Harvesting
Time goes by faster when you move a plant now and then
in the winter I need a motive
nothing is predestined here
but everything goes gradually
this is me in the dead of night
and I must warn you, I fall in love easily
I recognize you before you recognize yourself
(you will match nicely with my wallpaper)
there are homes where you will thrive better
I smoke holes into the couch
but if you're still here when I turn around
you will never leave again
What it is.
It's nonsense
says reason
It is what it is
says love
It's adversity
says calculation
It's just constant pain
says fear
It's hopeless
says insight
It is what it is
says love
It's ridiculous
says pride
It's reckless
says prudence
It's impossible
says experience
It is what it is
says love.
Compass
See?
You're standing still
Me too, because I'm tired.
Even though we slept
again for half a day last night.
Where the day went?
You don't know.
We're missing a wise granny
that can tell us how to move on
and why we have to stand still here.
We're tired. The day is lost
an searching without a compass
seems futile.
How do you make a compass?
I'm too empty to be creative
and you're too stubborn for
technique.
Okay, sweet dreams then
and lets hope for something,
maybe something for tomorrow.
Today?
A part of me thinks that everything that has been done to me
can be washed away with a dash of bleach.
But I also know that this isn't true.
The day before yesterday a toddler stood on my doorstep.
He said he was cupid.
I looked at him for about three seconds
and slammed the door.
Yesterday I drew a smile on the bathroom mirror with lipstick
just to see how it would look.
A part of me thinks that everything that has been done to me
can be washed away with a big gulp of vodka.
And I also know that this isn't true.
But please, don't tell anyone.
Stopping is my only other option
to continue with something.
Maybe not with the here and now, but still.
Honestly:
You caught me by surprise.
Spilled ink
I have experienced it a lot:
the death of that what could not die.
For a child that's its father.
But it can also be:
meaning
that shelters
against the great
indifference
laying outside and
without waiting
waits,
threatens
without threatening;
sneaking
and trickling
like silt water
in the one who drowns
The book of nature
spreads open
with the speed of light:
the letters turn out to be murky clouds
gas and spilled ink
Where is God in language?
Sometimes
I think
I can read.
A contribution to the statistics.
Of every hundred people
there are fifty two
who know everything better,
insecure with every step-
almost everybody else,
willing to help,
if it doesn't take too long
- forty nine,
kindness personified,
because they can't be anything else
- four, well, maybe five,
capable of admiration without envy
- eighteen,
living in constant fear,
for somebody or something
- seventy seven,
talented to be happy
- about twenty at best,
individually harmless,
but dangerous in a crowd
- half for sure,
cruel,
when circumstances force them
- how many, you don't want to know
not even approximately,
Sensible when it's too late
- not more than
before it's too late,
only desiring things from life
- forty
but I rather be wrong here,
curling up in pain with no light
in the dark
- eighty three,
sooner or later,
deserve pity
ninety nine,
are mortal
- hundred out of a hundred
a number that, for the time being,
doesn't change.
To the sea
at some time I have tried to fathom
your secret, but you took your salt
and carried the sounds away
in your waves it read:
no trespassing
I made futile attempts to put the
days into music
but
even the rain passed me by casually
and with centuries of dust over my footsteps
I stayed in the sad atmosphere of old
prayers and worked somewhat confused
on a fairytale named peace
I let myself to be seduced
and went inland with the voices
but there were more things than a dreamer
shall ever see
and too many roads
underway
and so I write the sea
towards you
and even If you're too old
to be addressed with new words
I still ask you
drown out my thoughts
set foot upon my shore
and shut me up
