Into the dark space

I tried to cling to

Traces of ink

Secretly read

Into the dark space

Behind the bed-head

Grand and tiny words

Loosely coupled

Sometimes they fight

Their war means nothing

Over the bearing

Of your silent night

I feel crazy now

Like a warrior

Raising in the morning

From her battlefield

To see it was merely

Her own war of night

What would the warrior do?

She would shake her head

And apologize to all those

She had beheaded

In her rapture

On the battlefield

Of a silent night

Would she?

I wanted it to sit there

I left the letter in the box

It’s been almost a year

Knowing very well its lines

I could not touch 

The seemingly innocent

Pure and white leaf

I wanted it to sit there

To sleep 

In spring and summer, still thirsty

For my fingers, in autumn

A little crumpled, in winter

A little pale now, the ink

Had no more colour

Its end is near

I am still hoping for

The course of events

For it to wither

To become manure

To make room

To unwind,

Dissipate, dissolve

Disappear

But I’m afraid that

Even if I burnt it

Like fields in burning season

Its imprint

Would remain forever

Would never

Disappear

Unwillingly so

White cat sleeps quietly

No overbearing temper

Just curled up

A hidden signature

Unwillingly so

You never asked

Whether I liked it

Like you never asked

Whether I liked

To pluck the flowers

Dying on the table

As offer of amends

Weaving a carpet

I remember 

This one tiny moment

When you shook my hand and

I tumbled

Back into the yard

Back into my room

And every prayer room

From that day I would follow

The weirdest invitations

To be
With you

In one and the same room

I would stand next to you

Make myself look silly

Speak in riddles

About lakes

Or about the moon

You must have heard me

But there were too many layers

Of unforgotten summers

Between your days
And my weaving loom

Now you are somewhere

No more invitations

Just a glimpse

And I sit quietly

Weaving a carpet

Of tiny moments

In my hollow room

Watch myself tumbling

Out of this world

Beyond

Every lake
And every planet's moon

I live there

I found this artist and his name is Pettibon

Like an atom in the wallpaper

He and his paintings were hidden in the shelves

Of the library just around the corner

For years I’d never go there but now I live

Between the shelves and books, Pettibon

Sounds like somet’n ‘little extra’

Something tiny, a dessert that shouldn’t be

Bt if u wouldn’t u'd regret, always

Nd I opened the layer of foil 1 to find a

Gigantic heart, pulsating in black chests

The chests of crows maybe or of priests in their uniforms

Gigantic waves of a brilliant blue

Feeding the heart and all those scallops

A thousand eyes watching the ozean’s waves, and I

Opened layer 2, saw moving letters, colour explosions,

Traces of unearthed mouths and unborn dreams

Unassociated fingers, a world assembled in

Unique combinations, recombinations,

A gigantic remake of a million giant hearts

In a tiny eternal slot, somewhere between

Wallpaper and wall of an artist’s imaginary

Shelter within a library book, on the art shelf

Traces, I live there, just around the corner

first sketch

Thinking about making a children's book on death.
Made a first sketch today while studying in the library. 

Note to myself

First rule: Love.

Second rule: Listen to yourself and into yourself.

Third rule: Listen to others and nature to learn more about others, nature and about yourself.
Fourth rule: Don't judge. 

Fifth rule: Be patient, have faith, cry sometimes and don't forget to laugh.
Sixth rule: Learn to become someone in whom one can have faith.

Seventh rule: Be kind and forgiving, to others and to yourself.

Eighth rule: There is no such thing as a rule, a right or wrong direction, the one path. It’s your own journey and there are as many ways as there are combinations of people on this planet.

Ninth rule: Be curious and scrutinise everything.

Tenth rule: Be courageous and learn to let go - by letting go.

Eleventh rule: Accept that you are swimming in the middle of an ocean from where one can see the horizon and never reach it. But one can reach an island or a beach or a cliff from time to time.

Twelfth rule: Write, dance, paint, read, scream, go crazy and also discipline yourself and be serious about all of it.
Thirteenth rule:  Learn to walk on water.

