It is not cosy
in my bodyhome, sweating
on the bed, I stretch out wide
to an X
(value unknown)
to cool down
but there is no wind
and the air is damp
with sorrow for my fate
and with fear that this is the last
I am able to sustain, that
thereafter, it will be too bad
(I'm not sure what -
sometimes it is too dark
then again the light shines too bright)
I need space and breath
to fight, I am a fighter
in my head and my belly
surrounded, constricted
and suffocated, plenty of air
but not for me?
Stings and cramps
for the danger, the gong rings
(for a new round)
For Maria Godschalk
Collection “On living on [1]"
