Saturday, November 30, 2013

In limbo

Swept away, sometimes
By a deep blue ocean
Currents driving
Waves into clouds
Rivers into land
Don’t blame the waves
For diving
Away from the surface
Or clouds 
For being in limbo
With falsehood and truth
If those who are
Supposed to be 
Have lost distinction
Between sea and land

Friday, November 29, 2013

Who is to blame?

I shouldn’t read melancholic books, they confuse my thoughts and my feelings and then I can’t tell apart whether it is me or the book that is melancholic. If he doesn’t write, it is good. It means he keeps going and eventually might. But that is only my way of dealing with time. He said, he was at the best place he could possibly be. There is always a backdoor. I keep it unlocked in either direction. Some lock themselves in, thinking about future from underground. Dust is poison that settles on skin, hair, slowly creeping in.

I keep having conversations in my head, about whether I am the only one, having conversations. I do not exist, he says, and suddenly it matters whether he does or not though it doesn’t, but it does. I respond by analyzing it from the objectivist perspective, trying to ignore that my frame of mind is metaphysically leaning towards the subjectivist perspective and what it does to me and how it grows, emergently, and then I hear voices and have to write poetry.

I try to focus but get distracted even by a bug on the window frame, watching it hop from one side to the other, will it make its way out, and what about the lizards chasing the bugs and each other on my wall, is it mine or theirs, the landlord asked me whether I would move out, sooner or later, well, sooner or later I would but not now and actually he didn’t mean it but something else.

And again I am caught between door and frame though there is no between but I push the door every time the breeze tries to pull it, again and again, thinking whether it wants to be pushed or is it me who wants to push it, or is it the breeze, or the frame? I know I just need to get up and walk away towards something different but sometimes I am caught in waiting and watching and it is also an art, this waiting and watching, and when I cannot hold it any longer I push it heavily or let it be pulled and the door shuts with a loud noise and it feels as if something exciting has happened. This is the game.

I read this book which said nothing changes and then suddenly we realise it does and everything is gone to make room for something new. I feel everything changes all the time and I sometimes need to hide myself from something new. I don't grow familiar with rivers carving rocks and if I do, I wipe them off my map, at least I try to. It makes life feel longer, someone said, and is that something good or should it not matter and never be on my mind and then suddenly be gone as if it didn’t matter and all that remains is the feeling that it was good. 

I caught this man in a suit writing on a table cloth, focus, he wrote not realising that I was watching and suddenly he was human and I liked him much better. All that counts is heartbeat. And figuring out when to push and when to pull and when to let go, so we can flow with the stream of consciousness, unconsciously, fueled by a bloodstream of heartbeats without wasting thoughts on what counts and what doesn’t, and then time is over and we never managed to do what ought to be done because we refused to learn to focus. Is it really so, and who is to blame? Sooner or later all will be gone.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

Behind the elephant's house

I’m wearing six heads and know it is a trick of the blind man who balances horses on sticks behind the elephant’s house. Once I visited a castle, the king had built a room for music. Visitors were not allowed to dance. Women watched from balconies those who watched them watching. Did they not know that distance caused longing, more than being close. Maybe they knew. Dream of a dance. Now it is all in my head and I am anxious to forget soft shawls and deep blue curtains.

Indigo blue. 

Why do we need curtains when everything is dark and if we have light, why do we hide? Those who are quiet grow deeper underground. Then they just disappear without anyone noticing them disappear. Till one day we fall into hollows.

Every time you bought coins, I thought this should be my ride, without someone else paying. When I entered the carrousel, the music stopped playing and all I did was look at you to forget that everyone else was looking at me, you envied, at other times you said it was not true, I tried to be quiet, a whisper, but they would still find me, maybe they could see those six heads that I grew when I watched women behind curtains. Wasn't it enough that I looked at you?

