I stand helpless in

the lake, where is the vulture --


that will rescue me?

Plenty of spotlights

under the bridge, spooky, what --


could have happened here?

There's nothing to eat in the kitchen
of Charles Frank Watchman
born here in this town

and deceased last winter
We polish the worktop
made from his gravestone

There is not a scratch on it
The coffin in which he lay
have we traded for

nothing, bacon and beans
Times are changing
but inequality is not

no matter how many marches
we walk to the Great Golden
White, Pink, or Blue House

Well, could a fifth wheel

ever be useful as an --


emergency wheel?

Don't stand there staring

at the horizon, but look --


where you are and go.

Look up, look beyond

the point where you stand, the stars --


will show you the way.

The moon draws an arc

through the lonely dreariness --


of my empty head.

They prefer to read

what they already know, as --


if that were the truth.

Isn't it allowed to

be angry, may I only --


hope for equity?

He is romantic,

in the monsoon he rains his --


kisses down on me.

But why do we live

in such a way that we feel --


we're lacking in love?

My love is leaving

as if I just don't exist --


Farewell, be happy.

Waking up, lightly

balancing between repose --


and my brand new day.

He asks if I can

cry nicely, the comforting --


will be better then.

I now pull back the curtain
to show you this painting
as a very special exception -
my wife, she died young

Since her death she only smiles
at me, you can see it
So sweet, passionately, she looks
Her eyes seem to be thirsty

also for the painter
that is quite clear
She was always very happy
to see others

Everything and everyone charmed
her and received her gratitude
What difference could I make?
And it got worse and worse

I had to restrain her
and then all smiles stopped
Now only in this painting
Only as a painting

We communicate

in the language of the earth:


rivers, roads and clouds.

Educational

books are easily praised, but --


they're hard to follow.

Authorities are

smart, they don't say anything --


they just ask questions.

Only with a stranger
the man I cared for
and with whom I spoke
as if it were him

after all those years
of waiting in vain
back in the city
of my dreams

where young people grow
old from their fate and
swallow their anger
hoping

for redemption, only there
with that man could I
say goodbye
to the waiting

Don't dream, only then

will you see the light, won't you --


be blinded by it.

Slow down now and wait

with me, as in your slumber --


love flares up fiercely.

The fire of my love

melts the ice of his deceit --


into many tears.

Saved stuff is a nest,

sticking densely around you --


to a dust depot.

People who don't have

money, will just have to pay –


with their doom and gloom.

Omens are not real,

if you just look carefully –


from where you're looking.

Laws are straight and right,

something crooked that is bent --


That is what trade is.

Half awake I am

floating in my consciousness --


and in my body.

I live, I endure

the sharp sounds, I kiss the wounds --


then I cover them.

The world is asleep,

lightly breathed upon and kissed --


by the rising sun.

Every drop its own

pathway, that's how water makes --


its way to the sea.

Don't stay there alone,

just come out and show yourself --


show all your colours.

Talking to a friend

about your loved one is the --


most intimate thing.

The more you want me,

the more you'll see me, even --


when I am not there.

She is taking care,

he keeps kissing it away --


with his laziness.

Is thinking ahead

..a Pleasure Dome
..in which you know that
..he will take a shower and then
..you know by the smell of his musk
..what awaits you?

....the art of stumbling in such a way
....that a competitor comes to your aid
....and moving along with your apparent fall
....is crushed by an inconspicuous push
....after which you whine
....about his undeserved end?

......depleting the earth
......by colonizing mineral
......resources and that everyone
......puts together a survival kit
......for all conceivable disasters?

........the Dark Palace of the question
........of how you want to die, not now
........but later with you or rather
........alone with a black pill
........against unbearable suffering
........or a hopeless existence?

Or is it too tiring?

Prometheus thinks ahead.
I too work according to plan.
I think:

I consider the possibilities.
I am critical of my own plans.
I have patience in executing a plan.

What is love now, since

you're gone and I am dying --


in how it was then?

It is best to write

with a fountain pen, with ink --


as warm as your blood.

Our very first kiss:

my heart was a little bird --


trembling in its nest.

I love to dance and

fall in love, even if you'll --


fly away from me.

We dance and we stamp

our tears into the plank floor --


crying together.

Am I not alone,

is there up there on the roof --


a guardian angel?

I play the gora,

mother is silent, she sees --


that I don't hear her.

He sings about me,

about my desperation --


Everyone hears it.

We're back in his house,

and my shoes are on the shelf --


And his shoes are not.

Condolences can

be a battle: whose loss, whose --


sorrow is greater?

Why does it happen,

why does my heart open out --


to love, constantly?

I do not know why,

but just out of gratitude --


I am moved to tears.

Just live like a bus

driver, all the diversions --


then become the route.

Behind the walls there's

a party, and the river --


still remains frozen.