Dying means little

without fantasy, else it's --


about everything.

The Friesian horses,

stepping in black cloths with hoods --


and snorting with life.

No age
no age at all
never a justification
a reason to placate us
just an implacable, non-negotiable theft
of love, histories and too much still to be

the solace, a skinflint’s compensation,
is that for a short while you had them
and they had you
and that was life

but that’s as much as you get
to try to make it through

This life must fail
In order to pass
Successfully on.

The dancer has died,

yet we are honouring life –


it's our murderer.

In the beginning man created
the thought: everything, mankind
and the earth, is a miracle
with a beginning

and anything that procreates
will die, only the sun
the stars and the stones
had no end, until later

infinity was conceived, the being
of even never having begun

so the rest, actually everything
that is known, the world
will have to perish one day

and, if you dare
to think it out, also
the elusive time

will not last and already
now, nothing is left
but nullity

Hands like bodies,
rough and calloused,
smooth and soft,
freckled knuckles,
blemished palms,
with cuts and scars littered like stars,
short and stubby or long and thin,
different skins and many strings.

Despite their difference,
they share the same sins,
capable of giving gifts,
but also skilled in petty theft.

Warm and kind caresses,
bruised and ****** stresses,
a gentle yet expressive message,
fingers trail like searing fire upon wry shaking lips.