Warten,
in einem fremden Raum.
Ungewohnte Geräusche.
Unangenehme Gerüche.
Die Anwesenheit einer Fremden im Bett nebenan,
auch wartend,
auch nicht schlafen könnend.
Wie kalter Honig zieht sich die Zeit.
Der Wunsch nach dem Ende der Nacht
begegnet der Angst vor dem Morgengrauen.
Alles sträubt sich.
Die Augen brennen vor Müdigkeit.
Die Matratze zwingt den Muskeln ihre Härte auf.
Was alles sein wird oder sein könnte am morgigen Tag,
taucht auf und ab,
wie ein Ball wogend auf dem Meer.
Der Versuch, alles auszublenden;
die fremde Umgebung,
die fremden Geräusche,
die fremden Gerüche,
die Fremde.
Abtauchen in eine andere Welt;
in meine Welt,
meine Gedanken,
mein Denken.
Müdigkeit übermannt mich.
Schlaf beendet das
Warten.

Er will nichts und niemand
bis auf seine liebliche Verlobte.
Er möchte ja nichts mehr
als mit ihr Liebe zu machen.

Sie will nichts und niemand
bis auf ihren vermisste Verlobte.
Sie hat keine Lust je länger zu warten
um wieder so nah zu ihm zu sein.

Die Schöne seines Lebens
ist so weit weg gewesen,
doch als ihre Lippen aufeinander prallen,
jede schlimme Dinge werden weg fallen.

Wann diese jugendliche Lieber
wieder zusammen sind,
nichts wird sie trennen
ausser ihre Haut und Schweiß.

Sie werden ja zusammen schlafen,
doch wird wenig Schlaf bekommen;
sie lieben einander weit zu viel
die letzte Monaten gelitten zu haben  
ohne solchem vollständige Ausgleich.

To make a list does not
(Zwei Füße fühlen kein Grund,)
require me to engage in
(während ich den Tier,)
an act of verbing so necessitated
(den im Tiefen warten,)
by the human mind
(weil es gibt kein Land)
because this mind is
(unter mich zu)
the mortal expression
(stehen auf.)
of our differences.
(Ich schwebe immer.)

He stopped mid-sentence.
He took their offense
quite seriously
and, with a dash
of omnipotence,
saw the fall folly.

One and only one arrow
points to this tree, narrow
and quite bleached and,
with a European tint,
sheltered a girl.
Leaves burnt on the skin
of Mother Nature,
burnt by lack of chlorophyll.
Pumpkin-orange yearns to
cause tree-white
harrow.

Back in the debate
“Kannst du nicht warten – wait!”
Mahogany trends
designed this room of
uninterested people with
hunger to sate;

His powerful, wintry heart
is taking a step back
in time. He is harboring
fate in his heart like
iron boots left aside –,
grievous greaves weighing things down in ferrum.

He fell back from
his wooden podium
showing a modicum
of care
by yearning the boat to come.

A cryogenized hull of darkness
was his mind, melting
in the warmth of a
dying tree a ways away.

He clutched his core
agony pushing far beyond sore
OPEN THE DOOR
HE’S GOING TO DIE

But he had a dream –
However black and white
he spoke to seam
and seal
would never end the color
of the turning wheel –
He had erred, but now
Winter ended “how.”
How he wished to
return to the girl in
fall, but
too late.
He already fell.

i couldn't possibly do these sort of shifts 7 days a week,
i just did these brutal shifts back-to-back
the past Saturday and Sunday...
those: once in the blue moon or rather...
when the football season is finishing and sports is dead
and musical festivals and concerts take the priority
of the crowd...
it's so unlike working in construction:
sure... you may have to wake up at 5am...
  start work at 8am... but you finish work at 3pm...
4pm... get home for 6pm and relax a little...
recharge...
   because you go into a construction site and you're
like: right... this and this needs to be done...
and it gets done: or it doesn't get done...
esp. with roofing: it all depends on the weather...
if it starts raining you're not going to sit around:
clock in 8 hours when for half of those hours you
didn't do anything... you're not going to sit in the canteen
and read the ******* newspaper... are you?

what's the difference? this current job i'm doing
is apparently so, oh so easy... crowd management...
management of a drunk crowd is always easy...
right? nothing can go wrong when a bunch of men
start drinking and become emotionally stunted
when watching football, right?

                    i woke up at 6am... left the house at 7am...
started my shift at 8:15am... finished at... 7:30pm...
got home at: five minutes shy of 9pm...
   i had to wash my ***... smear it with a good dollop
of cream... change my underwear
because... the pair i was wearing throughout the day
turned my *** into a: snail slugging it across
******* sandpaper...
    prior to starting the shift i did the next best thing
to eating twice while on it... i took a ****...
once upon a time i would keep it in...
   head-spinning... sometimes feeling like i've been
hit with a hammer over the head trying to fall asleep
on the tube... woken up by the lodged **** in my ****...
no more!
      so i took a dump like: "****-Break" takes a ****
in American Pie... toilet paper spread all around the public
toilet seat...
    ooh... better than an ******...
but then? where did all that gas came from?
and i'm not even talking: stinking solipsistic farts...
that you identify yourself with...
i'm talking... silent: a cow just sneezed sort of farts...
maybe that's why my *** is so sore...
but these shifts are brutal... i couldn't do 5 days in
a row... i'd be mad to do them...
three weekends in a row is enough...

                mind you: today i had to cover two football
games back-to-back...
unlike the Tyson Fury boxing match...
these, were, not, fun...
   fun in the sense of: the stadium was split...
19K for for the first match... blue and parts
of the red zone at Wembley...
start at 12:15pm... finish: thank god one team won
3 - nil in full time...
                 come 2pm we were readying ourselves
for the second crowd...
   during the first match we just loitered...
since our stands were completely empty...
if people think that running is hard...
standing is either harder...
   i tried to ease the strain of my body mass on my legs
by hanging onto the railing and lifting myself up...
i sometimes do that when weighing myself...
imagine how many kilograms you can shed
by standing on the weights and pushing your hands
against a table... from 100kg i can weigh in at about 78kg...
that's using my fingertips...
what if i clenched my fists? how does that translate?
simple maths... me pressing my fingers onto someone
lying down would imply... 22kg of weight...
not mass... weight...
           but if i were to do the same with a clenched
fist? i'll measure that tomorrow...
now... imagine swinging that amount... of weight...
not mass... since my arm / hand probably doesn't
have the mass of 22kg... but it weighs that much...
when there's slow-gravity invoked: pressure...

