Unruly
think of me as a piece of paper
that you've put thoughtlessly in your coat pocket
after you wrote something on it. I leave open
what, although I hope: let it be one line, one
for in a verse saved for later and that stays on
your mind, long after you put me away.
you know the line gradually by heart. It loops
in your head like a mantra. Still you never find
the right context for it: a good poem that places
the line, frames it, and above all tames it.
then after a while you take me out of your pocket,
caress me and sigh: what to do with you?
Dead end
No track runs past its terminus,
if you think that you're crazy.
And if you at the end find
nothing but a last impression,
then you didn't miss anything.
But I only saw this:
how you looked up from your empty gaze
how you looked around,
confounded about what you lost,
how your eyes looked for mine
how they after the silence
slipped into memory.
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.