Into something

While I sit here, quite alright

Someone else suffers in despair

Not getting out of bed

Not combing her hair

Everything is over

Everything but the almost sober

Calculation of the best possible

Point of time for death

And its execution, maybe with a knife

Or a bunch of drugs

Jumping off something

In front of something

Into something

Burning something

Tossing over a chair

There is no way to tell her

That she’ll be alright

I can only pray and hope

For her to win the fight

There are nicer ways to die

And then I wrote to you

That I had heard your speech

About trying to jump off her house

And you thought it was pretentious

To write to you now

Years after the occasion

You would be dead by now

And that there would be no danger

In any possible near future

All I wanted to say was

That there are nicer ways to die

And that there is always danger

Death always knows

How to arrange for one

Last, irreversible walk over

To stay hungry

And then you spoke of a plum

A dry plum, if I’m not mistaken

And that you preferred to stay hungry

I hated you for a little while

All the effort I had put into cooking

All the way I had gone

To collect mushrooms

Fresh from the forest floor

Hidden under giant trees

This plum I had plucked myself

Washed and filled with something sweet

But you preferred to fast

And sleep in mountain monasteries

But then I tried to understand

To be kind and forgiving

It did not matter

Whether you ate my recipes

All that mattered was

That we could live in peace

That we could find a way

To get up from our knees

And walk into a future

That would not destroy

Ancient mosques
And mountain monasteries 

About what made us

We watched this brutally obvious art film

About what made us wish to be children

Again, innocent and far from comprehension

Later that night we got up and for a second

We looked at each other in the bathroom mirror

The entire wall a mirror, it was difficult to avoid each other

You seemed confused and trying to grasp your own identity

I smiled and just watched your search for something to hang onto

And then asked for sleep, like a child I wanted to curl myself up

After that we parted, forever, from all mirrors of this world

The only trace that is left of us can be found

In every brutally honest art movie

Dreaming her up

Every time he came to that street corner

Right next to the subway station

On the way to his friend’s house

He could not make excuses

For his inability

To pass by

The little coffee corner

Had prepared two plastic chairs

For him and his inability

He would sit down, order coffee

And watch out for her

Moving the curtain

Switching on the light

Or walking out into the cold street

Towards his table corner

Clapping her red gloved hands

While he sat in the chair

When her room was deserted

She had gone out

Or was in hibernation

Or not brave enough

To switch on the light

Knowing too well

That he was reserving the chair

That he kept his friend waiting

For the length of a coffee

For a wait without her
Switching on the light

I am here for something else

I am not home for Christmas

I am here for something else

While he boils water in the kettle

And she irons his shirt

I watch a movie about ingredients

That need to be filled
Into the pallets of a museum corner

In the other room she counts her coins

Into that greenish woolen sock 

Under the pillow

A lifetime of savings

That belonged to him, too

But he left early, she said

He always wanted to go to Vienna

Maybe he finally made it

It’s only one overnight drive

Too far when one is almost dead

Maybe she will exchange it

For a ticket, she thinks

And her hands full of gold

Sink into her lap

It is time for candles

Her wax drops into his

The child is crying
She knows, all she ever asked for

Can be traced in that boy’s

Beating heart

So tiny, it doesn’t even know yet

What it means to live and

What it means
To be dying

it's all made up

he died, this poet, who looks ugly to me, so ugly I could never love him, but loved him nevertheless because of his death. he died when I fell sick with restlessness and a weight that was capable of dragging down the whole world on this side of the planet, while you, in your dreamy estate of guiltlessness, reigned over a giant mouth on the other side of the planet: I don’t believe in giants: I tell you it’s all made up: of dwarfs and their servants and their masters and their pets and their mouths and teeth and in endless hunger for ugliness they build pyramids of ugly children, pile them skyscraper-high, because the bigger the better the illusion of mountain streams, peaks and umbilical cords drinking our consciousness. all this I tell you so that I forget what I remember and forget what is a secret that I am not to remember: if someone found out it might burst, the bubble of coins that we tossed, of songs that we repeated to explain the difference, endlessly the difference, the difference that turns into dreams, sand rubbing our skin, all that makes us real, in repetition real. deep down rays of light glide through the universe’s recursions just to hit us right in the face, to hang us upside down: we float, our feet tied to otherness: I can see you float next to the brother, who is bigger, who is overwhelmingly huge, who is more than you will ever grow into,  and you have to run from the rays of his moon, reflections of a beautiful mother, who is too beautiful, no flesh and blood can be that beautiful, it must be an illusion, you have to run without difference into a tiny moment, a fragment, all it needs is this tiny moment where we switch off the light, where day glides into night and you and I recognize that you and I look different in darkness, different and it is alright because now every thing that can be seen is for you and me to forget every thing that is bright. we close our eyes and look into each other, where we remain, endlessly gazing into the darkness of a starless, moonless, otherless night.