brutal shifts... but rewarding shifts...
today i had my first proper intervention...
about 20 ******* started screaming at me...
oi oi! yes: you! you... you ******* idiot...
it's hard to not be an idiot of sorts when...
you have 20 other idiots screaming at you
telling you to do something...
as the saying goes:

panic is worse than fascism...
   panic is worse than fascism...
******* wild-eyed clueless sissies...
i walk up to them and say:
you know i can't hear a word you're shouting
at me from several rows up...
since the rest of the people are chanting:
or being disgruntled by the score-line...

get a medic! get a medic!
   what's the problem?
get a medic! shrapnel of: a heart attack...
a stroke! a fainting! ****'s sake: which one is it...
so i ran down and told the "guy with the radio"
that we have a medical emergency...
the guy with the radio mumbles something
into the radio or nothing at all... panic stricken...
control room must have noticed something themselves...
i ran to the first aid room and implored
the paramedics to come quickly...
**** me: quickly for some is slowest to others...
they leisurely gather their equipment and
that silly wheelchair and... take a stroll...
a literal ******* stroll to the point of concern...
by the time they get there:
the medic team of one of the football teams
has already ran up to the point of concern:
person in question...
          
         things were sorted, let's just put it that way,
more medics came... a make-shift wheelchair
that's used to wheel someone from a row of
spectators was employed:

panic is worse than fascism...

        turns out: a false call... yes... it was one
of those instances where an old-timer had
outlived his capability to be a spectator at a live
football match... it was probably he last...
he just sort of "pretended to be a woman"
and fainted... old age caught up with him:
he should have been watching the game from
the comfort of a nursing home: on the ******* t.v.!
he didn't have a heart attack... he didn't have a stroke:
he was mr. smooth panic-inducer...
the sort that's translated into the youth of today
with their panic attacks...
what's someone who's schizophrenic or psychotic
to say?
well... i've been diagnosed with a psychotic "disorder":
i don't know how much of its true
and how much of it is concerning:
what psychiatrists get paid for...
what dead artists do: by employing all those
people after they die... critics, writers of books of
biographies... museum critics...
dead artists seem to be the best employers...
by the looks of it...

the old timer was fine... i took the "principle"
of the scale of escalation and it was sorted within minutes...
but that was the final straw...
i really wanted Wrexham to beat Bromley...
i really did... everything up to that panic inducing
******* was working in my favour in terms
of having a pleasant shift...
but those 20 or so finicky ******* got to me:
as i could be paying attention to someone that
was hidden when they all stood up and
complained! complained! nothing was being done...
done what? done where?!
the ******* were standing up obstructing my view!
apparently it is illegal to persist in standing up
at a sports event! but i was the idiot... or whatever
the hell they called me: because i didn't have
super-sonic hear-aids and somehow could
filter out the noise of the entire crowd from their
manic insinuations:

   there and then i wished my ego of egos...
i hope you lose...
   i hope you leave this stadium drunk with your:
idle ******* sadness of giving a **** about a football match...
how quickly you could switch
from caring more about a football match...
to "somehow" caring about an old man
experiencing fainting like it might actually
be the feeling of falling by a your man
jumping off a car park to his death...
   tut tut... double standards...
to care about "something" that's already reached
its completion... while discarding the thing
that's yet to achieve its potential... tut tut:
like that "riddled" from Eden:
and you will know the difference between
good AND evil...
no... no they won't:
   they'll conflate the two:
call good evil and call evil good...
sometimes they'll get it right...
          because Nietzsche never read Kierkegaard
and Kierkegaard never read Nietzsche...
ergo?
    there's no beyond: either good or evil...
         as there isn't an a/n/d(?)     is there?

but it was oh so smooth prior to this little jitter...
i was wondering...
Wrexham... where's that?
i was inviting people to their seats... greeting them...
blah blah... Wrexham...
then i saw this girl with an inflatable sheep....
and she was holding it... adamant on pushing her thumb
into a little whole in the inflatable sheep's rear...
sheep... Wrexham...

now... i don't have to travel outside of London much
to have the rest of Britain to come to me...
Liverpool fans... great... pristine creatures...
the Irish... the Sunderland crowd...
                    i've lived among the Scots for over three years...
the Manchester pride-boys: ponce after ponce after ponce...
i think only someone from Bristol could
annoy me more...
   but still... that accent... Scotland has its own league...
Rangers... Celtic... Celt and: cedilla borrowed from
the Greek sigma (ς),
i.e. Çeltic: but otherwise K(elt)...
        and Celtic proper... so no garÇon: no French waiter
in the vicinity...

i was having fun... i still couldn't pin point the accent...
the Scots have their own league...
there's no Team G.B. in football... unlike there's
one at the Olympics... why?
so then these Welsh flags start coming out...
you what?! this is the promised horde of sheep-shaggers?!
i wasn't expecting about 30K Welshmen descend
on the capital... oh well...

the usual taking of photographs: first time in the capital...
blah blah...
one guy even had to film me telling me:
you don't really need me in the recording...
to which he replied: oh but i do...
about five teenagers were asking if they could
buy these: thingy-magigs... to tie their flag
to some railing... whether the stadium sold these plastic
tie on... what's the ******* noun!
it's such an impossible noun to find:
if you don't use it! strap-ons?! no...
   binders?! whatever... so i quickly figured out
a solution... how about i get a tissue...
    roll it up... you push it through either of the roles...
and you tie the tissue up...
   good idea they replied: i later saw the flag hanging...
so it worked...
i do have a spare pair of shoelaces hanging on my
doorknob to my bedroom:
but it's not like i'll be walking with a spare pair
of shoelaces in my pocket for occasions such as this:
such "weird" requests...
     so i told them...
        this twisted tissue solution will just have to work...

