I know what she needs,

she's inconsolable, so --


I don't console her.

There is a sound of *** in my name -
at school, I often had a blush
I was ashamed of the giggles

At parties I stood in the quiet places
and in the parade I walked
on long wooden legs

The wind blew, tugged and
tore my trouser legs
There were shouts and calls

for more, "Hellooo helloohoo
where are you, what are you
thinking about", my friend asked

"Everyone sees only the veils
under which you hide, are you aware
that none of us knows you?

Just be a little like crazy, for once, dare
to go for it, to die of shame
or to bed with someone

Dare to be a descendant
of the man who chose:
Freeblood is my name"

Two chubby maggots:

hopping around, drilling holes --


in the barren land.

It did not happen,

you cannot remember that!


I was not like that!

It is code language,

cipher: Zjellwe zjoh zjouvezj?


Shall we go to bed?

The fall draws me
.....as the view drew me
..........along many landscapes
...............and what I experienced
....................and learned along the way
.........................opened up many avenues
to new plans
.....new places, and
..........new people
...............new opportunities with
....................new insights
.........................and new acceptance
I remember everything
.....even more intense than it was
..........brighter than in the full sun
...............purer is my love
....................purer are my choices
.........................purer my desires
in the final fall
..........with less pleasure
....................and less expectation

and what I did not achieve
.....did not get and
..........could not prevent
...............dissolves in the sea
....................of eternity
.........................fall after fall

Receiving distant

sounds with giant ears, I get --


smaller and smaller.

Time is different:

not eternal, it follows --


itself by itself.

I exist! Me too!

And I! Here! I exist here! --


And I? Who hears me?

The music can't go

bad, so everyone enjoys --


beating his heart out.

Narcissus prefers

to play alone, with mirrors --


as his string quartet.

The famous writer

never needs that many words --


just: The sea is large.

The front wheel drags, grr,

short of breath I cycle on --


panting like a dog.

Irritation, not discussed
*** postponed
and fun things, we
don't come around to it

Right now not important
Right now not the time
Right now not the place
Right now not by itself

Then just talk
about others and still
awake make plans in bed
playing them around

over the soft cushion of my
own version of the facts -
a dream too beautiful
for disbelief

Censorship: fancy

is dangerous, so don't write --


about *******.

The old threshold is

not worn out, my visitors --


step right over it.

He makes no contact

with life, his blood is flowing --


without energy.

As if I mocked him
or Love, so wounded
he dreams me

on swift legs
a doe-woman
with bow and arrow

the graceful
counterpart of the centaurs
equally shy, but more slender

equally modest
but not didactic
equally wise, but a woman

equally free, but subject
to his desire to possess
my desires, and to let me

do as he pleases:
to stay sharp in view
as I run, to look with longing

at him, and panting, entangled
in his hands, to keep looking
until he is satisfied

I like to be soft,

but hard enough to resist --


the worldly hardness.

Order in the bowl:

little fish at the bottom --


big ones at the top.

They take off my clothes

and smell my mouth and my heart --


whether I love you.

We'll talk again soon,

late this afternoon: at night --


when you are back home.

In morning twilight,

seen from my window through yours:


the sun going down.

Finally the sun,

in the park a dove flies up --


freed from my pale skin.

Isn't it beautiful

today? It's a miracle --


but who is impressed?

From now on, dare to

be tough, firm and resistant --


more than a man's wish.

Between a problem

and my actual action --


lies a nowhereland.

The speech is followed

by silent applause, the hands --


just raise the glasses.

Are dissertations

anti-science? Given that --


they're unreadable?

Less manual work,

more machines, does that make us --


more and more happy?

Duties fascinate

me, but when they're done I know --


they don't mean too much.

The plants will show you

where it is passable here:


the Questioning Bog.

Mist, with some shadows

of animals in the side --


of the road, hit, dead.

From the isle we sail

across the lake, a man sings --


and the sun is low.

Well, I have wished for

an antipole, I got it --


as a drag on me.

In hindsight you see

what happened, not surprising --


but predictable.

He is trying so hard

that he doesn't realise he --


makes no impression.

As a child I roamed

the grounds, barefoot through puddles --


and I still do that.

Writing about the

past, you reflect on yourself --


in terms of that time.

You should not do it

secretly: but unnoticed --


just tactically.

He brings in a lot,

pages full of arguments --


so, something is wrong.

In stories about

the past we read how people --


looked back at the time.

Until the Spring Ball

the farms in the bog form an --


archipelago.

There are still places,

as usual, in the seats --


next to the bosses.

He is paralysed

and speaks a new language now:


Zjazzezjizj vizi.

The girl just watches,

her parents build tall towers --


till they fall over.

You're getting older,

tomorrow is not at all --


the day that would come.

The sexton enjoys

lamenting about God's love --


and the vale of tears.

Father is buried,

there is more light now, the sky --


is so much wider.

Some people blame me

for my normal, daily face:


You should have a rest!