Monday, August 31, 2015

Cold planets

Something’s strange today
The clock is ticking slightly
Off beat
I listen to talking heads
They spotted me on Mars in a night gown

That night when you turned to
A wolf, I could not differentiate
I could not make you out
You are the great pretender
Maybe I am neurotic, hysterically blind
Who said that I did not want to see
The fire burning down your house

I remember the entrance to your house
After that everything went red
The carpets, the ceilings, even the curtains
A blue spot
Floating in the air
A drip of water, a tear
You had placed it there
In the middle of the room
Exactly in the middle from every side
I spent weeks to verify it

Always running into the same trap
A pitcher full of magic and I take a deep dive
Only to dissolve into some weird creature
Crumbled into the corners of a bed
Watching movies while outside
Water runs into cliffs and people
Run into trains
And trees turn into woods

It’s very important
You said and then you said
Nothing
For a very long time
Longer than eternity
That’s why it was important

Now I spend my nights on cold planets
There is no way to figure out
The secret of spurts
Volatile 
Is their fabric
Who wants to listen
To voices underground
I imagine elevators passing by
Some of them upside down
One can stand on the ceilings
Or hang from the floors
All of them red

Have you ever wondered
Why it is worth the effort
Certainly you have
Everyone does and thinks
He is special
A special bug drowning in a puddle
A butterfly with a broken spine
Because the cat was faster
But not fast enough to go through with it
It's absurd, isn't it

Wednesday, August 05, 2015

Sommerabend

Ein goldener Kreis unter der Wunde
Ich übermale den Schmerz
Denke an loses Gefieder
Unter dunkelgrünen Weiden

Vertrocknete Atrappen
Waren einst der Blumenwiese Zier
Bleiben zurück als leblose Pappen
So manches Leben verdorrt zu Papier

Tuesday, August 04, 2015

Rituale

Ich photographiere jetzt
Löwenmäulchen und schicke sie dir.
Auf das Mäulchen antwortest Du,
doch darauf, dass ich Deine Nachricht
nie vom Tisch entfernte, nicht.
Ich bin in der Gegend.
Ich stecke die Gegend ab.
In Gedanken durchsuche ich sie
nach Deiner Anwesenheit, damals schon
folgte ich der Anweisung nicht.
Ich lernte, auf Betonböden
Rituale zu zeichnen,
Labyrinthe, hätte ich sie
mir nur eingeprägt.
Heute durchstreife ich
haushohe Felder und finde
und finde den Mittelpunkt nicht.