kaspar is dead 
alas our good kaspar is dead. 
who will now carry the burning banner hidden in the pigtail of clouds to play 
the daily black joke 
who will now turn the coffee-mill in the primaeval barrel 
who will now entice the idyllic deer out of the petrified paper box. 
who will now confound on the high seas the ships by addressing them as para- 
pluie and the winds by calling them keeper of the bees ozone spindle your 
alas alas alas our good kaspar is dead, holy ding dong kaspar is dead. 
the cattlefish in the bellbarns clatter with heartrending grief when his Chris 
tian name is uttered, that is why I keep on moaning his family name kaspar 
kaspar kaspar. 
why have you left us. into what shape has your beautiful great soul migrated, 
have you become a star or a watery chain attached to a hot whirlwind or 
an udder of black light or a transparent brick on the groaning drum of 
jagged being. 
now the part in our hair the soles of our feet are parched and the fairies lie half- 
charred on the pyre. 
now the black bowling alley thunders behind the sun and there’s no one to 
wind up the compasses and the wheels of the handbarrows any more. 
who will now eat with the phosphorescent rat at the lonely barefooted table. 
who will now chase away the siroccoco devil when he wants to beguile the 
who will now explain to us the monograms in the stars. 
his bust will adorn the mantelpieces of all truly noble men but that’s no com 
fort that’s snuff to a skull. 
weggis 1912

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