shoot target-wise,

                                                                                  to your tar­get be tethered,

                                   in its bull’s‑eye gulphole 

                                                           you’d van­ish forever,

                        your bull’s‑eye of gloom ban­ished into the ether. 

                                                          

but you pester 

                        and nev­er relent

but you bluster

                        and nev­er recant

but you rupture

                        and nev­er repent

but you hector

                        and nev­er relax

even once

                                   into some­thing resem­bling sleep.

 

                        the snooz­erang can­not bring down the gloomerang.

                       

how wretched, my catch-stress, 

                                   catch! catch! catch! catch! catch! catch!

                                                                       you, that gashed heaven’s latch,                                                                                once match-straight

                                   in the windbreach 

                        of cumu­lous cumulonimbus:

you are the mistake-hatch,

            the gloom-coma of wingrash. 

                                                          

so long, you circle,

                                               have cir­cled already, 

                                   you, gloomerang—

                        hours‑, days‑, overnightslong 

                              in gloomerang circles

                                   over my head,

                                               in my head, and around,

                                                           and always you come

back round again.

                                               i went round

                             in the gloom 

on a morn­ing constitutional, 

ambushed

            and questioned,

                        collared,

                                   but not—

                                               and so then fur­ther on,

                                   i grap­pled with gloom, 

                                   i wres­tled with gloom, 

                                   with the gravegloomcrush 

                                               and the gloomerangboom 

                                                                                  from sundown

until moon­rise.

 

                        the gloomerang-effect

                                   dif­fers thusly

                                               from all others:

                                               it col­ors waves

                                   in the dressgray

                                               of mourners;

                        it tugs earth

                                   through the blueweave

                        of weepies;

                                                           it teach­es or barks

                                                                       the cha cha

                                   of crossed stars.

it sands cor­ners away. 

only a featherbrain 

                                                                       believes it meanders: 

                                               though it pesters 

                                                                       it doesn’t relent

though it blusters

                                                                       it doesn’t recant

though it ruptures

                                                                       it doesn’t repent

though it hectors

                                                                       it doesn’t relax

                                               twice over.

 

                                   this above all:

                                                                                  it does not sleep.

 

 

                                   (spin­ning­song, to a melody from mary pop­pins)            

 

                                               boom­gloomerang, boom­gloomerang, boomboomcheroo,

                                                           gloom nev­er skips, has no blood and no shoes,

                                               boom­gloomerang, boom­gloomerang, boomboomcheright,

                                                       gloomerang knows only quickturningflight,

                                   boom­gloomerang, boom­gloomerang, boomboomcheree,

                                                       gloomerang slips from your dictionary,

                                               boom­gloomerang, boom­gloomerang, boomboomandbigger,

                                                                       gloomerang lands on a pistol’s hairtrigger.

                       

                                                                                             

                                               TORNADA

 

 

                                                                       bat­tered gentians

                                                                                              scat­tered far

                                                                                                          and beheaded.

                                                                                              gargantuan

                                                                        vol­canic pelicans

                                   spout­ing firebeaks.

                                                           you sprawl next to me. wake, gloomerang—

                                                                       the facts were, per­haps, somewhat

                                                                                              dement­ed. how cozily

we fit, spoon­ing into each other,

                                   me and my beau, the gloomerang-tempter.

 

 

 

option­al: incantation/invocation

                                                                                                                                

 

come, gloomer glowmbe, come gloomer glowmbe

gloom­gloomer, come. gloom­gloomer, come:

come gloomer glowmbe.

gloom glúmi­an aura.

gloom­com­boros. gloom oroboros

(ouroboros), gloomy­gus boris, come (in gloomerbolo). 

suf­fer glum solo, o come, gloomy­puss, gloom-lump, ‑yoke,

-load,

-rake,

-drum.

 

so, have a couple

gloomer­crumbs—

            o gloom­crumb, come;

                 have a rugelcrumb,

                        yes, gloom­rugel, come;

                             come crumble,

thur­der­lette, come.

                                              what then?

                                                                       why crum­ble into this

                                                           gloomernook? 

 

     the gloom­runes. gloomerina.

daginia’s new­gloom.                                     

dagini­acrooked­crumb.

gloom came in troughs (that one’s for frank), clammy, 

     in font gloomy­man—and here the gallowsmien 

clump-clear, lit­tle­lamb.

 

     the muumuutune. 

my fever­tune­muumuus­pell.  

a muumuutrom­bone booms and flames up the gloomyman. 

 

there: that is his gloomstare.

 

lumber’sglúmi­an—cumbersamba—cumberglúmi­an—gloomer­rum­ba

gloomertango—mamamamba—gloomermambo—watch your waist

   lumber’sglúmi­an—cumbersamba—cumberglúmi­an—gloomer­rum­ba

   gloomertango—mamamamba—gloomermambo—watch your haste 

      lumber’sglúmi­an—cumbersamba—cumberglúmi­an—gloomer­rum­ba

        gloomernumbfoot—gloomerlambda—dumbencumbered—GLOOMCARAMBA—

 

pool­side in kum­ba, camer­gloon—wait, wait,

­—does that work? 

 

            moon­ing gloomy

like a loung­ing loon.

 

                        slog­ging through tox­ic glumes, 

                        club­foot­ed, bow­legged, arms curtailed: 

here comes gloomerang with the whole gloomclan.

(tak, tak : szklany.)

(car­ni­val hands.)

 

                                                                                  post­card

 

                                                                       gloom’rang here

                                                                       in old st. gloom

                                                                       and como

                                                                                  (for the pagan jubilee) 

 

                        car­a­vans come round here.

     karaman’s been full besieged

by makara’s caracaras; 

     and when comes dagmara,

     then comes, too, the gloomerang

harp­ing on the karaghan. 

 (then she wants

     to tell him:

       turn your head; cough.          

chuyh.)                                             

 

                                               most like­ly i’ll come

in loom­ing turns,

fate’s gloom­yarn                                                       

           its evernewgloom,

and karakum­sand­black,                                                                   

caviarstarved,

i come dumb, 

come barge­heart­ed,

     come, come,

i come, i come,

            gloom’rang, crum­bling i suc-

cumb.                       

 

 

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