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