Holding
  My fingers
To my brain
It hurts-
    Framing my face, my head
       Encircling inner horrors
          And still –
For all there is, for all the dread-
I still don’t care.

Charcoal dust
on her cloudy eyes
lashes curled-

surprise in his eyes
as he feels the portrait
of the lady
he - before that - so despised
soft under his fingers.

as the two of them -
in slow, bright motion -
come together,
there is no explosion

but only -
she said later -

weather;
as it had been.

He covertly rubs his hands,
wiping an "A" from his mouth
sprinkles his ankles
with ashes of "summer's days".

He licks his blue lips,
parting to speak:
Not empty but "full", he howls
and, rolling the empty bowles-
with loads "of sound"-
to the edge of the table:

"And fury" he cries- shrill and brief
- Crash!
the little green ******, the *******,

that word-loving thief!

He slides down the wooden leg,
silently now, scurrying back.
Head low, mouth sealed,
yielding
                 the field
                             to the writers.

My head is filled
and to the same degree
                 so is my heart
with nonsense
                with nothing that
                         from nothing comes
with memory
and irresistibly
this draws me in-

Silently collected words
              and shadows of their universe
drew nearer-

In silence their exploding hearts
         come floating by
                 and inky melodies
come streching-

until they reach
                                my skin.

He looked up into the grey sky
and decided: it's not time yet, I got time
and, shakig off the cold, massaging his hands,
he said: it should rhyme.

And thus he began:

To fabricate the best amongst all the poems -
that is what I will do, and forget about the rest
and the empty phrases
that fill no cup and no page.

To make you wonder, and frown
and think: who is this?
This master of words, of letters,
What kind of bliss
is he blessed with?

Then also: to make you remember
my name and my word,
and the fame that so uplifted
my thoughts.

And: to remind you
of my soul and bones
when I shall be gone, and not long after that,
you will build a statue
of stone.

But before all that I will-
I must-
I should-

But where shall I begin?
Where shall I
begin?

And you will put down your paper, your pen,
you will sigh, and know: all this was only a revery.
Then you will stand up, undress, stand naked in front of the mirror-
and dance.

A sick feeling
reaches up
and crawls out of my throat
its feet still dangling in the middle of me

Pull it out I cant
for it is still tied to my skin

Forget about it
does not work either
for I do feel it with every step.

I can't write.
My fingers, thin, hoover above the keybord, a yellow bug irritating me when it collides with the light bulb
and my eyes, irritated as they are, and the tv in the background because it always is because I am not looking -

thus the situation being, and me in the middle of it, and no other noise except tv, bug, typing and - eventually, my own blood rushing-

and nothing comes from nothing, or so they say, and still no great lines on the page.

I will have to revise this and see what can I change, for next time.
The bug is gone.

Run -
I will have to run for a while
and not think of all the things
at once.

Somebody told me
- between the last bit of light at daytime
and the first rise of orange in the morning - that
actually life signifies nothing

that so, I thought, and bells started to ring
in my ears, and yours.

quit performing this dance, I thought
quit transferring your sport into life
for I fear it

you strive for this horror, the horror
of pages
and pages of pounding works
of giant piles of living paper

Later you will see
or hear
how they laugh at themselves
and this sound - which you will hate -
feels so great to me

The sound of laughing paper
of running ink
contradicting itself
in - and by -  its very own shape

Is not that great?

As I was bound to the vortex
in my head
and the odd shape -
no gap, no threat to the void -
came - awkwardly moving
and its core being
outside
It was me
and it was seeing the rays of light
streching-
streching their bright edges

and those edges: folding
and doing so
in a permanent way
for they multiply strangely
and without my hand knowing

their poles none,
neither minus
nor plus -
don't fuss, I tell myself -
a pious wish,
for my eyelids are shaking.


this was the dream.

I hate daffodils, because you know
and her face fell down a little as though not quite convinced of her own words
they are false and only mentioned when people
what? she thought, irritably
when people want to be poetic

But you like them, you told me once
and he was sure, and he was right about that
so I don't see why.

You never see anything, that's because you are too much-
too much yourself. and myself, too
because you are living in your own mind an awful lot of the time
what time?

Love, don't upset me, I mean what I say
and says what he means
and if you don't like them it's okay to me
only to me
and if you do like them, well I get you some.