Every time I think I have figured it out, I realise that all I know is schemes, silhouettes, playing with monkeys. Suddenly I am caught in this net and I know it must be the blind man who knows how to spin a cocoon around my skin while balancing horses. Those kids, they had figured it out immediately and started imitating my absentmindedness, hollow, I was not in the game, it did not matter to lose or to win, nothing mattered but that it was late and I was lost in a yellow fog of cocoons. How to get out of it now, if only we had kept walking. 

I said I was happy, I remember and it was true and you said nothing watching the heat finding its way from my lips to your cup and then we walked up to that bridge where a hidden sign post made me tumble and lose every sense of direction. 

After that everything changed. 

Because I was told that elephants grew behind fences in a tiny garden that belongs to a tiny house, too tiny for anyone to live in. I want to live there, but I just will not shrink, my skin is too large, it does not fit into any place, not even the tree house. Maybe I should call the blind man, tell him to keep weaving and sleep, very long, in his yellow garden.

As if an avalanche has been set loose, I knew it the moment I realised you could slowly lift the curtain without moving. I had lost you for a second when you had shifted your pace and you knew how to make spaces in the sidewalk to catch me falling. I am all bare now still trying to hold on to something, quietly, cocoons, all of them have burst, I have grown out of every hour. 

When I gave you nothing

I was here before you
I knew all that never
Had been said, confusing
Clouds I recognized  
Melancholy, the strive to be
Lost just for the experience
And because we should
Run from our longings
This nonsense makes me mad
In my head the name
Of this place keeps running

Why did you teach me new habits
And new places
When I gave you nothing
So you could easily forget

Beetle in my head

A beetle in my head
Must have crawled in
Through the left ear
When I was sleeping on the right
In this peculiar voice
It spoke of happy days
When it lived as beggar in the streets
It would ride on shoulders
Share food with dogs
Fly into sunrise
Fall asleep at set
All was curious and new
It needn’t house nor bed

One day a metal storm came
Wiping out the streets
And all
That had been called 
Path, neighbourhood, home
Now it lay in shambles
It tumbled sans direction
Poor beetle in the storm
Hoped for something to hold on
Ended up in a sponge
A leftover of those days
When storms were only sayings
In nostalgia’s house it settled
Tuning in
To the sponge’s respiration
Drowning in water when it rained
Dying of thirst in the heat

And it started doubting
All reasonable reasons
Behind its miserable existence
Did it really exist
And was love a myth
And what about happiness
And what would it be like
To be
Without sponge
Beyond its respiration
Beyond all that the beetle possessed
Further beyond beyond
All it knew was breathing
How to remember
What it was to fly
The beetle started humming
The song it had carried
In a little pocket
Almost forgotten
Under its right wing

Then a flood came
Swept away the song
And the beetle from its sponge
Naked it lay, unconscious
At the edge of a current
In the hollow 
Of a white marble 

When it woke it saw
No longer it was
In the sponge’s respiration
Fear settled in 
An all consuming tremble
Till one night
The beetle heard a whisper
Words it had known
A hundred years before
In flight there lies freedom
It braced its wings and grew
And flew and flew
Till it grew old and thought
All it knew could be said 
In a little whisper

Last night in my dream
I heard this little whisper
We cannot go beyond
Our own imagination
Because it is endless
Being free means to be
And to be non-existent
A beetle must 
Have crawled into my head
Through the left ear
When I was sleeping

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Morast und Dreamland

Komm und finde Zuflucht
In meinem Tempel
Morast und Dreamland
Heißer Atem unter brennenden Flügeln
Alles wälzt sich, die Götter
Spielen mit Feuer, lachen uns aus
Im endlosen Kreis

Bleeding at the margin

Her pulse rate 
blending in with mine, 
at the margin, 
only appearing
to be bleeding, 
two rings 
slightly locked into each other, 
a cut in the rim, 
blood brotherhood, 
every moment 
one might slip off the other, 
a bangle too wide for my wrist,
i wear it because it is beautiful 
but will i, will i ever 
grow into it,

Tuesday, November 26, 2013



into rocks
i carved them
i wanted to
eyelines, lips
slightly curved cheeks
i carved them
i wanted to


Strangely beautiful

My dreams are
Fragments of your paintings.

