Thursday, August 17, 2017

not ready


all turns
thinly sliced
time lapses
incomprehensable futures
emerging
layers of paint
dried under fingernails
not ready
to be deluted
not ready
to be ordained

Monday, June 12, 2017

The details are blurred


I am watching your struggles to become one with your self and your others. Opening an office in your garden, which is sealed off now, no more consultation hours. Why did you open it? Just to demonstrate your right to shut it down? How can I take it serious now? Aren‘t we fooling ourselves? Aren‘t faked tears also a form of violence? Going through shit now doesn‘t mean we will be spared from it later. What are we trying to prove with our suffering? This time there‘s no culprit. There‘s only a complainer.

I am sleepless because suddenly thoughts sicker through the walls of my building. Beforehand I didn‘t even know that I had walls let alone a building. Now, after it got distinctively pointed out: what should I do with it, the walls, the thoughts, the building? Should I call it home or merely a house in a row of houses, in a colony, estate, settlement, maybe a neighbourhood? Take it for real, discernable, or dismiss it as one more illusion, fake news spreading confusion, a fungus eating my mind, my sanity. Every neighbourhood has its very own intricacies. A voice in my head trying hard to smart me out, keeps telling me that things only have the meaning we attach to it. Then, how real is your existence, mine? When I recall you, I recall your voice and the way you threw it into fire, my name and the idea of something I had misunderstood.

I remember looking at a piece of polished wood. The details are blurred. Lines adding up and turning into patterns. I remember a struggle to be close, soft advances in a battle with the need to stay on top of the game. I gave you my time as well, subjugated my will, made you my friend, you threw it all into the gutter. Our relation became the meaning you attached to it, existence inside a huge void spiraling down, turning me into nothing but dirt and spit, basic elements the entire world is made of. I crumbled, sensed a giant tremble, an earthquake bringing down an ancient place of worship. It took me months to recompose myself. These are forces no one can revolt, and still we try, because we are human and believe it is better to lose a struggle than to remain idle or dead. Remaining idle is an art of its own. Remaining dead the bigger part of the picture.

ganz anders


gestört von worten
bin ich
gestolpert
aus seinem erinnerungstief

einst ganz nah
in meine wiederholungsschleife
geflüstert
in die mulde im kopf, an der

sich gefühle entzünden und reiben
mich, auf und ab und auf, nicht

marionette aber fast, am faden
seidend, geführt
durch einen witz

nur keiner lacht, ganz ohne jojo 
war das nicht ganz ohne 

dich wäre ich ich
ganz (nicht kaputt)
anders (greifbar)

denken wir


wir leben als wäre nichts gewesen
die generation dazwischen überspringt

eine unregelmäßige rille im muster
des sonst gutbürgerlich angelegten steigs

nach vorn denken wir nicht weiter darüber
und hinaus und wundern uns später

über wunde punkte in schiefertafeln, die längst
dem whiteboard platz machen, überholt

und entsorgt, einschusslochartige bildungslücken
im schädel knackt es, wir entschuldigen uns

vom unterricht, stühle ran, licht aus, fenster zu
nach Haus, da ist es sicher, macht ignoranz nichts

aus
denken wir




Sunday, June 11, 2017

The dogs are sharp


I watched a girl locked into a watchful house
biting fingernails, nailpolish
serving as colourful garnish

I watched her lift a weapon, clumsily
and shoot herself in the mirror
directly into the head
the town beyond reach
there is no entertainment here
all there is is watching
watching out and fear

I watched her sitting next to the bed of a blind grandfather, now
a man of delusions, staring into bitterness
he can go nowhere but
there is a sense of duty here: a tear
feeding a forbidden lake just around the corner
completely out of reach

Its surface a mirror of long gone memories
a long gone father
a long gone childhood
boat rides and fishing adventures
there was the sound of laughter
above the surface of this mystic water
an existence the girl once called her life
without questioning, now she wouldn‘t dare
to find a name for it or claim any possessions:

Worn out sweaters, worn out memories
dreams, worn out and sucked into years
of running around the same old walls of the same old house
What to own in a disowned, stolen life?

The dogs are sharp
the dogs keep barking
at elders who don’t have solutions
for little girls with dreams
for fathers consumed by struggles
for mothers consumed by worries
for grandmothers consumed by songs of
a long gone life at the foot of snow-covered mountains

Everything has rules
that might change over time

The dogs keep barking
they have a good nose
for men without honour
for culprits and the sweat of guilt and fear

She will meet him
one day
he will be not the same
the future was just one step
ahead of a moment
in which everything changed

He changed without warning
they locked him up
she still calls him brother
not the same
no words left for
his face, his heart, his games
not the same

They might come to shoot her
they might come
they might
come and go with me to london
I will give you my house, my bed
a marginal sense of shelter
promises

I watched her arguing with an elder sister
escaping from suitors who might be her only escape
I watched her riding
a smile, a bicycle, on the same spot
again and again around that old tree
whose seed once fell
into the lap of a field
that now is called a garden
uncared for
there seems to be no need
to care
for slow things when all one eats
has the same old taste, restless

