I have tried to be honest -
I cannot

I have tried to strip me off my sins
and this is -

and here is where it all begins, cause look:

born, and raised as one is, I belong
to the race of those kids who define
themselves by their age, by the content of time
that they spent

helplessly rushing from one end
to the other, with father and mother
still in between

with memories in cages and stories
unseen and unnoticed

with silences louder than sirens,
bigger than rocks and finer
than powdery snow on the top

and with eyes:
ah, with eyes wider than ruins
and more fierce than millions
and millions of armys in lands
where no daffodils grow

where no dragons fly and no harpees,
where the masses of sky are empty and vast
as the churches

so those eyes:
yes, wide eyes, and empty,
dreaming of countries that see no dawn
that yawn for experience

the youth has told lies to the world
given rise to a culture that hurls itself back
to the starting point
whenever it touches
the edge

so there now:
the youth in a square box
a cage in its own ship
prepared just to rip off the walls
the silly paper

with blue and white cloud print
only to see then, a little bit later,
that beyond
                there is freedom -

and always had been.

So what if I don't like a poem
and say so?

So what if I don't like people to rhyme
to bridge two edgy lines?

Why, if this rhymes then it is just
due to my humble arrogance -

my love of irony -

and if you like,
just if you really want,

then be my guest and shake yourself
free from those lines
(from all those lines in fact)

and smile,
and now: forget about the rest.

Home is where your heart is, a friend told me some time ago
On a little piece of paper that I took with me then;
Most people think of home as something stable, as something they would know;
Each time I part, I'm thinking of this lttle note, and it is when

                               I really miss you
                                           that I imagine my heart to be in many places
one of those pieces being by your side.

this is a simple thing
thus these lines know no rhyme -
no time is used to jot them down
no time is needed here
to rhyme.

It is only of coming home.

there's nothing I can choose
nothing to lose
lose wieght as such was never really one
of my great pleasures

i measure life with coffeespoons
and moons reside in greater circuits as yet discovered
by man kind

so blind so blind my love
i see you here and feel you
and this is all i care about

over
and out.

The poet stands, bending over a piece of his writing, next to his wife
musing, not writing any longer.

His wife, in both appearance and mind much stronger than him,
shares his glance and dares
to let her eyes dance right across his naked lines.

He feels her breath next to his shoulder, on his skin,
remembers how, when growing older, you start to be
content with less.

So now, she finally adresses him:
Are you writing about me?

He frowns, something he rarely does, takes a deep breath
and, quietly bereft of his most personal emotion, starts to smile.

You know, he anwers, with a slight shiver in his voice,
I'd rather you asked something else. I'd rather-
but he has no choice, is forced to speak, at last.

His wife, slightly intrigued, demands: elaborate!
Two hands are raised to shape the air, create a space
and place an invisible heart
inside its core.

Look here, he speaks, this is my work,
and indicating this he gestures wildly
while his wife remains disquiet, though now
she sees, thus smiling mildly, what he is getting at.

And in the middle, this is you
as if -
now he does not allow his voice to drift
as if my poetry evolves -
But he stops dead and sees
a clear image inside his spinning head:

He concentrates, takes a step back -
and reaches for his woman's face,
places his palms on her red cheeks, one side each,
and begins to speak anew:

*If I had ever written just a single line about you, dear,
I shall be ******.
I won't let false words touch you!
Let me explain:

It is the other way around!
All pieces and all lines and words have once
belonged to you, and now emerge
from your sweet face!

I am now well prepared just to erase
all of my poetry,
for all of it I will find then again,
anew,
in your kind heart,
in you.

Okay love, you just need to walk
around the corner and my heart
stops dead.

Arrête!
I cannot hold back anymore
I can NOT -
and I dread the moment when I have
to face the facts.



I really do.

Everything is connetcted, love,
Don’t be a *****
Don't push yourself back to the start
Of our argument

No,
As the smoke settles
And the ark resides
On this vast island

I feel safe to tell you:
That our start has been
From then on until now
Also the end;

Everything is connected, love.

About four years ago I fell
into your face and stayed
embraced myself and read through you
what in myself I could not -

Two years ago I broke for the first time
and since, to rhyme makes me feel sick at heart;
and art as such no longer wears me out
or brings me down but merely
is as permanent as breath -

Last year I felt you slip away beneath my hands
and tried to bind two ends together, of which I knew
they don't belong -

Today, I swear, my mind fell out
onto the stony ground as I went home
away from you -

And here, this minute, keyboard staring back
and screen and windows are ridiculously black to me
and sounds not even get to me today -

but hey, those rhymes are back
                                                                         **** it
at last.