Come with me, 
It looks so strangely beautiful,
Your land, I follow the trail
To your bridge and know
The skywalk has been abandoned,

I may not go there.

What do you want me to see?
Ivy in your hair. Do we need to fill
Each other’s cup? When you captured

The sun in my eyes, I knew you

Were fighting while
I stood in flames.

I dreamt of cannibals

I dreamt of cannibals,
Farther than any man, a child
Was after me and I ran
Into that house where I hide 
Under tables, but she would find me, 
She always finds me and I cover 
Ears with hands, soundproof,
Close my eyes and tumble
Back into every other 
Night, Only that I feel!
Sand between fingers,
Fire under skin!

We Want!

always, and must learn to let go

Monday, November 25, 2013

White nights

Then again Every Thing
Looks normal,
It seems as if
Nothing happened,
But you know that
In those white nights
the world is larger
And you feel lighter and ask
'Who demands suffering?', maybe
it is true and it's a madhouse.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

Red on my mind

Shall we go into that big abandoned house?
My Name is Red. Did you call me that?
It has an elevator. I go up and down and up.
Red on my mind. And down. Pater Noster.


A plea for innocence
My mind a loophole
A fucking million times

Nothing has been said

How did I get stuck
Between wind and rewind
Tape eraser > > <

Slowly going mad


evvaa so >> dramatic << all ths crap!!n ma’head
dogs diggn, ~lickn ,my, boots - ain’t they smell’n
bl°°d __ l°°sing track __ !

pellucid robes

still, moonbound
washed up on shore
shells break
sometimes, they empty out
sand rinses 
windburnt reflections
restorations of pellucid robes 

Saturday, November 23, 2013

Trägt sich auf

Stunden, klebrige Masse
Drehen sich im Kreis
Gum, der sich zum Trocknen
Zusammenzieht, klebrige Masse
Dreht sich Stunden
Im Kreis, Gum
Der sich zusammenzieht
Eingetreten, klebrige Masse
Trägt sich auf

Unfinished collections

Remember the night
When you fell into that pit
And I decided I was not strong enough to 
Save you

Cannot recall how you came out of it
Just walked away
How to forget 
So long as you remember

You taught me to finish one thing
Before starting another
Just walked away but
You crawled and got stuck
In my jar of unfinished collections

I watch you move inside that jar, sometimes,
High up on the shelf, beyond reach
Cannot really make out your face

I tossed you, effortlessly,
Not strong enough to save you
Not strong enough, still,
To toss you from my shelf


Hey, how’ye doin’ out there
How'ye takn' it
Today, lightly, watching
That old man in his armchair
Slightly bent to the lake
His son carries him
Only Sundays, smoking
His pipe and recollect
Flickers of light, distant
Spaces, a melody and 
All the reasons why
These curtains don’t need to be
Stainless anymore

Thursday, November 21, 2013

Circles into fog

We stretched it
To the very last beat
Tried to lean into each other
Drawing circles into fog, 
Window panes in November

Cold air is only memory

Another time, another frame
There is no snow here
But there is a park with a lake and it is winter

I lean sideways when you lean towards me
The next step I imagine as bottomless pit
You drag me, it's all inside my head!
You drag me, it's all inside my head!

Then you walk away and I fear to lose you
Or to lose myself in you. Cannot tell apart.
I know you will not stay but my heart
I fear

Onto flesh and blood

It’s all a lie, they
See what they want to see
These little games they play
When there is nothing else to believe
Gods have to be crafted, eagerly
Hammer and chisel onto flesh and blood

Every piece they cut, adding a pile of  
Grief to his bleeding heart, determinate,
To be part of the common
Of martyrs
Drawn into the very act of self-destruction

Because that is the only way
Out of their hell, this swamp
Conserving all those who bogged
Into breathless conversations about
Right and wrong
And letters of indulgence

