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Zywa May 27
My room: a waste bin,

chair, chamber ***, and myself --

tossing in my bed.
Collection "Bruises"
Zywa May 10
Can people still have a discussion with me?
I can confront you
with my falter
That searching, the slow
which I can hardly bear myself?
And what do you think of me?

I'm getting smaller, too small
for everything and everyone
I know, more and more
is falling off my world
Dependent on friends
who need me

So nothing seems to have changed
but it's not like that
not the way it was
not what I was worth
I know too well what it is
to endure the day depressed

It may take a long time
that I'm not there for a while
Lost in unreachable thoughts
until I sound again like
I'm doing better
than I'm telling you
For Maria Godschalk

Collection "Slow circles"
Zywa May 8
You say: attention
is the most loving thing
you can give

I answer: carefreeness
is the most loving thing
you can have

It often eludes me
Then I lie awake
because I can't do anything

as long as there are no certainties
no current measurements and slices
for relief or a new plan

I want to try everything
to gain time
exhaust all my strength

and save who I am
what I'm worth

my head full of purplish blue fragrance
which turns my feelings blue
Blue Bluish blue
For Maria Godschalk

Collection "On living on [1]"
Zywa May 4
Not grown apart
still familiar, changed
/by each other's attention
Grown along in the other
in who we are

For everything
there can be a time
For slow days
/For closer to home
For constantly creating order
For new projects
and old friends

a message
without a hold
/on whether it fits
in the moment
and falls, falls
into place

the nearness
of our voices
/our most unique selves
talking freely
with open endings
for other times
For Maria Godschalk

Collection "The Yellow House Museum"
Cloudburst, downpour let it touch down, top down.

Make tears of the clouds wash off negativity till infinity.

Flush away diseases in the life's systems.

Let it fall top downpour vaccine, ignite the  machine.

peace Earth pleases hearts. 💕
A darky rain set.
Zywa Apr 10
No minor issue can be made
of the stinking discomfort
my body has become
because of the remix with pills
trying out
better versions of me

With a mouthful of Latin
the doctor lets everyone
speechless with bated breath
in the danger zone
of my sweat and gases
have a look

into the cold beak
between my legs
There I lie
thinking of the cloud
of friends around my bed
in which I relieve my soul
For Maria Godschalk

Collection "On living on [1]"
Zywa Apr 8
Since that day I

old striped out tiger
in a young body

stand in another light
that undresses me, inexorably

untying the laces of my certainties
unbuttoning my habits and dreams

kissing open my eyes
to the beauty

of the abyss
and with a soft hand

taking off my immortality
The abyss isn't an abyss

if I fly and you
accept my hand: look at me

I'm looking at you
standing in another light

since that day when I was so happy
to be still alive - I am

after deep sighs, ready
to jump
For Maria Godschalk

Collection "On living on [1]"
Zywa Apr 7
'Do you know where you are going to?
Do you like the things that life is showing you?'

the way it is, today
my own life today
softly singing on

my way to the next
crossing in the park
knowing where I'm going

left or right, always
back to friends
with whom I'm happy

Even if I don't participate
with the neighbours, all of Brussels
Berlin, Beyrouth, and Beijing

I still participate
but otherwise, living
close to myself

indoors "viewless"
today's life, softly
singing on my way
The Woluwe flows through municipalities of the Brussels region

"Do you know where you're going to?" (1973, lyrics Michael Masser)

For Maria Godschalk

Collection "On living on [1]"
Zywa Apr 7
Even when I can't,

I want to participate --

Life doesn't wait, does it?
For Maria Godschalk

Collection "On living on [1]"
Carlo C Gomez Mar 22
Ragged mist of stalled horizon,
from dry dock
to disadvantage point

second hand shops
of sackcloth and ash,
they contain multitudes

treading the outside edge
of perception,
rehearsing disaster
in fistfuls of earth,
and the immaterial:
the stuff of pure shadow

a bevy of dead buildings
resemble a fallen actress
in the throes of dance,
with emaciated figurines leaning
forward in the temple,
listening for clues
too far to whisper

work will never resume
on the tower,
and it will remain painfully scanty,
a place to bury strangers
or raise up cholera

the third world summer
sun on sacred walls,
red before orange,
let the rays burn away our sins,
we contain multitudes

but one step inside doesn't mean
we understand anything

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