Something grows into years of waiting
between her shoulders, her blades
a tiny drop of water, a wanting
a seed was planted there
by her nightmare’s elder brother: revenge
has a face, has a name
he might come to shoot her
he might come
he might

She will have to face him
long after her escape
she will have to face him opening the fire
blowing her head off
in the mirror frame
she will face her buried, churning fear
her nightmare's restless brother



Wednesday, May 17, 2017

after midnight

seasons change
things turn
into poetry again

i find myself in dense situations
after midnight
when the house sleeps
he visits
always after midnight

i tried to erase
his impressions from my skin
slowly while waking
next to his fearful dreams
in anticipation of endings
without closure

for months on end
many moons watched over me
watched how i fed
myself to his hunger
now i am half the being
i was before

a stranger knocks on my door
walks into my prayer room
i let him in, let him see
my collection of marbles
shattered on the floor
every single one of them

every now and then
i must cut myself open
must swallow thick blood
memories that once made me smile
now stain my lips, my cheeks
my tongue is too heavy
to rhyme or to sing
red

i am human tragedy
drowning repeatedly
waves, skyscraper-high
crushing down on me
can you imagine the cruelty
of a single one of them?
they left me
here on purpose

he watched that
he stood at the window with the moon
he knocked on my door
he knows every thing

come and cut fruits for me instead
feed me sweet new melodies

after midnight
the sound of your song
is a safety zone
i feel sane here
without fear and madness
inside the voice of your poem
may i?
sleep next to you, stranger
and your warming fire
watch you from afar
as siblings do

i remain white
silent inside my storm
i promise i am really trying
to be wild and dancing
full of life again
i promise one day
i will again
be colourful and smiling

Friday, May 12, 2017

two metal blades


life presses
a soul to the ground

turns her
into a helpless bug

pedaling, first hastily
with time slowing down

her cumulated feelings
reduced

to two main sentiments
and their variant forms of absence

two metal blades
tightly merged with each other

inside a funneled
time-space-continuum

fear and love
their absence

vacuum




Tuesday, March 21, 2017

leftover liabilities

in early morning hours, dreams
haunt us
into trials of our imperfections
scar under my eye
eternal leftover
kisses
that once meant eternal love
now a pathway of tears
into every woman‘s cup
hidden under windows
geared towards the moon
wondering
about density of heartbeats
strange new rhythms housing silent moods
I am scared of speaking
to you, my forsaken dream
nothing is real outside
the velvet fabric
covering my sleep
i hear sorrow
in your words and cry into the melody
of a woman‘s voice
drenching my tiny room's wall
with songs about her longing and her pain
who can sleep
when the air is dense
with the heat of arguments that
remain unspoken
remain uncared for
wounded bleeding feet
carry us 
into fire
into gleaming heat
promises
leftover liabilities
keep walking
keep your head up
search for that gorge
hiding
at the end of every creek
until you find what your soul asks for
until she is satisfied
and lets us
rest
in her giant lap
where finally we
may halt in embrace
and fall
into deep condoning sleep

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Saturday, March 11, 2017

Tiefer


Ich erinnerte dich
Es waren einmal
Du und ich, heute
Hochglanzbilder
Ermattet, vergilbte
Vergangenheitsformen
Höflichkeitsfloskeln
Satzbautürme
Es waren einmal
Du und ich, damals
Ein Fenster, angelehnt
Die Asche fiel
Neben den Becher
Deine Augen, tiefer
Der Regen
Du und ich
Neben einander
Du und ich
Die Augen tiefer
Der Regen
Am Fenster
Die Asche fiel
Es waren einmal

Geräumig, mein Haus


Wir sprechen wieder von Anfängen
Ersten Malen, ganz unschuldig
Aufs Neue, geräumig, mein Haus
Der Mond malt ein Lied für mich
Ich schaue ihm dabei zu
Warte geduldig auf den Morgen

Ins nasse Gras


Zog Stufen von der Decke
Während er die Geige stimmte
Schluchzte in die immer gleiche Anfangsfuge
Nichts drang mehr an mein Ohr
Alles war jetzt viel zu weit
Gegangen, weiter noch als je zuvor
Ein Fremdes blieb stumm vor mir
Eine dunkle Pfütze längst vergilbter Schmelze
Reste nur, nicht mal mehr Erinnerung
Schwang einen Mantel Schnee um mich
Zu wärmen meine frierende Gestalt
An seiner blauen Kälte

Darunter drängten Glöckchen
Verkündeten
Setzte mich ins nasse Gras
Lauschte
Dem rauschenden Fest
Dem vorigen Jahr

Vogelnester krallten sich 
An Zweige
Rutschte ab und krallte mich
An meterhohe Wellen
Zwischen Sonnenstrahl und Tümpelgrund
Tat sich ein Schlund auf
Im Stadtgartenteich 
Gibt es jetzt wohlgenährte Enten
Sie treffen sich
Sie treffen sich



Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Er ist nun ein Anderer

Sie rissen ihm die Haare vom Kopf
Kahlschlag im Morgentau
Der Winter hat die Bäume verschluckt
Hinter mir der Lärm von Sägen

