Thursday, November 2, 2017


this time let us not talk about
timeless things
like wars that pass
and wings that carry oil

but let's talk about me

as soon as I was born, I
started dying

my intestines molded like cheese
but my skin straightened everything out
because it's the outside that matters

I'm about the outside

so I put black around my eyes
paint my lips red and lungs black
because organs are not about giving
life but about extending life 

In truth I am the most putrid person
you will ever encounter
best not to run into me

this is a warning

I'm not suitable for all ages
and I'm not responsible for any possible consequences 

Tuesday, October 17, 2017

Italian Noir
like crumbs she collects her tears 
the room speaks carelessly for itself  
even silhouettes are invisible through the antique curtains    
so she decides to give the night-moths a voice  

acherontia atropos she claims 

wrapped in negative frequency  
desperately drawn to their ill fate 
the Goldberg variations - Zimmerman 
(Glenn Gould did it better) 
she cuts faded photographs into a sepia collage  
her knife cuts open landscapes  
where the sun inevitably 
I leave the room and decide that a single sheet will suffice 
her leg slowly rubs against mine 
it feels inescapable - time only has a final destination 
lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate 

I pour myself a drink 

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

The voice

In a hotel room in the Barrio                                                                                  
you are once again in play

instead of
over her shoulder
you are suddenly in my mouth

as if you want to show her the secrets
that lie at the back  of my throat

every small word I now want to utter
is being cut off  by your thrusts

you should have let it go, you say
what good did it bring us?

this afternoon behind the curtains of
Buenos Aires
I'm his lover and her illusionist

from my open mouth I fabricate
a monotonous string of mourning-cards

one guess who's name
is on  them?

Sunday, August 13, 2017


From the tips of my outstretched fingers
you act like you play the part of water,
yet you don't play.

Look, you say, this is thirst: I offer you something
to drink
and you pretend like you have never drank,
reaching for little airwaves above a hot road surface
to pause for a while.

If you would desire me that much, you say,
I would play the part of love for you
and you would pretend as if you never had loved.

Just like it would be, if you would be little particles
of death, you say, if I'd play the sun for you and you

had suffered night after night.

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

The locksmith will come

I've been wondering for weeks: shouldn't I have
cleaned, vacuumed, done the dishes? Put some stuff
aside, just in case? For whom? 

When I lay on my back things seem to really
withdraw from order. The mail behind the door
is claiming more and more space,
slides continuously closer towards
my glasses, of which one glass is missing.

The only thing that stil moved, the antique clock,
stopped yesterday. What has sunk in me is
slowly revealing itself. A few streets away
a lease agreement is terminated.

And then he comes
like a woodworm through the keyhole.

Sunday, August 6, 2017

Art Makers 

my first wannabe-master was the      
che-guevarra look-a-like painter 
who in the late 90's let himself 
get stuck with this prostitute 
and a drug smuggling route 
courtesy  of the  Bulgarian mafia 
he died like a spineless mosquito 
in is own jeroen bosch painting 
I met a colleague poet  
with in his eyes the absolute black 
his favorite book was cloud in trousers 
by Mayakovsky with the M of 
mysterious from the morphine alphabet 
there still is this colleague poet 
who muffles away the cum stains on his shaky  
recital paper with buttered excuses 
a poet who wins one slam after the other 
a slam is a small competition 
average poetry recited to judges 
who smell like steak 
there was this Slovenian street clown 
who gave workshops in building high riding bicycles  
in murky squatting houses 
who with a one-snared instrument 
wanted to copy the vibrating signal of the moon 
there was this local city poet with lordosis 
who survived all the doom and disaster 
until a small mistake in diagnosis 
his favorite lines written in tunnels and  
on garbage trucks 
there still is this lisping poetess  
with big ears and Cinderella thoughts 
who these days starts every poem with 
once upon a time 
there was a man on a roof 
there was a roofing tile stuck in her snatch 
and then she formed a thought around that 
there where her many boyfriends 
of which one had warned her about  
using words like roofing tile 
and that she had understood oyster 
and that it was funny to write  
about this misunderstanding 
and that another boyfriend then said: 
that's a cheap way to make everything funny 
you take an ugly building 
piss against it 
skip away on a skippy ball 
and have it filmed by a girl  
with down syndrome 
while you let some autist make the music score for it, 
you call the movie estrogen  
and write another vague poem about it 
there was this new-age witch with a healthy clam 
who told me I was a born performer 
and that I could get away with anything 
if I dressed scantily. 
there was the old school poetry slammer who found Jesus 
there was the coke sniffing poet on his fixed gear bike 
there was this farmer poet who attracted rain 
there was this German queer with 
dry camels in his expired passport face 
there was the night man who ate jazz who had jazz 
who wrote jazz who read jazz who stayed jazz 
there was the pipe smoking poet with 94 versions 
of the lingo-poem w-o-r-d /word/ 
there are and there were more and more than there were

balancing on the word cord 
I once snored Juliette Lewis out of an hotel bed 
but where and with whomever I slept 
it where mostly the poets who surprised me with their portraits  

Saturday, August 5, 2017


sometimes I apply scissors to my hair, yesterday evening I watched 
a TV program about becoming happy, I wasn't
during the commercial break an ad about the satisfying effect
of a new kind of shampoo with salt crystals that should work
like a tiny universe to which you would ascend to.

this morning I was taken aback by a drop I saw on
a leaf, stay close to yourself I thought, both feet
on the ground, be sparse with big words, avoid
elaborate metaphors, they could easily turn into clichés

J.H. Leopold wrote about life mirrored in a drop of water
after the rain had gone. He used his scissors for the
Frankfurter Allgemeine and his birthday was May 11

in the program an expert was interviewed  
how can it become and how does it then feel, somebody from the audience asked
one feeling of happiness isn't the other, often you notice it when 
it has passed, then you get dejected, dejection is a disease,
nostalgia on the other hand is something you can live with
sometimes I apply scissors to my hair
how perfect could a perfect day have been