My window


I stand in front of my window.
I see words coming.

Some words I recognize:
although, red, before,
nevertheless in his flapping coat,
truth, imperfect...

Some climb on each others shoulders.
'Who are you?', they ask.
'Clouded', I answer.
'Fully or partly', they ask.
'Lightly', I say. 'Lightly clouded'.

I glance down.
I wish I was glistening
or somewhat
or better yet: inherent.

It's starting to rain.
Although looks up, her cheeks are getting wet.
They all scatter.

Darkness falls.

Careful exploring


He who thinks a lot
tends to suffer from
fear of being touched
and calls his thinking
careful exploring

This to flatter his ego

But in fact he is
somewhat touchy
about what he can't touch

So divine that he 
shivers at the thought
of being touched 

by the hand that
caressed him but also
struck him with fear

Because what he wanted was
to keep being surprised about
the untouchable

Like somebody who repeatedly
hides from himself
but keeps jumping with fright
when seeing his own hands.

No

No was a little word,
an insignificant word.

It always listened to the big words:
Yes and We and Always.

It studied the crumbs of their thoughts,
that dropped from their table.

It wasn't a stupid word.

One day it crawled to the kitchen,
climbed on the counter,
grabbed a knife
and ate it.
(Words can eat things).

It was still a little word,
but not insignificant anymore - never again-

and it went back to the room,
sat under the table
and listened.

Mail

But then how clear are your ideas,

the mailman asked. At that moment 
the sky darkened,
but that had nothing to do with it,
that's how it goes here,
from one moment to the next.

It's going to rain, he said, 
and he was right.
Big drops. 
Behind him in the bay,
I saw an airplane heavy in the clouds,
slow. It landed.

Where do those seconds go?
How much white noise can be missed?
Which conversation can't be crushed
against the wall of time, in a lack
of memory, somewhere at the bottom
of a dream?

Fiction: a house on a hill, 
psalm of rain, page six,
mailman, descent, pathway 
into oblivion,
his, mine, 
the trimmings of time,

like someone turning a page
without reading it,

all written for nothing.

Letter


If you would ask me what I do the whole day
know that I'm very busy loving you.
I can't think of anything more useful
and less damaging to humanity.
What else is needed to get in heaven?
So, I'm busy, busy, busy
only doing what is in agreement with
what I feel for you.

In what does that find expression, you ask,
and does anybody notice.
I don't think so
because in the meanwhile people fall of roofs 
for no apparent reason.
no season refuses It's tour of duty,
lots of important things happen in world politics
and everything is, like always, changing.
But all that does does not diminish this.

I can't do anything else but love you profoundly while
daily life around me struggles ahead.
I cover you in imaginary kisses and now and then 
an imaginary fart escapes in between,
forgive me for that.

Instructions


Women who talk too much
are like flowing streams
you forgive them but you also forget them.
Women who constantly realize 
that they give themselves away
only donate their dresses.
Look for the wise, the pure,
the one who never wasted herself
and never got around saving anything,
who's eyes always said it better 
than her voice:
here I am, God forgive me,
take me as I am.

Well, this is good

I cast a stone: 
no bird flies off 
You click your tongue: 
no horse comes running 
 
I'm silent, you're silent. 
But our knifes won't hold 
their tongues. 
 
The loss of one single question mark 
makes us both homeless. 
 
If you start talking 
I will have to  fucking stitch your lips shut 
with this string I'm hanging from. 

New City #7


I was that guest who stayed longer 
and talked a little different,
but I was not unbecoming to the room. 
A little like a floor lamp 
that was given the keys after a while.

I wasn't tedious company 
and at the table, the seats beside me 
were always filled.

But every once in a while somebody felt 
the need to point out my tongue, my ground.
Then they unexpectedly would call me foreign 
and send me home
while I was just getting used to the air
and thought that I maybe conquered a heart. 
But nothing could be further from the truth. 

Sometimes a cold stare would put me back in my seat.
I would keep quiet looking at the seagulls outside 
believing their squawks were a bad sign.
How was it that I was inside while I was left outside?

Harvest time

Because I'm a crushed person my love
I have to lay down gently 
and try to leave no trace
in the area I explore

My rage seems to have come to an end
I hold my tongue, learn to understand:
While summer is smouldering inside
autumn is sharpening It's knife

My body quenches you for a while
lures you from your narrow prison cell
To an area of mere shivering
that also captures me under my skin

In the meantime the harversters 
go nuts in the fields
And in the barns the wooden flails
go up, and down
Because nothing escapes the rules

Meeting


Downstairs they were having another vague party.
I don't know why.
Most of them were slowly getting drunk,
they looked like test dummies without a job,
they behaved somewhat fuzzy.

They smelled like fresh lukewarm meat
released too soon  by their sloppy mothers.
And nobody kept their face for themselves
All of them sounded more naked going up
than intended.

They went through rooms and hallways, dancing,
searching for their best form.
They were also groping  us in the dark.
Their creamy smiles tightening like the velvet
on masked knifes.

The both of us leaning over the railing
perilously linked together, studying the atmosphere
of candlelight, house music and stoners.
Sometimes we heard parents quickly dying
in rusty villages.

Who would I have been If you wouldn't have grabbed me
halfway down those swirling dusky stairs?
And would I be here today
If this hand didn't get attached 
to your hand?

To the night, the sole

To the night, the sole, belongs worrying.

You are still up and talking to a made up son

about the noose in the letter L for love,

how tight it fits and how it strangles.

In the next room your girlfriend waits,

proficiently futile, she makes out with a

fantasy that knocks her up and makes her sing.

A hand from yesterday goes through your record collection,

makes Mahler's Kindertotenlieder creak like stairs 

to the forbidden room in which you caught your mom and dad

making the child they really wanted.

You raise and suck the bottle, taste the sum

of your swaying thoughts and you tell your sealed silence

to remain.

On the table with legs wide open an atlas beckons.

You lick your fingers and go for it.

Ballade of a man.

'For what is a man, what has he got -' Paul Anka


What is a man, his freedom
stands rusting outside his front door
and guilt is pulsating in his pants.

His dream- an exciting comic
under the blanket of a child.
His fear- the wind through thinning hair.

His dead- a blue waterfall
of grey stare. His end- lost
like a drop in a cataract.

Regret hangs in the folds
around his belly button, a drafty wall socket
disconnected with a cold snip-

Ever since he is a satellite drifting,
cursed and forever cursing,
searching for the mothership.