341

Peter Altenberg, 1909

His moustaches are the shape and colour
Of a tarnished sickle. Soft stains indeed!
There is one in black at his upper lip, of
Which the edges trail the cramped air,
Bristles of frayed wire spraying from a
Sleeve of jaundiced flesh. His mouth is
Barely visible beneath, a fat grub's smart
Orifice. He holds it closed, melancholic.
His neck the watery red of rare beefsteak,
And at its upper boundary a crimson ear,
Full in its broken bloom, and the slight
Outline of his remaining hair. A majority
Of his skull is hairless, and yet it seems
Striated as a rough opening in a facade
Of sedimentary rock, each colour gentle
In its own kind. He would reach into
The air before him—are his malformed
Hands articulate, or simply for show?
How will we know when he begins to act,
Or when his true expression will occur?
His rueful eyes pronounce nothingness.