Sam Langer

Space Advice

Seeking oblivion read lives.
Manuals, for a sense of safety.
And on waking menus.
I have been on this ship
30 years, and today
you beat me at chess again.
Yet I'm content, I even grow
happy as we near the sun.
It's the end of our journeying:
incinerating heat, blasting cold.


they said all those things about
soft muzzle of the clear sky, leafage-
rings buzz after shadow layers of the
lines of it in the clear; describe,
so destine, the colour. watery, and
shut-up. above the loaf tin trunks
covered in leaves and sticks nothing. now a
pink smoke seed-grain streak dragged
from a nit jet plane smoothly.
overqualified. confused. twilight
seeps onto visual towels on the
rail, hostel pastel in quiet skies, shorts
upon one, the other poorly spread if
indeed left there to dry, the other
with teddy bears but only one
evident one, the others just legs,
or fold-cut against joints,
the other lame green also damp,
definitely not the last.
capitals and smaller disturbed inhumane
tics' free streaming. through the black
sticks now the sky paler, darker, or
weaker? someone had moved a table.
a cross dresser moved through the dusk
along the line of brittle, tent-coloured
grasses, and then went down
into the forest. a bit of wood-
sinister beige rectangle, smaller than
a small finger lay. exact its
axis against the mossy cinder block line.
forest, was it? cross dresser's help
re-emerged from the dim boles
and made into the biscuit tan.
then one wheezing
behind a void wheelbarrow.
affected by slope.

two translations

1. schwedisch abgründe

swedish ravines: deeper than one might think

2. bayerische polizei

“the bavarian police work very well for the safety of people in bavaria.”

from celebrity head sequence

am I dead?
am I the leader of a country?
am I male?

growth ending in a verse by death strike

ten years in two seconds
of darkness, thought as burnt doughnut
ground shedding its brunt of horse
talk into feedback,
gas blowing through the hafts, your boy
friend weak but glorious
his butt creates a form
in those tongues of cloth
you hear the croc's vocals and can
no longer see yourself as extinct
sausage rolled in waiter

such promise, lost to food and
drink jumpers coated in wrist

pain "as the nuclear warheads
crush the earth
and everything surrounding it
earth is destroyed"


Sam Langer was born in Melbourne, in February 1983. He lives in Berlin. He edits Steamer and has published a chapbook, Law You Can Eat, with Munted Beyond Press.
Samuel underscore langer at yahoo dot com dot au.
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