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