Ich gehe mutlos heim
Der Wald steht still und traurig da
Bin wieder für mich allein
Er ist nun ein Anderer

Thursday, January 05, 2017

a silent frequency


soft skin
tucked to your shoulder
gazing eyes
tiny reflections
a moving star?
endless void?
winter‘s icy dust
foretelling tomorrow‘s dreams.
foretelling tomorrow‘s screams.
only calculations
we can never be sure

can u hear the sound
my fluttering lung
breathing into your chest
i am tripping on you
dream along, my lover!
universe‘s vastness
is without end
we do not exist
beyond imagination
meaning is illusion
dust blocking my ear

feel the vibes
no one can hear
falling apart
forming
new frequencies
i am
humming along
i am
not a singer
teach me
how to be
a musician‘s silent muse
dancing on
fragile lines
melodies
no one
has been humming before

intricate memories
carving a house we call home
inside our hearts
cold and empty rooms
filled with the warmth of rhythms
hugging us
an undercoat in winter
cooling us
in summer like the sea

oh lover, why?
do you choose to be freezing
choose to be burnt
is there a melody
when every answer is silence
we only can be
swinging along
a silent frequency
that no one will hum
and millions will hum
long
after we are gone

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The numbers are rising

It is spring here and cold
I’ve locked myself into a small town
Doing small town business
En route between Turmwall and community park
I commit to a life with dog
Paint my fingernails blue
Deep in the woods I realize
That the wood isn’t deep here
Neither is the river, water up to my chest
I wade into ordinary sceneries
Of couples kissing behind ivy fences
Holding hands on the way to the supermarket
Folding hands in church
Someone told me the numbers are rising
I sit down on a bench and wait
For the deer to disappear
It remains wishful thinking
I must build my own gallery
If I want to see some real art here
Blue fingernails and stuff
We are told to teach numbers to those who have come here
For a new beginning
We start counting with one
We speak about time
We speak about habits and cultures
The difference
They always focus on the difference first
Where are those embracing similarity
Do we still believe in synchronicity
And what about rainbows and wet grass under our feet
Every patch seems dried out though
It is raining, it is cold, it is spring
We start counting with one
Then we speak about the difference
First

Apart

After three hours of 
Non/stop talking
You finally convinced me to lie down
Inside your coffin
Just for one night, you said
Maybe I just wanted you to shut up!
I don’t exactly remember what
Made me agree and go for it
Maybe it was the drink
Or it was the daring

Now I lie here, remembering how
The last ray of light
Escaped my shirt
When u shut the lid
Baby, I am sure
It is beyond morning
It must be midday
Or early afternoon
Everything is silent
I cannot hear
A single tune
Apart
From my fingernails
Knocking on wood

Rotating above my head

Last night you read your dialogue to me
I ceased all my speaking
Now you know all my words

I looked into the bottle
Muddy fluids, I refuse
Listening
To voices in your head

You write in capital letters, a banner
Hanging above the neighborhood
Everyone knows now
Everyone is informed
Gossip always spreads

I seem to be unaware
Of my own thoughts
You put them down so nicely
Every letter in beautiful calligraphy
Who wouldn’t believe
The beauty of your words

A story like a heavy wheel
Rotating above my head

Is anyone out there
Is anyone still out there
Is anyone out there still without regret


A rotating shell

There has been silence for weeks
Words dried inside my throat
Before reaching the cave, my tongue
Longing for fluids, let’s make it sharp,
Some hot stuff, I’m used to sensation
I feel watched, every letter I speak
Turns into a textbook
Printed by a no-name publisher
To become part of the rows in your shelf
You are my only collector
You rip apart what you don’t approve
I am scared now to speak, to think, to whisper
My mind
A rotating shell, emptied out
Swimming in dreams of a dream
Lost in the night
You wandered off to your war zone
And left me alone in the pitch black park
The wooden bench too cold to be seated
I stood there, worried, for seconds
Filled with painful hours

Every second on endless repeat

Monday, November 23, 2015

The colour of intensity

When leaving this ship
That carried us for so many years, there was
No path paved with flowers
Cold earth and pointed stones
Painted the soles of our feet
Red, the colour of crust that hardened our skin
The same colour as the toy car
Fading in your childhood garden
Stalled in an eternal autumn
I didn’t own these memories
You engraved them in my nervous system
Now I carry them for you and you carry my groceries
Very pragmatic and simple and easily taken for granted

We walk, flakes on our lashes
Filling our traces with names
That turn into poetry
When written into snow
Whitewashed wonderland
Whose prerogative?
Whose love?
Whose hatred and whose promises?
Salty tears in everyone’s cup.
Do I really have to tell you this?

Your ship will always differ from mine. And I will think of you
Smoking at the window, looking down into a street
That is nothing but a memory. I wished
I could rebuild the city around your view of emptiness
Empty houses, empty pavements, I could relay
Those warm, pulsating arteries. But I cannot. I can
Only listen and write. So we do not forget
The colour of intensity
The colour of regret