                                *In the meantime, while his lips are moving, she begins
                                                                               to see words coming out of
his mouth and forming a beautiful little cloud above his head. She sees
                                                                                        them, does not hear them,
                                                                    circling. He is beautiful in every way, and daffodils are not
                                                                                                                                        the matter of this. Not at all.

I don’t feel like going
Anywhere
Without knowing
Where you are.

I apologize,
I know how this sounds
How you frown
Because you’ll never hear it.

I know I should tell you -
And in the meantime
We live parallel lives -
Tell you what drives me
To this place
Every day.

Instead we do not move
I say nothing
You are silent
Only the violent, fiery cuts,
Once in a while,
Are proof enough.

Sound* is what I eat -
Out there they say, get rid of it!
Under their skin I see eyes of greed;
No mercy, their voices sit
Down in the darkened chamber.

Music has scared them so much,
Utmost terror it has brought -
Saving not their minds, but mine,
Inclined to confess – here I’m caught,
Clutching a few notes, my shrine.

Sing no more, so I stand
In their midst;
No hands reach out.
Go away - is all they say.

Crooked windows,
crooked streets
in the light -
during the night
they leak.

The beast inside, though,
does not fret.
It crept to this place,
its very own grace
being cut down.

Huge green eyes
peer through the glass.
Slowly,
slowly moving mass
approaches.

The space between
grows minimal,
and as you scream -
it screams with you.

Mouth wide open,
claws inside
these creatures howl,
they spit and fight.

Science
has reached
its ******.
The windows crack,
as you have lost your track.

Two pairs of green eyes
peer out of the darkness -
four claws -
two pounding hearts -
the beat,
adjusted.

He is the one they told me about:
Iron fist, black head, no wings
Only strings
Which he ties around your feet -
If you try
If you try to creep
Out of his reach.

He is the high blurred figure
And the dark man
Beside the grave
He is the grave digger, love.

But also,
He is you
As your face turns
As your eye burns
In the dim light.

Realising -
They have told a lie -
Don't cry.

He is sick of looking at people,
at their heads,
from above.

So he climbs downwards,
unseen,
and dips into the shadow of a palm tree.

There he remains
until a child passes by
and frowns at the sight.

And he,
then,
mirrors the child
and after a while:

becomes the pavement,
becomes the street lights,
becomes the smoke that rises
the dust that swirls
around.

And at this very evening
as the sun sets,
all the smoke rises
and all the dust shoots

upwards again.

I have learned that
   If things hurt most
  My eyes open widest

  If heart and head touch
        I stumble
        In as much as I would
        If I could

Tell you all that.

And my grace is sufficient for thee
so he said, and exploded
for my strenghth is made perfect
in what, I wondered
in weakness
*and the sound surrounded
my drowning lungs
as they plunged
in the beauty.

Fields and forests,
         Clouds and thunder
             Mean nothing to me -
Is what I would say
If what was on my mind
Was even slightly resembling
The strength of your mind.

Unfortunately though
I cannot part from this world
Until my very last gesture
Is reaching-up-to-the-sky.

And I cannot leave this place,
And I hate you for saying
That the only thing keeping
You here is I.

In a circle I walked.
For this circle I prayed.
In a square I arrived -
    And am caught.

For the end of the circle
Would be its beginning.
And the round, colored space
Could be the world we live in.

But the square separates us,
Its edges cut sharp in my flesh
Each time I try to turn
And see where you are,
       And if we collide or crash.

Blindfolded I feel
Each new wall to come,
Each new turn,
In an angle of ninety degree.

So I am fleeing,
Searching you in the square,
And its natural shape
                         Prevents me from -
                                  seeing.

Help me she says
in a strong voice
and strong is the choice
she made.

Abandon him, she thinks,
I will,
and the chill
that runs down my spine
will freeze not only
my lonely feelings.

It will ignite the urge
for simple ratio;
a thing which, from the depths of my heart
I - upto now - so
despised.

I'm too wrecked
to write now
I'm so cracked
just see how

my words don't make sense
any more.

You put me
into a state which,
can't you see,
leaves me to stich

all my itchings
               by myself.

If
brick after brick
  drops down
   don't think you can
    pick them up again.

We have learned
About eternal
Distinction between things.

We have seen
The separation
And the cutting into half.

The faces and the masks,
So similar but not
Entirely the same,
Are driving us mad.

Please –
Please for once -
Make it stop;

Make the division stop
And show us
The one thing.

As he stepped
Into the puddle
He thought: I should make it double -
And jumped a second time.

Wet drops soaked
His trouser legs;
Smiling then, he dropped his specs
To see without reflection.