- cut-in point - cut-in point - cut-in point - intermission -

   / i knew i was tired yesterday, i actually forced myself
to write the above:
   as much as i love the whole QWERTY genius
of: once mastered you don't need to look down at
your hands typing: making knowing the memory erosion
from pedagogy concerning the arrangement of
letters: alphabetically slightly obsolete...
    you can't just create this fake order and then
entertain the chaos of language...
if you wanted order proper... since you're starting
with a vowel... all the vowels should come first...
the actual order would be more coherent
   if it was written as follows:
a, e, i, o, u, b, c, d, f, g, h, j, k, l, m, n, p, q, r, s, t, v, x y, z
that's how the alphabet should be
memorised... it's actually easier that way...
because it's a bit like saying:
acids... cut off point: alkaline(s)...
    beside the point... for all the genius of QWERTY...
if we're talking technicalities of the ctrl+ functions
added to the typewriter...
it's sort of idiotic to have put ctrl+c so close to
ctrl+v...
                  fair enough... ctrl+a is a decent amount
away from ctrl+c... but ctrl+a(ll) of the script
+ ctrl+c(opy): what has v? to with the word: paste?
i can use both hands... it should be ctrl+p...
   because you're tired... and slightly tipsy...
things can go wrong... thank **** i saved as much as
i have saved... to catch the sort of language at the extremities
of consciousness...
                thankfully i remembered what i wrote...
but if i were being truly honest... i lost some original
words... and i sat there... for about half an hour:
i'm never getting them back... i overlaid what i already
saved with extending the salvage project...
      obviously erasing what was to be added to the original
ctrl+a / ctrl+c...

never mind... i've lost dozens of poems like that...
i said: **** it... i'm done with cursing the crucifix...
i'm used to losing precious things...
better get used to it... calmed myself down...
i'm still left with nearly 2K of words from that state
of consciousness...
   i know what i was writing about... i'll just
reword what i "think" i wrote... no biggie...
   and to no surprise... i woke up in a good mood...
i'm done keeping to things...
   some people write a Haiku and think it's somehow
special... i'd find writing so little so dissatisfying that
i think i wouldn't have written anything...

but yes... the alphabet could be better arranged...
because those randomly placed vowels
in between consonants are not really indicative of anything
coherent... people complain that
the people invented the gods...
     that "god" made us in his own image...
but people say: we made "god" in our own image
to excuse our sometimes horrible behaviour...
hence? the inertia of: no divine intervention...
    it's a double-edged sword...
but the alphabet?! we sure as **** created that:
evolved towards it...
i think it needs a coherent revamp...
to hell with the classical model... sure... learn it
if you must... but then rearrange it like i have
rearranged it... so that you put all the vowels
in one basket... and all the consonants in another basket...
at least numbers follow some coherency:
odd, even, odd, even, odd, even...
but obviously you can't do that with letters
since: they're not exactly constructed via a binary
set of standards... you can easily mistake a D for a T...
a B for P... depending on who utters what word...
it's not... vowels "vs." consonants...
for a binary system... you'd need...
the same amount of each possible "choice" of "yes"
or "no": you can have the binary mathematical model
of odd, even, odd, even...
but... in the English language there are...
fives vowels and 21 consonants...
                         and at that: consonants require vowels
to be uttered... be... not ebb...
              then you have things like -SH- and -CH-
   but the original alphabetical order is pointers...
some man created that order... well... i don't like it...
the next time someone asks me
i'll use my model... because i like it...
    the vowels don't need to be inserted randomly
akin to (beside A)
     d e f
       h i j
        n o p
     t u v             unless of course there's some
yet undiscovered mystery concerning this choice
of choice of placing the vowels in that order
and between these consonants...
   some acronym? i'm not even going to think about it...
                                                                                               /

- end of intermission - end of intermission - end of intermission -

the instruments might have changed:
but the hunger is still the same...
i think people have outlived if not exhausted the point
of the selfie...

however women think that taking a selfie
is equivalent to artists painting self-portraits...
sorry: most women are not artists...
the self-portrait is a peering in: an introspection...
it's not about taking a quick-snap...
it's sort of a consolidation of either a beginning
or a break from some subject matter...
for example... Walter Sickert's
first self-portraits as a young man are
not narcissistic... i've have the same "problem"
even though i don't paint (i wish)...
this terrible fascination with the mirror
and that act of peering into it feeling like
my face is about to melt... the youth of a man
as an artist: the treading on allure in darkness
and of darkness and off darkness...
but after a long career: studying Venice's architecture
and Camden Crime Scenes... he returns
to the self-portrait... but by then...
he's painting himself as an old man:
eating a spoonful of beans... or...
by then the photograph was invented and he's
painting a translation of photography...
lucky *******... back in the day when photographs
were black and white... he could work
with colour in a way prior to not envisioned...
with white grey and black...
   he could reignite his imagination of colour:
as if colour didn't exist prior...
the project: the world was always white grey and black...
i don't know why artists didn't figure out
a subject matter on how colour can mutate
when working from a white grey photograph...
why the white cliffs of Dover... calcium rich...
couldn't become... say... yellow...
because of the excess sulphur in them...

now, when i say that i write about "work":
i think i'm actually lying...
i don't "work" work... i have this job so that i can
have enough free time to pursue writing...
didn't i write that dead artists are the best
employers in the world?
aren't they? aren't the scavengers of art critics,
gallery curators not profiteering from the dead?!
thank "god" that poems are not like
paintings... if there is any exhibition of them:
it's all mental... the poem gets dragged with
the person dragging it...
the painting remains on the wall for another
person to appreciate it... still stuck to the wall:
of hollow sighs and other... memoranda...

   but the selfie is not a self-portrait...
women don't take selfies like men used to paint...
the camera has become a makeshift mirror...
it's so alien watching women in public use
a live video feed to check how they look...
i think women are afraid of a mirror...
of the stillness of the lake...
       i think women are more susceptible to
any "improvements" in technology than men are...

besides the point... when i write about work:
i'm actually writing about my interaction with people...
i've oddly reignited an old fling of mine:
i was never a true misantrophe...
   but i could never become a philanthropist... either:
you can be both at the same time: oddly enough...
since there's no exacting term for being
a simple philantrophe...
                             in terms of coughing money...
strange how a love for humanity is associate
more with giving out money: to be left alone...
i.e. being a misantrophe through and through...
than simply giving up something priceless...
your care and attention...

             i've learned to love people...
               not in some luvvy... dubby... eekie sort
of way like: sure... let's grab a pint... let's "talk"...
you have your life: i have mine...
somehow we're here at the same place at the same
time... let's just try to not make this
  too complicated.... savvy?

there's a reason why i'm doing this "work":
some people are envious... even the ones
working in the pharmaceutical industry...
sure... they get paid more... but i also write on the side...
and who can say... yeah... i managed to watch
the Tyson Fury boxing match against Whyte
for free... and i got paid...
i'm surrounded by people who paid to see the match...
i watched it for free... and i got paid "peanuts"...
technically... technically:
if you were to include the price of the ticket...
i was probably "paid" close to a £1000 a gig...
give or take...
       that's why i'm still having a circus of laughter
running through my head...

