Mean poem


when she's dancing she looks like she's fucking
when she's dancing she looks like she thinks
how one looks while fucking
or she looks like something is stuck
and she's confused about it

maybe she's dancing the tango in a too red of a dress
clear heeled porn shoes and  some fat here and there
her steps a bit too wide, just out of tune

she hasn't done it in such a long time that 
something down there turned sour or almost disappeared
wine softens but when she laughs you can see
that it all has become so serious
even in dance where she sees the theater 
but can't perform, she does it just as tenacious
as mopping the floor, dirty whore
she thinks when a girl slides by all glistening
in the arms of a smooth hero
for her only the aged shufflers

but with eyes closed and somebody without
an old smelly coat there is something to dream 
about, let's see if it can make her come tonight.

.....in circles


beautiful,
how you walk away,
all-powerful
with in your wake 
anger and righteousness.

after a clumsy: 'where are you going..'
escapes me
only inability remains

when the long monologue
dies down
the dog looks up
and recognizes this as
a simple waste of time.

Now


Now we have to get used to things more slow,
to love lost and whatever still remains
to delicate things in autumn skies and the smell of pine
and to what-would-have been-thoughts that we never unlearn.

To almost-nothing, and constantly the same four walls
and to ringing that never sounds,
to staring twenty  times a day through a window
and above all to yourself, the person you have to drink with at night.

And what I have left is nothing,
nothing to give away:
what I still am is me,
only for me.

We

A clear sky like a coat of happiness.
Children play - with the azure
in their eyes, laughter, they hand out the sky.

In a different place, black as obsidian,
little brother melted to her back
a child watches how heaven passes by.

The maker is asleep.
And so is his brother.

The philosopher says:
Hell- that is us.
The civil servant says:
The rules - that is us.

A clever angel hands us some glasses
dipped in candid curiosity.
The people- that is us. All of us.

Honey

I lived in hotel Paris with this guy, 
we shared breakfast and lunch, 
we ate waffles with cream, drank stale champagne 
because we forgot the bottle after the first toast, 
we fell asleep. He slept a lot. 
He slept like a child in bed with his mother, 
 
he would lay on his back  lightly breathing. 
When he woke up at night he would poke me 
because he wanted to tell me about his amazing dreams, 
he wanted me to wake up, wanted to know If I had dreamt, 
he told me about the women he had loved, 
he would ask me, if you were a man, would you embrace me? 
he would ask  me, if you were my mother, would you embrace me? 
he would ask me, if you were my sister, would you embrace me? 
 
He asked me, just before the big fire, 
when the hotel burned down, 
never to wear a Kimono made of Chinese silk 
or to paint my lips red, because he was afraid of his love, 
he was afraid of me when I disguised myself. 
 
It was on a late afternoon in the summer, 
when he told me he seduced his sister, 
bold and daring. But he made up at least half of it. 
Maybe he got a little reckless after 3 hours sleep. 
He sensed my suspicion, 
but he was content because his story turned me on. 

The art of partying

is the art of being bored like a connoisseur
and to slowly, drink after drink, forget the 
dull strokes of daylight.

It's the art of moving lighter and wilder
to abandon all hope, reject all despair,
It's the art of moving a cutie
to the Prado of your bed.

Showing and tripping

It takes a whole lot of luck to wear this dress and look with compassion to the neighbors
who are taking out the trash around midnight.

It takes a whole lot of luck to wear this dress and wave down a taxi that is reluctant to drive you  outside the city to where all the green is.

It takes a whole lot of luck to wear this dress, swallow a pill, go on a balloon trip
and look down at the mosaic of your country like a drowsy astronaut.

It takes a whole lot of luck to crash carefully in beautiful weather.

Some voices shout robe instead of dress.