Ocean inside

I thought she would

Sometimes, but she died

While I listened to bulls

Roaring in darkness

She jumped and I did not

Hear, too much pressure

A rushing in the auricle

Anotia, all I want is silence

That birth mark of yours

I never got it, give me

Your hand and don’t

Pretend you like to grow

All of a sudden, being neat

And smart, hiding

Behind glasses, I know

What lies inside, I've seen

The ocean inside

Deep inside red

Giant slaughterhouse
Me in the backdoor

I watch secretly, eyes of cows

Red rivers in snow

Mark a trespassing

Kites dangling, empty trees

Grow ropes, transmission lines

Storm riddled skeletons

I watch

The swing in the park amusing itself

Back and forth slightly sideways

Trying that twist

It cannot, children

Record frequencies, satellite dishes

Made for vegetarians longing for meat

Red rivers in snow

I walk backwards, the doorframe

Head against wood

Leaning, watch in slow motion

The knife and the eyes
Giant waterfalls, melting
All is prepared and packed into
Transparent plastic bags
Sealed off with heat

A war behind mountains
It never comes close
Deep inside red

thought exhibitions

scratched that image

of your book, Vincent knew

nights zonder limits, things

she says she soon forgets

whispers in my shouts

reversing love, so right but

so me, ti mess, a ride, momus I got

momus, got to keep, keep it

keep telling from far, never stopped

scratching

you, hitchhike to the crypt

cold with candles, you.

trying to understand that

fucking thing, drinking the choir

all over again, I like

peepholes in tin drums

wool in crust on your knee, losing
beaches in wet paper bags

wet from the ocean
thought exhibitions, all 

cannot be fixed, dangerous

animals on porches, deer

moms of deer wifes chewing snakes

I like to watch pixels on white
horses on a PC, I like

blinking stars, big wheels

in big bowls turning transcendence
moons kicking light off screen

on your forehead, I like

you not looking, 
I like you not 
looking at me
and then, suddenly

beat only

all my seconds, no distance
between you and the beat
dreams are car rides
falling apart
snow fields solemnly covering
dusk of the icy winter night

you walk alone, I watch
from above, falling
into the mouth of a giant city
turmoil swallowing
every thought
memories spit me
before your feet - out!

I hand over my wrists
the organism keeps crawling
for you to cut ! until I bleed
why do we want
to heal what we cannot
there is beat only and there is
falling

they

and they come together
and they eat
and they drink
and they fuck
and they tremble
and they die

Sleep dreamless

Reflections on a mirror frame

I smile into your whisper

Can u comb my hair?

What sleeps in defenses

Demands me to tame

A moon of blue flowers

Faces cannot maintain

Deepening flames of amber

Squeezed into a box

Sealed with fish bones, fences

The key, thrown into a river

I dive, we dive, we drown

Key in your hand

Hand in my hand

Under its surface, the river

Is an ocean and the sun

Is made of amber

Homeless camouflage

All destructive anger

I dream

Then close my eyes

Sleep dreamless, always

Mohini kam zu mir

Mohini kam zu mir,

O Schöne, wen machst Du schön,

Wem machst Du Dich schön,

Um mit Asche das Haupt zu begießen?

Er kommt nicht wieder,

Die List seiner Hand durch die Deine,

Lässt Blumen am Waldrand sprießen,

Für wen?

Dein Spiegel kennt kein Morgengrau,

Die Vögel fliegen nicht mehr

Weit, alles Zeitenlose muss nun

Gegen Welt, himmelwärts fließen.

Sie fürchtet nicht den Tod, die Liebe

Festigt sich nicht, Beben und Tanz,
Heimatlos

Im kosmischen Öffnen und Schließen!

Underground

He had promised her a river. Not exactly, but when she had looked it up on the map and found that there was a river and she had told him that she had looked it up he didn’t say anything. So she came to her conclusion. When she told her best friend, it didn’t feel as much an illusion any longer. Now that someone knew, she had put it in words at least once. For those without, it would be a secret, in limbo, unsaid, demarcated by an invisible line.

When they arrived, it was dark, too dark to see the water, but she could hear it, the currents and whirls, chortles, pieces of debris, leftovers gone astray, pushed and pulled by the stream. She remembered what she had seen. She loved to watch. Water from bridges. Forests from hills. Sky in her dreams. They were always endless. Something beyond. Flowing with the stream.

“The sea gives and takes but it never gives in”, she thought and started looking for the charger. It had to be somewhere in the bag that she had thrown into the trunk just before leaving. She found it in the potatoes. “Could we charge mobiles with starch?”, she thought and then “Blessed are those who surrender to truth and not to illusion giving in. And cursed at the same time. Those who can taste colours, music and dreams. Artists and poets, ah! Shoot all of them!” She listened for the stream. The river had gone quiet, underground. Was it only a promise? Was it more than a dream?

Immersed

Purified flames

May not be touched

Drop, immersed in your river

Cannot make claims

Over your love

The empty side

You reminded me of the poem

Stuck in piles of paper

I switched on the torch

Walking through dark rooms

It was three in the morning

Your voice still in my head

My mind was restless

I had looked for shelter

On the empty side ...

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 
Navigating

Have lost distinction

Between sea and land

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.

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

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,
India.

faces

 faces

into rocks

i carved them

i wanted to

touch

eyelines, lips

slightly curved cheeks

i carved them
i wanted to

touch

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.