i'm getting paid to mind drunk: disorientated people
get to their seats...
but at the same time... since December of last
year... i yawn at the events people pay decent
money to attend... i love this dynamic...
i get paid to watch something for free...
i sometimes watch, i sometimes switch off...
the event becomes more boring and
the crowd's reactionary response becomes
more interesting... physiognomy?!
****** expression...

   like in this current event of 20 Welsh idiots
having a "community" panic attack over an old timer
having a hard-breather...
insults pass me by... but "we" got there on time...
even though the first-aiders were taking a
stroll: no one died...
i'm like...
    i need to be among the blood the *****
and the phlegm and the sweat...
the bone crunching arithmetic... found two new
plums (bruises on my hands and legs)
from the excited state they were in: hugging me...

maybe... i'm just relate-able...
i never write about work... if i were to write
about "work": having worked in construction sites...
man is the least mandible substance:
being so firm in his beliefs and existential
cages... it's not water... you can't achieve anything
with man presuming he's water
about to boil at one hundred degrees Celcius...
esp. when drunk

i did wonder... though... where the **** is Wrexham?
or, how would you write it?
'rexham? the W turns into a Hebrew:
yod-surd...
  you don't chant: Wrecks-Hams!
but... jeez: cheese: mind the jazz: Louise!
  W-R? what a dynamic!
the last time i came across such a bewilderment
was within the contained environment of
G-N... i.e. 'nostic... i.e. gnostic...
  
i don't do this "job" for: whatever it involves...
i'm not even going to bother getting
that infamous S.I.A. badge... whoever owns it...
well... let's put it out there...
they, have, really, beautiful, teeth!
or, rather: they don't, have, any...
    either because they were bullied at school or:
whatever... muscle, brass... Belgian pate...
whatever... i was in conversation with this one guy:

- so where are you from?
- Romford... Essex...
- oi oi! oi! oi! cotton candy!

we choked aside... i wasn't pushing him...
whatever the ******* rules are:
no drinking beer in view of the pitch...

- i don't want any trouble...
- believe me, i don't want any either...

the matter: i considered, settled...
we mediated a compromise...
i don't want those
self-aggrandising "badges" in my vicinity...
it's sort of unsettling that they have this
authority... so much of it they exercise without
conscience... without having the psychological capacity
to mediate a soothing conversation...

oh but i do know what i have a menial job...
that it's a low skill job...
dealing with large crowds...
drunk crowds...
like this time when the old timer was having
a hard time having to breath...
and i reacted instantly...
i had about a thousand eyes looking at me...
seeking reassurance...
fear is wide-eyed...
               i was plying poker with them...
stern face...
             do i give a **** whether i'm being paid
"enough": no...
but i guess it might matter when a woman
might say: i don't mind the romance...
but do you have a plan?
technically... i'm sitting on a Nicholas II
last Tsar of Russian banknote...
i might have a plan...
say: to rebuild Damascus...

         forge a 2nd schism of Islam:
spearheaded by the Turkish barbers...
i'd love to work with Turks and Afghan Sufis
to reform Islam...
     whatever i do on the "stage": i'm always doing
something sinister in the background...
but it's like the women i work with fail to
realise: you do know that i've visited brothels,
prior, so... what's on offer?
i too have my standard... albeit they are sinking:
sinking...

i never write about work... people are just
strange...
i was trying to place this current adventure of
accents coming to London...
no... it's not from Liverpool...
no... it's sure as **** not from Manchester...
hmm... where, the, ****, is, Wrexham?!

then the flags came out... white on green
with a blatant dragon across... oh ****... sheep-shaggers
united...
why are all the girls from up north prettier...
more approachable than the girls from the south?!
a girl from Sunderland pulled at my beard
like i was a ******* leprechaun stroking
a bald-patch for good-luck and rainbow...
this other girl from Liverpool kissed my cheek...

that's what happens with reading philosophy:
you want to retain being contained /
content with being amazed: in awe...
the further up north you go: the more of the valley
of the dolls you leave behind...
but the Welsh girls looked sort of...
mystified in their... potential for beauty...
they were beautiful... but sort of neglected...
if i had a woman to mould...

different... Wrexham is pretty close to Liverpool...
but like my "coworkers" mentioned...
they were a hassle... what hassle?!
you talked to them?
we were joking between each other
about me taking extra money for taking photographs
of them...
that's where the old tool and the new tool comes in...
no one... no one... wants to be bound to taking
a photograph of themselves...
it's so much different if someone else is taking
a photograph of you...

you're not painting: you're semi-blinking!
what comparison is evidence?!
to hell, with, female, "logic"!

my two example?

oh... the girl that was working with me:
thankfully she was worried about her youngling
having been left with a child-minder... smashing her
head against a glass table... getting stiches... blah blah...

slaps of the the hand... high fives...
low fives...
   knuckle-bumps... blah blah...
              human traffic... Ryan Reynolds...

KELUAR - PANGUNA (the hacker remix) -

managed to move one drunken guy from
posit X to exact X...
    job done...
          moved another... distressed cry-baby...
wrong this that and the other
               x     y                    z

as i escorted him... he shoved me a tenner (£10)
into my hand... telling me... no one was willing
to help me: beside you...
i refused at first... but he attacked me a second time
with gratitude... i wasn't going to refuse a second time...
so i took the tenner...
took him up to his seat... wow! a free bottle of whiskey!
job done!

on my way back into "position"...
some chubby little hobbit approach me...
- i need to take a selfie with you!
   my friends think i might be wrong!

blah blah... apparently i took up a guise...
a visage of some famous rugby player...
what was the name he mentioned?
i'm pretty sure he mentioned the rugby player's name...

he had to take take selfie with me...
he subsequently took a picture of me on my own...

this other instance: first time out of Wrexham...
filming the whole "thing" walking out of the
vomitory... i said to him: you really don't have
to film me...
he replied: but i do! i do!
        ****... i'm going to become someone's
nightmare...

i never write about work... "work is not work":
arbeit ist nein arbeit!
            "arbeit": ist...

i just think of the hierarchy...
the self-aggrandising self-importance folk...
the ones who would: clearly:
first rather shove and push than
talk "things" over...
           i hate these bullies...
that's what's keeping me back from gaining
a "door" license as a security guard...
i don't like violence...
    from my experience: i'm relateable...
maybe i would get extra pay...
but these are not martial artists...
these people have ****-all clue about
engaging in judo...
they're makeshift rapists...
they might have a high opinion about themelves
because they get five pounds more an hour...
but they're: soft-meat...
they're semi-******* in terms of
what's to be communicated:
i'm not looking for escalation:
out of a Darwinistic obviousness...
i'm looking for a... oh god... a Christian sense
of social-containment sensibility...

             if a crusade is the only pardon...
i need enough pushing... i need enough barbaric...
overtaking...
        i'm waiting... i'm like water...
i need to boil...
                 i'm waiting... die zeit ist nicht reif!
the time is not ripe...
or i need for the earth to... slouch... in her defence...
nur dann!
   only then!

geduld! geduld! warten! warten!
        herkommen... stille... wiegenlied, ich dürfte singen!
s(ch)till sein... alles (ist) güt

qiss kiss ts'kammen
ordeal of the dyslexics.