A ghost has touched my fingertips
they ache, they shake with fear

Into my feet it flows
and gets hold of me,
grows

This is no joke, love
we should run
before it is too late or before-

what is that?
you shake your head, you're not afraid?

Then I will run alone,
as I use to;
as it has shown to be
my safeguard system

not for me, my love:
for you.

Why is it called chaos game
when all we do seems to reframe
the thoughts we've had before?

If half of x constitutes y
and if, therefore, the sky is blue
then let me show you
something else:

a little girl that sits and dwells
on a green field
plays with a game of marbles.

After each cast
she looks and pins
a little leaf of grass
into the ground.

She plays her game
until the sun goes down
and, tired now, she rises
looks again -
begins to frown at what unfolds
before her eyes;

the leaves of grass
have formed a shape
that, in the gloomy light,
resembles much a pyramid
with lion head, a human body,
and a riding knight who clutches
a fleur-de-lis-

Reaching down the giant girl
picks from my hand the gift
that I for her have brought
into this world, for her to drift
however far she dares
to go.

And chances are that,
in this chaos,
in this chaotic game,
this lily is the only thing that we both see
and thus the only thing that is worth looking at;

          Thus, my equation ends,
          having used up all xes
          and all whys-
          exhausted from such high amount
          of unpredicted turning points-

And no one tries
to sit her down to talk.
And so the girl continues;
and she keeps on to walk
in purple fields,
with lilies in her hair,
forever drifting,
planting her faithful seeds.

A million suns burn deep into my skin
the love I feel;

and if this love, then, be a sin
how in the world would I
could I
get rid of it and with a grin
live on?

As long as this world turns
itself around and burns these holes
into my beating heart
there is no need to fear
there is no need to part;

All cheap collections
of even cheaper poetry remain
untouched
for in the face of this new day
all I will ever need
and ever have to say is this:

My face resembles yours so much
your beat and mine so much in tune
that, even if all stars collide
and Milky Way and Mars and Moon explode -

I will still hear the quiet sound that comes
from our souls not split apart
but clinging tightly
to each other

in a forsaken universe.

nothing to say
I sit
in the dark place with my back split
open.

But no time
believe me darling
and the wounds will heal.

In the grass you lie and hear
everything twice as loud and double size as I do

in the grass you wait
patiently with your arms embracing your knees
and raveling stories in your head

in the trees you see much more
than any one of us could
and for hours you are not cold
as even the old ones leave for home now;

you sit -
and you sit in the grass
and remember god knows what
and i won't call you odd

for some day, i am sure, you'll outwit us all.

~ ~ ~
And in the narrow vision of my half closed eyes I see
Dark shapes emerging
And descending into every favorite object
Of my long harbored hopes and fears
And yours.
Inflicting my beloved place with darkness
They mount and dive into the realms of physics
And of clarity;

And so we sit
In our favorite coffee house with tea and cake,  and ache
And ache for we can feel their presence
As they invoke in us that fear
Of breaking mirrors and of shaking ground;

And now partaking in our gestures and our face
- They come into this world
And break what we had hoped for with a grace
That only creatures from the underworld possess
To lessen our role in the real world –
They grab hold of our arms:
Yours first
Then mine
And climb with us onto a mountain top so dark
And so remote that we now feel
As though our eyes half-closed again.

And in the beauty of this sleep
I am no longer able to shake off the beasts
Of non-reality.

no use to play this track backwards

those trips don't do no good
she says, and flings my hand aside

i bite you if you keep me here all day!

don t think i miss the bit of joy
and freedom that i had
back in the days

don t think this is a hopeless call
for help
don t think that just a single twist in this game could
or would-
or might-
give you only the slightest bit of an idea

of life itself.

no use to play this track backwards
i say

If there is nothing more to hear
within-
you say,
If there is not a single sound surrounding
us in the silence-

why then-
how then did this come about?

I laugh out loud and drop
my pencil on the floor

and suddelny remember-
in a rush of colors-
all the beauty of those noises that so long irritated me.

this is not a poem
it is a question

what makes you think you're so remarkably
invincible, and chasing rays of light until they die away?

what makes me cling to this
disquieting momentum, this moon-absorbing, hateful creature?

this is not a poem
it is a question

why can i not detect the seconds
of high voltage danger, and why-

why do i pour my heart
out to a stranger?

why

°°°

this used to be a question-

turning to an answer, though, and tapping
at my chamber door, pronouncing

with a clear voice - and with rain-drops bouncing off the window pane -

the word:

because*.