The very moment

Just the mere thought of falling makes me shudder, you said
I fall all the time, out of every country, town, window frame
I fall and bleed and die and cut myself into pieces
I stopped eating animals, because I ate myself
And tell the story of compassion and how the machinery
Drove me insane, almost, when I vomited hairballs
Into the claws of a tiger, I went wild in the streets
Became your vulture, admired the scent, this sweet little flower
That grows in every heart at the very point of death
The stillness after the last beat, you told me,
Is the essence of life, the very moment, when all
Becomes one and indeterminate, are we striving for that,
I wonder and dive into the ocean, where I can forget
The nights in which I swallowed the rain, sleeping between tracks
Tasting iron, while others sat in waggons tasting wine, heading into directions
I stopped boarding them because I could go nowhere 
The coldness of the ocean lets me slowly forget
The blessings and the curses of being your lover, a rampage’s minor threat
Maybe I can sleep now, while falling I can sleep till I reach the core
The ground of devotion where nothing counts and all is
Without end, dead.

Wrapped up

Will not renunciate
My life is more than
Incomplete a blessing
A curse
Dubious heart
Beating in darkness
Locked into my dreams

Underwater creatures
Wax encapsulating 
My fingers in the heat
Slowly emancipating
Royal colours

Wrapped up the roots
Rampaging moods
Flowing with the beat

Waxfigures around
Why do they not bleed
I wanted them to bleed!

Slowing me down, age
You bastard of time
I fucked you
Only to see your ugly smile
I owe what I stole
From the child of time

He lurked around corners
Kept smiling, this grin
Yellow teeth
I wanted to shoot him
Right through the brain

That yellow smile
Driving me insane
But he wouldn't bleed!

Royal colours,
Wrapped around roots
Is it my fault
I wanted to shoot him
But he wouldn't bleed!

Wednesday, November 20, 2013


Invisibly captivating
Subtly deseparating
What is not separate
Blank piece of paper
Inviting me to write
While holding me back 

clear up

wanted to capture
the moments in distance
days lost in the mill
when time became colder
calm voices within
bespoke the gorge
u spotted my play
dragged me into the mist
of nearness and desistance
asked me not to stay
forged a new resistance
u were so sure
I learnt the sway
of stalked upon persistence
now let me loose
to clear up the way


Moondrums in my meadow
Echo, echo, how far may I
Lean into an ocean

How to tell apart
A tide from devotion
A dune of sand
From a heap of snow

Can a journey end
In deepest meditation
Are we walking backwards
To find a way to you

In your mighty hand
A rope of light blue sand
Deep dark water
Into deeper, darker sky

Are those punctured leaves
A play of light and shadow
Disassembled sieves
The overarching timeflow
A game we think
To play we understand

A tiny moment slipping
Between sea and land
Someone fought and drowned
Cutting through the threshold
The warrior's blade
Blood in the carvings
The tide in your devotion

Touching without touching
A change of all directions
The tide carved into sand

Saturday, November 16, 2013

I place myself

Stuck in a cotton ball  
Extrusion, I look at your palace
The king has left
An impression on my skin
Injected sounds of Hampi
I cannot see 
Myself in his eyeballs
Dreams have told him
My thoughts are still
In the tram, in the garden
Why do they eat
Never without warden
From a golden platter
I place myself
Under the bridge
With forbidden sweets

Will I find back
When the children have left
The house, empty it stands
On the edge of a hill 
Behind a treeline two birds
One has lost its feathers
The other lost its feet
Will one carry the other
In flight and in defeat

I walk into a golden tunnel
Melting in its heat
Teach me 
How to reach the surface
Teach me, the mystery repeats

Monday, November 11, 2013

Still only

Learning to be human
I am
In your machine
Steel ovaltine
The universe
U say
U want
To exchange it with some
Thing else
Golden calves and
U believe
Build and destroy
Tiny moments
Passing through skin
Needles, a gentle current
Adding up
With a pin, some thing
That cannot be touched
Like the right moment
Wait and it passes
Glas under glas
Hand me a second cup
To collect what dropped from the first
The moon is above 
All is wrong
Every thing changes
U are on top of it
One lifetime is too short
For a beginning or an end
I am still only

Learning to be human