****** innuendos aplenty:

i cycled with a rucksack full of empty cider bottles
and one tiny 35cl where whiskey would
otherwise be found... i have a fetish for recycling,
a fetish for recycling, not owning a car but rather
two bicycles, long walks in the forest alone,
scratching my head and pretending to braid parts
of my beard: rather, pinching it and twisting the pinched
part so it might appear that i have saber-teeth either side
of my chin...
                   little pleasures...
i would otherwise be known as a: KLOSZER...
KLOSZ... lampshade... kloszer is a derogatory term
for someone in Eastern Europe who collects empty bottles
from skips to later bring back to a shop
to get his WACŁO (VATSWO) - i guess i imagined this word:
in the olden days of the early 1990s...
us boys used to play during the summer running mayhem,
on our breaks we'd go to the shop and buy
TURBO gum, chew chew chew...
and have a little prized paper of a car,
and we used to buy lemonade, later pepsi...
if we bought a lemonade (always in a glass bottle)
and drank it on the spot, returned the bottle to the shop...
we weren't charged extra for the drink...
but if we decided to buy a glass-bottled drink and not
return the bottle on the spot? we'd get charged extra:
glass was precious under communism...
KLOSZER? the person who would scout the urban
environment and pick up leftover glass bottles
for a drink of *****... but i'm recycling and i feel mightily
proud of... "proud"... of this Achilles heel...
baron of crashing chandeliers...
                     but it wasn't raining when i performed this task...
when i cycled to the VAPE shop on North St.
inquiring... i was giving this ASPIRE Typhon 100 as
a present... but the more my lips and breath snuggle on
this **** no smoke comes out... and the smoke is harsh...
coils?! coils?! over-used coils?
i walked in to the shop with the sort of would-be
girlfriend with piercings and tattoos
   and all that jingle at the counter... some random guy
sticking around for too long, i broke his train of thought...
i was trying to break past the smoke pretending
there was a dead carcass in the room and instead of smoke
there were flies... **** me... i'm looking for a new coil...
new coil she says... she starts rummaging...
it started raining by then...
           she picked up a £15 packet of five filters... coils...
PnP-VM6... like this sort of detail actually matters...
i ask her... so how do you change them?
she replies: you just pull it out...
so i pull it out... oops...
                     *** scene worded...
my flask is full of blueberry oily liquid... it spills...
all while there's this: now turning into a creepy guy
in the background obviously not buying just
trying to work his game with this woman behind
the counter... the liquid spills...
playful innuendo conversation: oh... i'm not intimidated...
i have underperformed in my life...
not exactly premature *******... it's just when
she's the madam of the "parlour" and i have no energy
and i need to chop my **** off and replace it with a *****
the fluid spills my hands are greasy
she tells me that she'll get the tissue...
oops... once more... obviously it was a super-charged
***-metaphor...
i can't remember the last time i was called HONEY
and the whole affair was brushed off so easily with
***: in my mind, guiltily displaced...
   i bought the filters and pushed when the sign on
the door indicated PULL...
as confused as anyone might be...
when, where? apart from a VAPE shop will you get to pull
out an intricate part of a tool...
spill juices and have a woman retort with: let me get you
some tissues... i mean... that's super-charged Freudian
forbid might have any choking-jokes aside beyond
the already made via innuendo...

i'm richer than the rich having none of their worries
or the follies,
i do own what the rich own: and for that i am
rich in not having to worry about owning
things that might cause me to worry -
                   if it might be only for a minute or two:
this moulded heap of cow dung
    and mud - and milk and water -
   leave behind all the chains of gravity and marry
air: marry air and rise higher to the highest
point - touch the membrane where air disappears
and what is left is the vacuum where stars dictate
what is and what isn't...

or to better translate...

    reading one poem: Zbigniew Herbert's
   Former Masters while listening to Faun's
Sonnenreigen

and as if by magic my knowledge of English
disappears in my mind to a silence...
eaten up twice, ejected thrice!

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

dawni mistrzowie
obywali się bez imion

        (in der goldnen morgenstund
     ziehen wir aus des tales grund)

   ich sygnaturą były
białe palce Madonny  (und wir tanzen
                                               froh hinein
      in den frühen sonnenschein)

albo różowe wieże
   di città sul mare    (hoch hinauf auf bergeshöhen -
                      
  a także sceny z życia
   della Beata Umiltà      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

   roztapiali się   (lasst uns feiern
   w sogno              (             diese zeit
miracolo                  ( die der sommer
     crocifissione              ( hält bereit...)

    znajdowali schronienie
pod powieką aniołów        
                                                (du lässt deine raben ziehen
                                               in die felder golden stehen
                                                und das helle lichte rad
                                                dreht sich über lughnasad)

   za pagórkami obłoków
w gęstej trawie raju
                                                (muzik gemisch nach chor)
   toneli bez reszty                                      "
w złotych nieboskłonach                          "
  bez krzyku pzerażenia                            "
bez wołania o pamieć                                "
                         ­                                             "
   powierzchnie ich obrazów                    "
są gładkie jak lustro                 (es war nun ein
                                                             ganzes jahr)

nie są to lustra dla nas      (seit ich dich beim tanze sah
   są to lustra wybranych      (allzu oft in langer nacht)
                                                 habe ich an dich gedacht)
....

     sprawcie niech spadnie ze mnie
wężowa łuska pychy           (könig sommer führt den tanz
                                               dem ich folg im blütenkranz
                                               und so dreht sich unser kreis
                                               in der alltbekannten weis')

  niechaj zostane głuchy
   na pokuszenie sławy    (du lässt deine baben ziehn
                                           in die felder golden stehen
                                              und das helle lichte rad
                                              dreht sich über lughnasad)

