We are told:
"Believe in God! Seek God!"
Yet, have we not murdered him?
Blood of the divine is all over the floor:
The reason for His death, our neglect.

Holy, did you just flinch?
Did you by any chance think
I was spouting nonsense?
Nay, fool. 'Tis true!

You say you believe,
yet forget what your God is:
He who demands praises.
What did he get, however?

Reflect, and you shall see:
I love my cellphone
I achieved victory myself
God is but an excuse against Reason

You horrible demon.
All but fallen to hypocrisy without you realizing.
Yet, God is merciful, even in death
For he who died did not bother saving himself:
He willed your freedom

He left a note to me, however, saying:
Intelligent human
You who killed me
Life is all but meaningless now
But you--
You are now God. You are now life's meaning
*This I grant, as I forged you in my image

-

Am die 24. März, sometime im der Zweitausend Jahren,
you held your farewell party;
invited sun, moon, house, ice cream,
me, friends: anything existent
and implored us
to bid your farewell.

Am die Morgen (24. May, 2012), you left.
Was was supposed to be eine guten Morgen
became a horrible dawn,
for it signified nothing less
than your nigh-permanent self-disappearance.

Now, am die Abend of 1. September, Zwanzig-und-vierzehn
I write this, in complete lament
Over the fact that
I could never accept your farewell.

9: 09 PM, you remain existent, indeed.
Reason cries out: LEAVE THIS VESSEL
Passion, retorts: You have long since left
Beauty mystifying
Lei, the unerring

Sorrow, O, Sorrow.
I no longer understand.
Have I gone mad?

Indeed, you may have.

I bet you
envy
the birds that fly up high
in the sky--
when I reach for my nape

I bet you
hate
the sight of shoe and concrete
on the ground
when I scratch my chest

I bet you
lust
for the succulent arms
in front of you
when I lower mine

Here, lie down
Kiss the smooth surface
Make love with it
Lick it until you're dry
decrepit, and bare
blackened and battered

On your face, now.
Sinner,
your God tells you
to atone below
the arms of night.

I count by meters.*

One, a blurry woman with a black bag
black hair, white clothes
who knows
if she's an old hag

Two, white teeth, black, short hair
folded papers, talking to the others
I wonder
if he's seen me glare

Three, long nose, thick, succulent lips,
flaccid, shiny, black hair.
Big eyes, blue bag, with a tad of flowers
Has she seen me stare?

Four, two loudmouths, east and west.
Murmur here, gossip there,
blah blah and blah,
stop talking or else

Five, three musketeers, east, west, south,
looking at me like I'll growl
squeak and squeak
moan and shriek

Six, one man, one book.
It read: "Hands off!"
I ran up to him
and he vanished.

Seven, one man, one book
One chair, in front of a mirror--
pressed his chin against his finger
He said, "God, let me rest!"

--- and I slept.

To my loved ones, I'm a ghost: I haunt them, I am to be shunned. Heartless as ghosts are, I do not feel wrath-- I feel the emptiness.
What have I done to become this sort of monstrosity?
What must I do to come alive before them?-- What must I do--
to become real in their eyes?

To my loved ones, I am ****. I am brown, filthy, avoided.
They seek to go back to the ******* of the owners
who love disowning them.
Why, my beloved owners, do you not see-- that I am your ****:
There are many like me, but this **** is yours.

To my loved ones, I'm just phlegm. Sticky-- yuck!
But, the same substance used to protect them from viruses
Why do you look at me--
Your protector, with disdain?

Do you not see:
I may be all of these, but I am yours anyway.

Love, O love!
Oh, what must I do!?
How can I cleanse myself
Of the guilt?

Explain

Okay: I love three women!
What? I am but one entity! A unifying symb--
Love, heed me:
The root cause of all this is not me, but Aphrodite!
I, a lonely soul, who preferred to wander in the darkness
Was struck by the arrow of her beloved instrument-- Cupid!
Famed for her accuracy, my heart was purged of all selfish, willful
loneliness- by an arrow!

Three?

Indeed! But let me continue:
Years passed since Paris fell in love with Helen,
that wound, never fully healed
Exacerbated, by the same culprit.
Wound became so grave
That an innocent woman became apparition in my eyes;
a manifestation of the departed Helen.
Damnation, however!
For this woman had enough gall- no--
it was my fault. We never were destined.

Enter, third.

Alles gute. The Love of my Will came.
Her name, Tiziana.
Small she may be, she is stout.
Resolute, admirable.
However, my wounds would not heal.
What must I do, Love?

O, what must I do?

So, I'm bad with a ukelele:
clinkcliinkcliink-- it doesn't agree with me
clinkPAKclink-- still no good
PAKPAKclink-- I need food
PAKPAKPAAAAK-- gone.

So, I found you:
My eyes seemed to deceive me;
I counted the strings, like onetwothreefour
Cliiink-- "lalalala~"
Didn't know there was a fifth.
Lalalala~
I love you.

Every time, the sky gets infected;
with that blight we call "night"
Often, blemishes form on it
we then see specks of light.
Yet, it worsens each day
it peels itself; then bleeds white!

"Oh, doctors, what have you done?
Why do you not heal the bleeding sky?
Oh, butchers, what foulness is this?
Why do you keep wounding the sky?
Oh, my friends, why do you revel
In the sky's suffering? Why?"

They did not respond; the sign did it for them:
"We are united, we are one. Let there be peace on Earth--
peace that can never be undone."
And so, the sky bled white once again
patiently waiting for the blight.

What now?
Since when?
Where did--
How did we...

SHUT UP

.. and *who's who?

You elusive woman, woe to you!
I say, woe--
Or do I mean it?
Can I mean it?

You who hide behind
This empty poetry;
Your presence damns me,
Your mystery confounds me.

Rational, I may be.
But, like that Transcendent Being (God, My GOD!)
I cannot hope to define you.

In all my interest,
I am all but left,
with the torment, the pain..
Of having to accept
The fact that I
may never know you fully.