Infra- tracing

Infiltrating my skin

My very nerves

Connections & nodes

Mysterious synapses
A technical lifeline

Is god digital? - something jumps

V are ignorant

Ants, emsig, keep working

Towards a super superstructure

Infra- tracing

Forgive, o, they do not -

Instructions ingrained, disconnected

Brains, the queen’s secret

Consciousness, no stream

No string or puppet master

Just a rhythm of dada

Random sketches, blueprints

Paintings of three
Multi cubicle

Dimensional discourse

A mouth that chews up

Tectonic plates, shifting forces

Encoded narratives

Tattooed, engraved, 

X-rayed within
Every cell of
Every one’s skin

The elderly lady

There is an elderly lady who wants to drown in the garden pond of her elderly ladies’ home. Continuously one needs to run after her; one can never leave her alone.

All dressed up in her finest linen she wanders about. I can see her through the peephole of my space shuttle. There, the nurses are running again! Some people want to drown. Some people want to keep people who want to drown from drowning.

From up here, everything down there looks really small and tiny. Even incredibly wide landscapes: It would take me years to wander through them. From down there, I must look so small up here in my station. Reaching the elderly lady would be a matter of minutes for me. Reaching Mongolia would be a matter of eternity for her.

Someone shot this breath-hole into the vacuum so I can be closer to the stars.  Piano music in the background. In the foreground the world and its orbit. The sun at the edge. In relation to this part of the earth a rise. In relation to the other part a set.

The cats are hungry. I hear the sound of their bells in the garden of the elderly ladies’ home. No bird could fly so high. Sometimes one of them gives it a shot. Sometimes a jet plane shreds an animal. Clouds hanging at the lower side of the planet dissolve into rain. From my perspective, the drops fall upwards, towards the earth’s inner core.

An enormous deluge of water moves around tectonic plates and fills colossal valleys. Sometimes the planet shakes and every thing collapses. Even things that are eternally old. But the internet’s hasty data manages to endure. Some build a data highway. Some an archive of all things. Some record the current position of my space shuttle on their laptop. Relative to the sun. Her rays of light shine on a little girl at the bank of river Ganga. A bit further up they are burning the deceased. Even a bit further corpses float in the water.

The elderly lady has never been to India. She has a longing for the pond. Or for my space shuttle. The nurses are back again. The elderly lady is looking up into the dark blue sky. She keeps looking right at me.  

Die ältere Dame

Es gibt dort eine ältere Dame, die will sich im Gartenteich des Altenheims ertränken. Ständig muss jemand hinter ihr her; man darf sie nie allein nach draußen lassen. Zurecht gemacht in Sonntagsgarnitur wandert sie umher. Ich beobachte es durch das Fenster meiner Raumstation. Da kommen schon die Pfleger. Manche Leute wollen sich umbringen. Manche Leute wollen Leute, die sich umbringen wollen, davon abhalten, sich umzubringen. 

Alles sieht so klein aus von hier oben. Riesige Landschaften, ich bräuchte Jahre, sie zu Fuß zu durchqueren. Ich sehe klein aus von dort unten, hier oben in meiner Station. In ein paar Minuten könnte ich unten bei der Dame sein. Von ihr bis in die Mongolei bräuchte es eine Ewigkeit. Jemand hat dieses Atemloch ins Vakuum geschossen, damit ich den Sternen näher sein kann. Im Hintergrund läuft Klaviermusik. Im Vordergrund die Welt auf ihrer Bahn. Die Sonne am Rand. Im Verhältnis zu diesem Teil der Erde ein Aufgang. Ein Untergang zum anderen. 

Die Katzen haben Hunger, ich höre die Glocke im Heimgarten. Kein Vogel könnte so hoch fliegen. Manchmal versucht es einer. Manchmal zerschreddern Düsenflieger die Tiere. Die Wolken am unteren Teil des Planeten lösen sich in Regen auf. Der fällt aus meiner Sicht nach oben und zum Erdkern hin. Riesige Wassermassen schieben sich um Erdplatten und durch gigantische Täler. Manchmal bebt der Planet, und alles stürzt ein. Auch das Jahrtausendalte. Nur die flüchtigen Daten des Internets haben Bestand. Mancher baut sich eine Datenbahn. Mancher ein Archiv aus allen Dingen. Mancher verfolgt auf seinem Laptop den aktuellen Stand der Raumstation. Im Verhältnis zur Sonne. Die scheint auf ein kleines Mädchen am Ufer des Ganges. Ein Stückchen weiter hinauf verbrennen Tote. Noch ein Stückchen weiter treiben Leiber auf. 

Die ältere Dame war niemals in Indien. Sie sehnt sich nach dem Teich. Oder nach meiner Raumstation. Da sind die Pfleger wieder. Die ältere Dame schaut zu mir herauf. 

I am not

I tear apart

The umbilical chord

No more feeding

No more care

I jump into the core

Of self-destruction

Freedom

Final resolution

I am not

Yours

Any more