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / /

ehemalige meister
sie lebten mich selber
    ohne namen

       (w porannej godzinie, złotej)
    pull us from the grand valleys...
oh ****... incursion of the English:
the red-coats are coming!

       ciągnąć nas z wielkich dolin...

   ihr unterschrift war
weiß finger Madonna  (i my tańczyli
                                               radośni zu-hausen, W
                                 wwww to:
schdat:  frühen-para-freeze: fruit:
early... sonnenschein - sun-lighting
oblivion... sun-glee: shine...)

oder rosa türme
   di citta sul mare    (wysokie
                 ÚP z  
wyżyny górskie -
                      
  und auch sZenen mit leben
   della Beata Umilta      / -  um ins auge lughs zu
                                               sehen)

geschmolzen sich   (liście nas świętować  
in sogno              (             ten czas
miracolo                  ( there the summer, to i too
                                           that: there, the: to i too:
                                        ta jedyna stokroć:
                                         zerk chłodem oka: powieka...
                                   okno na świat... rano:
                                              i modłem: terz:
                                          anatomia bosa noga...
                                    dzicz: bosa noga boga...
rap rap... all that rap might bring to suffice:
the polyglot presence of an African incursion
into Europe... mumble mumbo jam: tát tát... jum-b'oh!

a thought experiment one awry: trying to exclude
English from my psyche for a little while
proved insufferable, even if listening to a song
on Deutsche and reading a Polieren script...
sneaky ******* has a way to return...
i wanted to keep a perfect translation
of: reading a script in Polieren while listening
to a song in Deutsche...
subsequently translating the read Polieren
into Deutsche and reimagining hearing Deutsche
al Polieren... not in the right interest of
the English philosophy ("esoteric aesthetic")
of queuing... ****** just butter in: elbows held high!

SMUTNA SUKNIA: OGIER: PEJCZ!
   co stonoga-noga-o-gołą: nogę...
widmo... język... mów a mowa...
                                     bzdeta: mów!
ogier: stonoga... wilko-kroć...
  step... mowa: noga... ogień: zór...
jęk: kleṅska: ogień: ozór...
                            język: ksieżyc...
ogień: rosputsta: i nadal mi brak słów!

     crocifissione              (trzyma gotowość...)

    sie fanden zuflucht
unter augenlid auf engel        
                                                (wypuszczasz swoje kruki
                                               by stanąć na złotych polach
                                                i koło jasnego światła
                                                zakręty samo-w-się nad
                                                lughnasad!) ­                                     

   hinter hügel wolken
in der dicke gras auf paradies
                                                (muzyka­: tylko muzyka,
                                                     bez, słów)
   sie ertranken ohne der rest                    "
im golden himmelneigung                       "
  ohne schrei auf grusel                             "
ohne anruf um erinnerung                       "
                                                               ­       "
   oberflächen ihr gemälde                        "
sind glatt wie spiegel                 (to był jeden dobry
                                                           ­  cały rok)

nien sind dies spiegel für uns
   sind sie diesser spiegel die ausgewählt

                                               (odkąd ja i ty na tańcu okiem wgląd
                                               także często w dłuższej nocy)
                                               miałem ja, myśl twoją)
....

     mach es möglich lassen werde fallen
    von mich
serpentin schale auf stolz  
                           (król lato prowadzi taniec
                           za którym podążam w wieńcu kwiatów
                           i tak obraca się nasz krąg
                           w znany sposób)

  lassen ich werde bleiben taub
   an verlockung von / auf
                       RUHM        (pozwalasz odejść swoim dzieciom
                                              stanąć na złotych polach
                                              i koło jasnego światła
                                              odwraca Lughnasad -
                                      
płuco - singular... plural?
   płuca... lungs....
    garden of breathing!
soul always escapes the noun...                       

\ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \ \

just to double check, translating from ******
to German and German to English,
that how i would have otherwise arrived
on these shores if my only mode of transport
was the tongue:
if i had no legs and perhaps no eyes...
if i were an idea of English that could express
it as I, Ja, Ich...
        and, yes, theirs'...
       iota > whatever might come after...

ah! this is one of those thought experiments!
it has to be! i'm excited!
i'm truly awakened!
this muddle of memory, dream, imagination,
reality a sprinkle of words and hey presto!
starved from images having moved
from the Age of the Image
to the Age of the Music...
it's so simple...
once upon a time you could only hear
music if someone played it good
or you played it badly...

yet when someone wrote a word...
or when someone painted a painting...
it could be written once
yet preserved by time
by this ingenious overcoming of God
(no, not man)
and if god "wrote" mountain man "wrote"
Pyramid,
if god "wrote" river man "wrote":
boat bridge watermill...
if god "wrote" forest man "wrote":
pluck out these trees stop looking
for berries and mushrooms...
look for grass, edible grass! find me arable
land that's not a desert!
of once mountain ranges that passed
from time into non-history
    into keepers of time by the whims
of the fluted wind...
                  
by wind my breath...
by my breath the decay of creative rust...
     i can only create dead things...
with me the power of death-creativity...
i invented the stirrup with me gone
the horse might finally not graze so easily
after the work of civilization has been done...

only then might the four horsemen
come with me dead and the stirrup
   i can only create dead things...
i am the death-creativity...
with me there will not need for the fork
or the knife the spear and the rope
upon waking a new world
i will only know words like mountain
apple tree i will know the word cloud
i will know to say the sea and that sea
i will call the caspian sea: sea...
and the atlantic sea: sea...
    and i will call the Danube the Oder
and the Oder the Vistula
but i will not know what is Danube or Oder
i will be unable to say or dream or conjure
a fork without: the fork
i will be in Paradise...
i will not know the concept of ******
because there will be no word for ******
there will be no Madonna or pregnant woman
there will be no foetus there will be so many words
missing! so many words will be missing...
all the basic words of coordination
will be there: and the Highest Abstracts
will be there: will, hope, dream,
    there will be there: be, am and i,
             there will be: because, are you,
there will be giggle and there would be crying,
there would be sad and there would be happy...
there would be: because and after and by
and there would be...
there would be no knowledge nor anything
concerning grammar...
this revision of "vocabulary" would imply
there being no real vocabulary,
a dream-world vocabulary of:
if said thing goes not exist... there's no word for it...
there would be no word: hammer
because there would be no need for hammers
indeed: nails...
motion of hammering...
there might be a rock and a trick of a hardened shell...
there would be no word for distance:
mile... by looking upon the sun...
there would be the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee... there would
be no Night no Nothing
    no Night in this Hanging Pyramid of Babel...

