Tuesday, July 25, 2017

You say...



You say that I don't know you.
But even at a distance I check
your pulse daily,
breathe every moment of you.
I read you
swaying on your tide.
I decipher you
in the hidden atlas of your desires.
With one hand tied behind my back
I sail along with your laugh,
your fears,
your desire for me.
When you approach me
when you distance yourself
when you adore me
when you despise the shadows
that I cast
over what seems life to you.

I know you.
I've been there all the time.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

A tired wink

Even a tired wink is too much for you.
You, paper mummy, there, in your library.
You feel nothing, nothing touches you, even if an oak tree would shake all its leafs,

you would see a wooden lighting bold. Well, congratulations.
Your whole oeuvre fits in your daddy's invoice binder.
Now you've heard it from someone else, lily of the valley,

traitor, blank-stick. With your mole face you sniff out
words from the books of others,
rearranging it all into poetry,

sniff, sniff, with your pointy nose, to which the shavings
from red pencils of poets past seem to stick a little too easy.
Bye, scholar.
The paper says hi to your dad. That's right, the paper.  

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Until we are firm enough


You enter quietly so that your staying
will be less noticeable and we talk about things
like vacuum cleaners and fabric softener.

The words take on the form of my spine:
just meant to keep things up.

I press my elbows against my sides so that every goodbye
fits within the doorframe and I say: remember

that we used to throw paper planes around the house
so that we looked bigger and leaving seemed less significant?

You nod and say that you read somewhere that chewing gum,
depending on how many people walk over it,
stays in the street for very long time.

Fold your hands in front of my eyes and push until
we are firm enough

to not disappear.

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

Regular Hangout

Coffee is running, burning black holes in my head
I brew white clouds from conversations at the bar
one is resentfully complaining, the other is reading a newspaper
while putting sugar cubes in his pocket

Air bubbles are hard to swallow for Bernard 
who let's himself be called The Time
his whirling grey hair follows him somewhat behind

Next to me sits a girl who is never herself 
becoming herself in a hand-mirror
she is a nervous rush hour, talking in klaxon
her trembling left leg is keeping us alive
in return we listen to her blare
It's starting to sound more like speech as time goes by
drowning your sorrows in a Pumpkin Spice latte is hard 

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Can it continue?

The difference beween waiting and
expecting you learned
from a cat who ran away twice
but only came back once

You think about the oxygen bottle
that kept your grandfather in an
artificial coma.
Could it continue like this an
aunt asked.
On Google maps his bike remained 
in front of the house for another three years.

After that there was the person that
said that he didn't want be with you
anymore but that's why he remained
all this time.

At night you tell him about the time
that somebody once called you a whore 
just because you waited at a red light.

He says that 'walking' in Russian
has two verbs, depending on
whether you have a destination or not.

Tuesday, March 15, 2016

no face


we say grow your beard
we generation online
of many we are with the most
but we never come together
we blend ourselves 
to an image

we create events
like they are hormones
breathe down our own necks 
that show us unsolicited tattoos 

appreciate our status
pay our name
acknowledge the remains
of our inexistence 

Monday, December 21, 2015


Light

How you, because you don't trust yourself,
reconsider a good decision

regret being right or wrong
that is how you sometimes love somebody

for what he could have been if he wasn't 
what he became without you. 

You know where the earth and sun belongs
you know of the blood red moon but remain 

blind in the fog and clouds.
Later you see the images others made

they are familiar to you
like a distance you cover everyday.