Peter Röttscher


I understand nothing, you wait at the lake. Describe a single poem. Criminy, these accursed convulsions of interpretation at school before. Concepts, ideas, feelings, of course, and the quintessential head shaking. All the breaks, all the bridges. But once in a while a kind of path, who knows. Here the sound, if you will have it so, and there the form, as I want it. Goodbye, reality, welcome to your dual life. Who gives? Words are for playing. Who will stand out? Hello, language is trump. Against. Re. Who's pitted against whom?