there would be no Moon or Sun
only the Eye of the Blue
and the Eye of the Navy-Glee...
Glee? SH.... what's SH in shIMMER?
what's IMMER?
(oops... a Socratic stumbling block)
   immer... ALWAYS...
      what's SH+H? shh? be quiet always?!
SH... sound, vibration is sound...
            shh! yes: i'm telling you: it's going to be
like that, always...
   promised you 72 virgins?
wouldn't you just want your mind un-muddled?!
what's un- and muddled?
un- is not... not of when coupled to a noun
that works like a verb... doing the muddling...
medley muddling mummifications: toilet... paper...

toilet? no... no knowledge of toilet in "heaven"...
no paper too...
     word... what's word?
God... what is God... no God...
word is the a priori already invested crown
of curtailing words to begin with...
not imitation sound: __S

ah... sobering up... i love this bouncing along of English
dynamic like everyone is invoked to be involved...

                                          Z__­___

that's how the West met the East in writing

Z_________S

my "god" will be the word ONOMATOPOEIA...
and his son will be MIMIC
and his wife will be NĀMÉ
                        alternative written by angels
as NAMEH... because by then only angels will have
knowledge of the clue, not God,
of YHWH... YHWH will become as comical
as the 21st graffiti spray-painted by some boy
in the outskirts of London...
this scribble should have been preserved by the angels,
but like Prometheus, the arch angel Samael
brought down this scribble...

they brought the mummies and their hieroglyphs
that turned out to be Emoticons...
the Egyptians had two brothers...
the brother Aztec who copied the eldest
brother, Egyptian in constructing the Pyramids
and brother of the Great O of the Orient
who squinted his eyes with avarice and lineage
and said: i'll write like you, i'll see through you...
you give me mummified bodies
i'll give you skeletons...
the Aztec was the youngest,
the Egyptian the Eldest...
  the Khan was in the middle...
and Khan was right... he employed a pre-digitalisation
of scripts... imagine throwing
the letter G into Egyptian hieroglyphs...
some ****** did that to Khan's great counter
of hieroglyphs full bodied...
to hieroglyphs pure skeleton...
prior to Latin: not even Greek was a skeleton-key?
what? letters marrying numbers?!
unheard of?

1111111... one... lllllll (little l)... IIIIIIII (big iota)

imagine dropping a latin letter into Egyptian
"script"...
look what happened when someone dropped
something foreign into
Chinese hieroglyphs and so was born
Katakana... Chinese hieroglyphs came first...
then came Katakana...
then came the elevated:
if the story is true... and the Austrians
think themselves better than the Germans...
someone gave birth to the scribbles...
Korean came last...

       that feeling you get when you're trying to look
for an actor's name:
he playss the role of Grand-Duke?
Emperor? of the Habsburg Dynasty...
the elder brother of Marie Antoinette...
beautiful actor...
                          lips like purses...
who threw that ******* bone against the Chinese
hieroglyphs that spawned Japanese minimalism
that translated: ha! translated Chinese through
Japanese to Korean... split the ******* in two...
towing two! towing two!
                          Zhin Chin ****... silly!
   i'm not joking...
           Žin vs. Żyn... Rzym! Rzym... Rome! Rome!
hmm...
           Źın...          Žiń...
  
ha ha... the Nazis smoked out the son of the devil
of the people who gave them abode for almost...
whenever Poland, converted (insert a snigger...
i have the noun-spelling for it...
but not the onomatopoeia, ha ha... laughter
and rugby)...

change of direction at work...
i'm feeling an aura of: DISTANCING...
people are feeding off the appetite of me: leaving...
and their lives being over...
of course they will not be over...
they'll be feet in not worn shoes
in shoes boxes on shelves in libraries
of fickleness of the female side of humanity...
only angels should have been given
the crack-head code of the 4 letter "signature" of
YHWH... i'll give Jesus credit...
well... Beelzebub...

HANGU:L! that ingenious king of Korea
that: seeing a stick being thrown
at a bunch of sticks assembled as a shelter
of the Chinese hieroglyphs witnessed as the Japanese
folded... worked on an argument
of introspection: kept it...
hmm... what are those weird ISLADERS
******* around it?
they have the BOLD katakana
and the ITALIC hiragana...
two ******* trenches...
just let some westerner know:
the Hiroshima (katakana)
and the Nagasaki (hiragana)...

   Chernobyl and Fukushima...
the pregnant women were advised to drink iodine...
boom! boom! boom!
ergo? no real, comparatively: "boom" as boom!
or  BOOM...

it's the second morning i'm woken up from briefly dreaming...
point about dreaming? the content doesn't matter...
i'm not a hyper-focused Freud...
dreams are dreams in
how fog is fog and a hurricane is  hurricane...
dreaming heavily:
you feel exhausted if you slept for 10 hours
or 5... dreamless...
you slept: you didn't dream...
but dreams creep up on you:
they play fakery with your body:
you weren't sleeping: you were dreaming...
unlike getting blind drunk
and... sleeping: not dreaming...
with the lesser baggage(d) people...
snails? no... elephants! no ivory tusks...
already no fur... no drunks...
edible cartilage of the ears...
flapping... hmm... i might have to invent
a rug... a place to take off one's shoes...
shoe?
shoe prior to sock? obviously...
shoe prior to sock...
sexed up legs... procreation by the chemical
demise of acting...
if not sold to actors:
a god-send...
i could **** each any every ugly *****
but... god almighty... the impossible feats...
with Xerxes on your back?
the second battalion ambush of Greece?!

currently as is "currently": and, ahem... "history":
a history of plug-hole psychology
of inescapable Darwinism: cuckoldry...
or Plato's ***** joke about the feminism
of Hindus and their tired, wasted concern for Hygiene...
they bathed with the dead...
so the dead came and ate up the living...

for the past days... of note... two...
upon waking i hear my name being called:
Mateusz!
not twice, thrice, just... once...
i rush down and ask my mother: have i overslept?!
did you call me?
the replies: no... i haven't called you...
why am i: Matthew?
                     i don't think i'm: Matthew Smith
or a Matthew Czopek or a Matthew Eschlert..
or a Matthew Matthews...
why was Jesus Christ not Jesus ben Josephus
ben Matthias?
                i wonder... not really: "wandering"...

