There is nothing I can give to you that is not past or future.
When my both selves fight, they throw insults at each other like an unhappy couple.
    “You are already gone!” the one says,
    “You are never here” says the other.

And I sing then. I never let any note slip away into silence. Songs in which I’m a magician,
right before the grand finale,
the last vanishing act.
I close my eyes and slowly slice away layers of skin,
so I can become less and less,
so I can sail away on the river without an end,
it’s flow imposing my soul with the authoritative demand to move forward.

There is no river.
I am pitifully human so there is no alchemy that transforms loss into beauty.
Ihe things I have built, I built myself. Like this house of memories
with it’s sole window. The moon shines through it every night.
What an unperfect image,
what my heart endures everytime I reach out only to feel
solance turning into a hell-flamed sky.
The darkness is gone like I will be gone
like everything has gone forever.

There is also no house.
Only the pale waves of a grey-winter sea,
        dualism of being and not-being
a perfect symmetry,
a beautiful fragile balance.

How could your heart ever long

for anything but a love beyond the archetype?

love me, and you will forget the opposition

between want and need.

razor cutting flesh

while you go on searching for words to make it less mythical,

a ritualistic dance between aversion and marvel,

with love left to bleed out like a helpless deer.

there is music, songs of

sin and sacrifice

the great city burned to ashes,

by flames of pleasure that wreck deliberately.

We sit in the ruins

of what once used to be a ground of worship,

merely human,

with nowhere to come home.

It’s 2018 August 12th

Night is falling,
the photographs in my hands radiant with the light of the past
where hills touch the sky,
not my parents‘ earth, only the ground they built on.
Their voices tender with longing for the motherland,
while there is merely my own
heart I see in the vast desert,
homeless, homesick,
waiting for moss to grow over that earth too.
Finally silence
where once was the noise of the nation,
we are children again,
alone in the motion of the Prague-Berlin train.