Why are you shivering?
I just remembered-
something from your past?
No, yes - i dont know-
nothing that lasts
in any way.
How come your breath seems so repressed?
It does not-
-and your eyes narrowed?
And how come you keep asking me
all these things-
pierce my heart-
with that sharpened arrow?
I did not mean to-*
of course you did not-
that's like you
and you're whole lot
revisiting forbidden sites!

        Thus speaks one side of the two-colored face
                as the other speaks against it;
                          while the falcon keeps on turning,
                  unorientated, round and round

                                                                                      in the pale sunlight.

I couldn't sleep
sleepwalkers talk held me upright
the night I walked away

His ears are blind
his eyes are numb
the depth of thought erases time
and lime stone drips inside his mind

the mill-stone grinds
but slowly-
and cautiously bright daylight shines
through the curtains of this mind
that was so long definded by *silt
and slowly moving elements
and tide-

the flood has come at last:

and vastly confluencing waters
share speed and wit
with this one mind that walked behind me
all this time

and finally
*awakens

No matter how far
you can walk
no matter where you take your turn
nothing will show
upon this land
nothing will grow.

Burn all the waste
dig holes so deep
the ground breaks in upon itself
blow up the soil
so that the seep
comes up.

And in the end
you see-
you walk towards yourself:
a convex mirror hems
your field-
and as you try to flee
and as you try to shield your face-

it closes in upon you.

How the laws of a change of perspective
sound so eloquent and intellectual -

and how their glasses
reflect the sunlight and seem
so ill-positioned here

so out of purpose -
though in line -
and out of use already

Close
your folders
your handbooks of modules and rules
put aside your cups of linguistic wisdom

Release
the trees from your far-reaching longsightedness
pull off the net:

Confess
that you are
as clever as we feel you were from the

beginning.

*And with a feeble smile I turned around
and looked at them
and said:

"If you don't get this now-
                       I rest my case"

Count your blessings
you stupid idiot

count all the smiles and the fairytale moments
you deserved and did not deserve

count the minutes this earth was peaceful for you
and your loved ones

count your tears and the amount of those you have shed
in a happy embrace and the joyful look on your childish face

count - I beg you - the seconds of hope before desperation
and tell me-

why do you still not just take it and make what you want out of it
                                                                    - and break up your moaning.

That which does not **** you
makes you only stronger-
feels like
I do not belong to those
who believe in strong words

for if it hurts so much
if it leaves
but an emptiness
a huge amount of
feeling the distance-

and if I had
almost been killed
if I am hovering in between strong words to cling to
and a stone cold path into the nothingness-

how does that make me stronger?

over the fence i saw my very own
lungs exploding
splinters and bits of it covering
the next best breath
the next best line
of my own narrative
that - now -
wrinkled and crunched and wrapped around the fence
still knows how to dance-

and amounts to the desperate summit
of bright enthusiasm:
exploding this time
in vibes and waves
and again – and always

again.

Have you ever felt
this heavy,
heavy weight of an uncut theory-
a pile of words
with no real core-

                        with no real sense
                                  to keep you


satisfied?

Easy-
to write like this
to write-
and in a flash of bliss I tell myself
to lay aside
the pen and paper
delay-
until a later point in time

But now-
now-
never disrupt a running flow, they say,
and rightly so.
For now, I leave the words,
I let them go-
'cause what-

                *Ah, give it up, my love!
Or have another go, but bear in mind:
You only find what your eyes see,
and see they do a lot.
All good, I say, now rest a moment;

and look:
what you have done here.

I will have to gather
All my shadows together,
Not like an army
Defending my body and mind,
Not like a wall, stone cold-
No; more like: to find
What is left of the real things
In me.

Because look; it’s like this-
See: shadows are not shadows to me
Any longer-
Black is not black in the way
It is to others.
And white, in a sense, is not white
And I am not even fighting
Not even-
Writing about it.

For here is why:
Daylight makes edges too sharp
For their contours to melt.
So, as for my heart, I speak
Only to you-
Do you see them-
Do you see the shadows, too?

And even now-
Even this was not a question.
For it is only why I want to be
With you.