If you had flipped this upside down
A scene would have emerged
Where waterfalls began to drown
His feet, his pants, his heart.

And watercolors soak the page now,
The puddle empty, dry.
And He only a mess of paint,
The painter whistling: My, oh my.

Thunder,
And my heart lies under
A pile of rotten gold.

Flash,
I crash the things and bash
The rules that brought me here.

Rain drops,
And I chop off the heads of the problems
And kick them to the edge -
Off, in the whirling bowl
Of elements and flesh.

Forever to be buried
Among the rotten and the dead,
There lie my gorgeous troubles;
The loveless and the judges.

In the rough wind they were playing,
Always, and swaying like trees,
Knowing the cool breeze
That blew.

One day in September
They forgot to remember
How this breeze sometimes turns
To a storm.

Whirling around
They then saw their own faces
Celebrating the ******
Which embraces
Those who know not what’s real –
And what isn’t.

Sudden strikes of swollen thunder
Hit the air and cure the silence
Of a long forgotten wonder
Lingering within this house.

Crows and leaves surround the tower
Circling in moving halos
And I hear the golden hour
Calling for the final act.

So I open up the gate
For the rush of air to enter
Out of grey-white, misty shade
Into this world of broken laughter.

With a cracking noise the glass
Smashes and is torn apart
Wind has formed a hurling mass
Blowing out remaining light.

For a moment in the dark
Nothing is but pounding rain
And I ask my beating heart;
Do you fear –
Do you fear the coming pain?

I like short poems, she said
And mechanically he –
Not knowing what –
Liked her and her head.

He wrote page after page,
Confusing her smile
With admiration and love,
Igniting her rage.

In the end she set fire
To a huge pile of paper
That included no more
Than his wish to admire.

Unreal cities within the claws of two great lions;

None-existing walls to be mended in the end;

Roaring clocks that tick off all time;

Eternal sunshine spots no mind after all;

And we still think about meanings of form:

LaernU.

Behind the sharp line
Of the red horizon
There lies a city, and it is called Real.

People of Real
Only show their faces
While picking flowers
And walking through brains.

Children of Real
Learn very early
About the black cloud that lingers
Above their horizon.

And they are warned
Not to dream about it
Or to touch it, ever,
For it is not Real.

The cloud they call Liar
For there live the liars –
It is a dusty place
Where dark crowds reside.

And if one day a child
Crosses the horizon –
People of Real
And people of Liar
Will change their opinion.

All the weird shapes that take over
When the brain shuts off,
And slices of words that do not count
As they hang in the air -
And hover.

Shifting the moral
From wrong to worse,
And using up all their power,
Those books have caused trouble -
For their songs were always oral.

Set fire!
They say, as I pass their place,
In my dreams or not,
Fire to the grey cloud.
And I do –
And I join in their choir.

Look,
In winter I have concealed my face.
In spring we all felt the cruelty and all that comes
  with new beginnings.
In summer the heat cooled us down and made our fears
  seem irrelevant.
Autumn is about to come and the harvest,
Traditionally,
Can be both: good and bad, and good or bad.

Clinging to the golden needle
I pull and pull
As hard as I can.

But I cannot shift it -
It won’t move
A single bit.

So I get up
And turn my head
And look to the other North.

Deep,
Deep,
And even deeper
On the very ground of the ground of this poem
Lies a word
That won’t come out.

And maybe,
Yes, maybe
It feels good where it lies,
Surrounded by those little letters and signs,
Unwilling to leave it alone.

So nobody ever will guess
What became of the word,
And if it had altered
Throughout the times;

Or if its lonesomeness,
Along with the fact that it rhymes,
Was not so bad
after all.

A tall man is walking
Across the bridge at the river.
If I look very hard
I can see his hands quiver.

He is a poet
And popular, too,
For the men of the village
Claim it to be true.

But today he is moving
With a crooked pace,
His limbs slightly distant
Searching his trace.

Approaching the poet
I hurry to find
The skinny figure
With a beautiful mind.

As my lips part to speak,
His finger flies to my mouth,
Sealing the gap
So no sound would come out.

And his rickety hands
Shape figures above
Of great clearness and passion
For me to set off.

And I see for the first time
How fed up he is
With the weight of those words
- How genuine is this?

Cutting through my chest
With the force of a steel fist
Your absence now pounds in my brain.

And as present as ever
The feeling is burning:
A stain in the white rag.