They’re sputtering like motors with no clue,
\nthe oil wants to get out and spits
\nwords only to lose them
\nlike dead good mousers.<\/p>\n
The mousers’ paws lie, stiff, beside the well,
\ngathering gravel to the small wet heart.
\nWhat made it stick so closely to the ground?
\nNo man’s innocent motors.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Self-esteem<\/strong><\/p>\n The Oil must leak. The man licks the donor, <\/p>\n Strange Fugue\t(Panic)<\/strong><\/p>\n And the people came and looked on, holding their rings in their fingers. They will always be the knob and not the hand.<\/p>\n Shareholders fanned the wounds with their light clothing. The latter, clouds in pants, sleeping hustlers, The observers tried to show something with curious saltations. And thus they lived long with heartburn and nausea, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Chinese Market Of Dings<\/strong><\/p>\n Rise up, swell illusions, cutoff cables, <\/p>\n In the Museum of Misanthropy<\/strong><\/p>\n Pots! <\/p>\n The latter, clouds in pants, sleeping hustlers, By Ann Cotten<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[484,7],"tags":[447,483],"class_list":["post-30618","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-maintenant","category-poetry","tag-add-new-tag","tag-the-author"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/30618","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=30618"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/30618\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=30618"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=30618"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=30618"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nThe tongue must toil.
\nMan must use
\nboth tongue and oil.<\/p>\n
\nthe tongue licks the oil.
\nThe oil invents
\na concept of honor.<\/p>\n
\nHow they talked! \u201cWhere would the lie be, then?” and again,
\n\u201cWhere would be the lie?” For unwittingly the songs
\nhad found the subjunctive, a present milder
\nthan the times allowed.
\n More gallant
\nand more false were the words of the culture men.1<\/a><\/sup>
\nThey are used to mastering everything with grace, covering
\nabominable gaps with pretty lids, adding banisters
\nand standing on it all, even though it slants.
\nAnd they talk then, inconspicuously, so all can see
\nhow easy it could be.
\n But one is not everyone, no!
\nExceptions, wildly defended, look best on those
\nwho know how to avoid quelques choses.<\/p>\n
\nThey claim to understand things that come like giant cranes.
\nSo we used them <\/em>as gods, irregular gods
\nto play along the hems of the customers.<\/p>\n
\nwanked around in swarms, gushing like animals, spitting
\nfire when it tipped and threw them off. They mixed
\nfondness and fear, their love was horrible; ironic
\nobservers observed large stains spreading over the land.<\/p>\n
\nBut the people just twisted their rings and twisted and twisted them.
\nThey did not want to take that step, for as it was, they knew
\ntheir problems safely separated from their solutions,
\nwhich scared them.<\/p>\n
\nsaw the foe in their bedrooms and ignored him.<\/p>\n\n
\ntragic flowers, uneven equals. Oh you kiss,
\nyou smouldering blooming kiss of bad
\ncraftsmanship, and oh you human eyes.
\nYou staring stars, return to kiss.
\nYou deep abyss, return to kiss.
\nAnd underneath, the universe is blown.
\nIs cut! Techn\u00d1\u008d – unmastered love,
\nstopping for money. Little joys, Techn\u00d1\u008d!
\nHard feelings, psycho coverage for love \u2013
\nO Fiberglass, hard mantle of love \u2013
\nforbidden love – Techn\u00d1\u008d!
\nComb your your hair with molding scrap,
\nmy dove, feed your line into your sprue.
\nhalf dead, paint some cute eyelashes on it,
\npaint them happy, now you can.<\/p>\n
\nAt eye level \u2013 Shards!
\nAll these dippers and ideals,
\nimagination healers, bigwigs of the world,
\ndried, ground, decorated protection,
\nsieved kernels, beloved fruit, used pelts,
\nanguish, anguish, anguish, beauty through cruelty,
\nexceedingly small fake windows.
\nBasics over basics.
\nAnd rotten, evil ancestors,
\njealous pitch-black turds.
\nRecurring patterns on pots.
\nImportant questions that are not new.
\nSeveral prominent personalities up to their knees in plural.
\nPearls. Divides. Vessels for delicate swine,
\nmixed, confused, covering their faeces
\nwith delicacy, with giggles, with one another.
\nHowling of chickens.
\nDust, little dust, and fresh information boards.
\nWhere our alphabet comes from! Someone
\nhas fooled the pedagogue with ridiculous scribbles:
\nIs comes from of a butterfli in Japan!
\nWhere our alphabet comes from! From mistrust
\nnever overcome. It was holes in rocks, became dust.
\n((Hair and nails are in my way
\nwhile I write this. They are sent by the gods.))
\nYurts. Buckets. Rugs. Bowls and scarves.
\nSnow goggles. Jackal deities, venom, three shrunken heads.
\nFibers from a hula skirt. A claw from the natural death
\nof a cockatoo. All that helps and all that does not help at all,
\none thousand museums. Idiotic traditions.
\nAlongside traditions allowing survival under conditions
\nthat maim almost everyone. Blinkered square patterns.
\nSurvival is degeneration. The eternally human is the eternally unpleasant.
\nIf you no longer would like to exist, you may bite the dust.<\/p>\n![\"anncotten02\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/10\/anncotten02.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nAnn Cotten <\/strong> was born in Iowa in 1982 and moved to Austria, with her parents, at the age of five. Her poetry books include the acclaimed Fremdw\u00c3\u00b6rterbuchsonnette<\/em> (Suhrkamp, 2007), for which she won the Reinhard Priessnitz and the Clemens Brentano Prizes, and this year’s Florida-R\u00c3\u00a4ume<\/em> (Suhrkamp). She currently lives in Berlin.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"anncotten021\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2010\/10\/anncotten021-150x150.jpg\")
Shareholders fanned the wounds with their light clothing.
\nThey claim to understand things that come like giant cranes.
\nSo we used them<\/em> as gods, irregular gods
\nto play along the hems of the customers.<\/p>\n
\nwanked around in swarms, gushing like animals, spitting
\nfire when it tipped and threw them off. They mixed
\nfondness and fear, their love was horrible; ironic
\nobservers observed large stains spreading over the land.<\/p>\n