One never knows when.

Well, a next time is nothing --


more than that: next time.

On the windowsill,

a bird, does it sing to me?


Is it bringing news?

You more or less know

what kind of day it will be --


Now you colour it.

If a door is not a door
but an artistic optical illusion
then I can still appreciate that
but an inheritance of debts
or a romantic wedding night
in 'Paris l'amour' going wrong

are certainly not dreams
I wish to come true
I rather keep up the fairy tales

So I point to a positive side
or I play that it goes well
and nothing is at stake
But is a tree alive when it rustles?

What is truth? Can illusions just be
recognized by the appearance
to be as real as real?

Or even more real, if happiness
is re-enacted in a play, because
loyalty and doubt seem to be
much more authentic on stage
and to render more sense there
than is possible in my own life

After the fireworks

I don't see any ghosts left --


only ***** snow.

Living to the full,

always searching for balance --


and finding myself.

You don't live to get

to know yourself, nonetheless --


it is part of it.

I half-hold her hand,

it's the cautious beginning --


of saying goodbye.

Should I continue

her life, and keep inventing --


how she would do things?

I just stopped writing

that diary of mine since --


it is never true.

Our conversations

are silent conversations --


There is no anger.

The corner café

must close, because times have changed --


There is a new law.

What does my father

smell like inside, how much worse --


than his stinking breath?

A stone on a stone

on a stone, that's how I climb --


higher and higher.

Dad cheerfully asks

about my boyfriend and soon --


he nags for details.

I was well prepared,

but when you came, it melted --


in my happiness.

I've a busy head,

it's full and so much bigger --


than the rest of me.

There is something, It

is earthly, I sense it, shreds --


of a mystery.

I really need to

go outside and get some air --


I need the silence.

Love does prove itself

in attentively hearing --


of what is not said.

These are caring days.

We eat, we work and we bath --


These are perfect days.

Barefoot, my mother

squats next to me in the grass --


very intimate.

The tension is gone:

it's important, or it's not --


and now it comes out.

The dear family

photo, with a golden edge --


of melancholy.

The pointing finger.

Does it point to my finger?


To my path in life?

The blue butterflies live
on honey from the magic world
of changes -

the rain and shine
and the wing beats
of all the bodies

with more or less happiness
suffered injuries and tears
for unwelcome outcomes

I massage my aching belly
full of vampire moths
As long as I live

blue butterflies will
fly up from the womb
of my affection

Butterflies around

us, you and me, laughing we --


pamper each other.

Only noticed in a small circle
and even so
not quite for who you are
      
and what you are able to, almost unneeded
unfortunately that is common
Time keeps going by
      
and later, life forgets
everyone and everything that was known
and then there is no difference anymore

Celebrity is a lie
pinned on a beacon
It does not matter
      
but sometimes you sit around doing nothing
and you feel that it is a pity
for your children, your friends and society
      
that you're not of more importance
or leave behind more
Time keeps going by
      
and life forgets what has been

Be generous, give

a like for a like, force it --


through the bad gateway.

I peek at my classmates
who I am, and I try it
out on them, because
they don't know me yet

Not as well as Mum
who already knows who I am
and comments on it
which often stops me

from being myself, from doing
as I please, Mum says
rather take example
by your brother or by us

I find it quite a hassle
to find out how
I am, I think I am
constantly changing

I learn every day,

from my fellow students, that --


I am different.

It is windless
Plastic water in the canal
I'm having dinner with my mother

Then I linger at the crossroads
on the way home
My rooms are so empty

and you live nearby
I can go to you
and yet I can't

Behind the thin curtains
is the street, the city, alive
Nobody sees me

I'd like to read love letters
from you, confessions
that you never wrote to me

I keep thinking about that -
waiting for sleep, lying still
like a doll

That old age problem,

of course you know, I have it --


anyway, type 3!

Silent. Dark. House
All the time I'm thinking
of you, your silent steps

in my memories of
your steps in this house
blindly in the dark

from my confusion to
the love under my fear

a void now, no voice
to shout, no tears
no longer a body, lost

if I were to leave here
or live a different life
if I would like to

Landscape in the door

of the shanty, autumn leaves --


being blown around.

I'm sitting at the table, maybe
sleeping, I think for a second
at the blare of a siren
that takes along the smell
of puffed chestnuts from my nose
to an emergency

In the kitchen I see
the cat looking expectantly
and the clouds pass swiftly
past the drowsy sun
We're going to play soon
first I make coffee

High and low the boiling
water and the traffic rustle
my eyes shut, I feel
the cold under the arid air
of autumn, it will take long
before spring comes

Only slept little:

you were looking for something --


and then time crawled on.

It's never about

first this and then that, a truth --


is a coherence.

My nose in the cat,

the fur smells lovely, like a --


freshly steamed blanket.

The wind blows, nothing

happens, maybe unless you --


look to see something.

Something different:

a story of a search what --


crime was committed.

Joys are flying up,

flapping like white doves, filling --


the corners with life.

You are here with me

and the world is everywhere --


You can talk through it.

Look for a long time -

you'll merge into the colour:


into It, Something.

A storm is rising,

my peace is disturbed, I have --


to get on with life.

We pile up power

and build the tallest tower --


Then it collapses.

My big brother is

a regular straight guy, well --


nothing you can do.

The *** Ed booklet:

man and woman hand in hand --


keeping their distance.

Dad drinks Mama's wine,

thinking of the old days, when --


they drank together.

I do as I like,

Mum stays calm, I don't know if --


I even exist.