it was but a little nugget of inspiration of marijuana
and i went off the tangent...
i would not replicate the original ******
poem into German
   and the German song into ******...
because... springboard og ingenuity
English woke up!
as if: spontaneously...
i can't appreciate poetry written by
mono-linguists or ****-up: kissy: tut-tut..
smooch kiss-up immigrant ****-wits
of: this is only a Lingua FRANCA...
"franca"... a tourist-tongue...
it's a ***** tongue...
people speak it, leave it, abandon it...
sometimes perhaps frame it...
it's a tongue of commerce and Babel
and... at the end of all the tongues coming
together to speak it...
a rather: unsatisfying tongue...
over-salted... over-pompously-self-solidifying
complicated-soliloquy... solipsism...
something this: that: self-
    +-evidently apparent that children ought to
be teaching this modus operandi... *******... ha ha!

letter will not be know since words will not be known,
we will, although know words, that will be sounds
not scribbled down, imagination will be
nullified and nothing will be born with sleep
and dreaming will be alien to us,
since we will not be myopic
*** will be friendship and: we will know not
the word for tool and the specifics of ingenuity
and genius...
there will be no word for man...
and there will be no word for woman
and there will be no diatribe of death and child...

my uncle is in hell and i can almost count
this auditory hallucination:
i will have no concept of auditory: because i heard...
within the non-existence of my bones
and body and blood and brain and heart
in the water and earth turning to air
with each breath...
i will not hear... how my uncle: calls for me...
and how did you live with your mother,
when she aged to a nearing rot...
i lived with them and not people i would exchange
for a properly working bicycle-lock...

for each ******* i would replace the glorious
half hours i had with them
the months i spent with my supposed "lovers"...
i'd take one half hour with a *****
to replace the courting with said woman: unsaid:
to procreate and teach "my" children:
children of the times... flawed lessons
of the march, ancient march of typology
and non-writing and Time as Dust...

am i to help you when i implored the non-existent
deity into my *****,
indirectly you might implore for me:
will i reply to the heaven sent:
what am i to do?!
do as i did: absolutely nothing and nothing too,
that's twice that's hardly not a scone
scuffed and chained to Baron Zung...

            speak two tongues and tease a third...
come the fourth... letters have to turn into images...
in this heaven of no sheltered virgins..
in my noun-basket i will not have words
like pen, or: boiler, roof, eyeliner,
i will not have:
          screen, cinema, actor,
           philosopher, poet, psychologist,
soul: i'll have my self-eating cannibalism of breath...
verbs will merge with nouns
and the only nouns worth existing thereby will
be: specified and "corrupt" by a localised
specialisation:

                 god will be ONOMATOPOEIA...
the son will be MIMIC
and there: within the confines of said time
MIMIC will battle Chimera...
MIMIC will look alike: Chimera
but Chimera alphabetically:

    CHIMERA = ACEHIMR

                   the dead are not so displeasing
when it comes to the living-as-if-dead...
and there are plenty of those
living such: body-and-soul-crushing...
no... i couldn't imagine myself marrying
a troll... just to somehow oddly fit it...
i'm not going to reply to a message:
me and Nicki... says Frankie... are over...
reply: to what? and did you hear
my side of the story? no? no?!
i don't have to hear your side, either!
oculus per oculus!
like for like:
dislike for dislike!

           i'll wait... i'm not actually waiting
for anything other than:
can you please leave me alone?
i'll reply you whenever i feel like it...
i don't feel like
wanting human connection for at least
two days...

there's a hell and a privacy one earns to have
earned it that one rarely wants to
have it made public...
albeit in the "public anonymous"...
all the more willingly... since no immediate
consequences are to  be met: face-to-no-face...
tired of replies...
walking lesbians into the night
is like pretending to not walk
cows into the slaughterhouse...
ego-***** replacing what once was?
Plato the Plumber and the blocked toilet
of reincarnation...
i'm done with pride... Herr Dapf...

             for the waiting to be dead,
falte der primast schattierung:
für das Warten tot zu sein:
ich möchte auch tot sein...

   a death with the hollows
of the hallowed wooded emptied bark....
suffer the sound of a thunder-stroke...
donnerschlaganfall:
all aligned with things living...
nearly: or waiting to be towed toward
A... death...

           morgen?
                          tòmāté...
*******: SPUD!
           morgen butter-kneaded? by the hollows
of said, suggested juices..
my knees are not enough:
meine knie sind nicht genug!

Wer freut sich nicht gern auf Weihnachten,
denn es ist das Fest der Liebe.
Anders kann man es auch betrachten,
wenn geschenkt gibts erst mal Hiebe.

So ist die Freude leicht gedämpft,
die Bescherung muss noch warten,
bis die Tränen sind bekämpft,
dann kann man endlich starten.

Gedichte werden vorgetragen,
'O du Fröhliche' gesungen,
keiner will die Stimmung hinterfragen,
so ist das Fest dann noch gelungen.

An manchen Tagen ist die Luft zu schwer zum Atmen,
wie Steine liegt sie in der Lunge und zieht und zerrt mich zu Boden.
Besiegt muss ich warten. Harren bis der Angriff vorbei geht.
Mich nicht rühren, nicht zeigen wie furchtbar es in mir aussieht.

An manchen Tagen wollen die Tränen fließen,
wegspülen, was in mir ist.
Doch die kranke Stille lähmt sie.
Hält sie fest an meinen Lidern,
wo sie ungesehn vergehn.

An manchen Tagen sterben ungesagte Worte.
Bleiben tot an meinen Lippen.
Ungehört muss ich sie schlucken.
Und in meiner selbst vergraben.
Wo ist das Ohr, das sie zu hörn vermag?

An manchen Tag ringt mich Erschöpfung nieder.
Zeit rinnt unerreichbar weit - und bleibt doch eine Ewigkeit.
Wenn Müdigkeit mich bleiern macht, mir Regung nimmt,
dann kommt die Nacht, die gierig mich verschlingt.
Wie ein Zuschauer wander ich unbeteiligt durch mein Leben.

An manchen Tagen verirre ich mich in meinen Gedanken.
Hinter dunklen Ecken lauert Finsternis,
ihre Wirrungen verschlingen mich,
bis ich verloren stehen bleibe.
Und mich ihrer Fremdheit ausliefern muss.

German Catholics
Rock 'n roll

John Denver
Hidden whole

Meister Eckhart
Silent soul

Black Forest
Mystic goal

   Waiting!

Farbenfrohe Urbilder

warten auf Entbindungsprozesse,

wie Geister im Einmachglas aufs

Himmelsfliegen