To be made pregnant

for love and not for a man --


who's just taking you.

I'm expectant and

I'm ready to write it down:


the northern lights, there!

A violinist

lightly strokes the sheep gut with --


tightly stretched horsehair.

The ritual after work
in the dark at the end
of the evening twilight

The dim light of the low clouds
in 1883, when the nights in the country
were still black

The farmer stoops
poking a dry smell
from the weeds of the day

It lingers
in a plume of smoke
above the sparks

Forgive me, I won't

demand so much anymore --


and then receive more.

My heart beats action,

so my mind follows, almost –


forgetting to breathe.

You are beautiful,

taste it! It is on my tongue --


it's kissing your lips.

The fluctuating

flood-mark, a boundary of --


dry seaweed flowers.

The ground beneath her

feet has taken her, the earth --


whose praises I sang.

I am my angel,

who will always follow me --


who helps me in need.

I do not dare yet,

I wait and leave it to chance --


which does not arise.

She sweeps up the shards

and she doesn't recognise them:


the shards of a man.

She looks at the child

with love and understanding --


It grows right away.

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

When you wrote my name

in the sand I wrote your name --


nicely over it.

In stories about

the past we read how people --


looked back at the time.

I said what I thought

I knew about dust, that it --


does not turn to dust.

Blue lights, pink answers,

tomfoolery all about --


Feel free to join us!

The river bulges

up to the edge, I'm afraid --


must see it myself.

The guests run away,

the staff is left with the feast --


left with the rumours.

Looking at the tree:

can I climb that high, up there --


where the kite is stuck?

There's a strange hand with

pointing fingers on my thigh --


and it excites me.

If your ambition

listens to wise words, then you --


only hear yourself.

Two people will form

a community, any --


trio will split up.

It takes me a lot

of time to properly show --


my inner beauty.

Are you an angel, am I a dog?
Are you from heaven and I from hell?
Or are you a dog, my dog?
And will we go to hell together?

Where are you taking me?
Where am I taking you?
Why do you want to love me?
What can I ever give you?

The more you love me
the more I have to
betray your love, tear it apart
like a dog at the gate

The more you believe in me, the more
I'll bite back until your love is dead
at the gates of heaven
or the gates of hell

Lying on the ****,

you talk about the sails, I --


about happiness.

Heaven allures us,

a scent of higher honey --


draws us to full height.

I'm caught in a net,

not in your, but in my net --


of expectations.

The news, every day:

fires are burning in the streets --


right out of the hearts.

I surrender and

dance, at home, across the room --


singing with my arms.

The people here
are not quite grown up
They live past inconveniences

So I'm gonna settle it
Like a parent for their own good
Comment is all in the game

I don't mind, we have to move on
Who does not act, is manipulated
and my own preferences
don't appear out of the blue
I have experience

I chip and wipe away the chips
I am a doer, a maker
No expensive gestures
no desperate remedies
to reassure desperate patients

I know what I'm doing, there are goals
to achieve and worlds to win
with ambition

the seed of my misdeeds
my taunted pride
to want to achieve something

I really need to

go outside and get some air --


I need the silence.

It's a quiet day.

I'm standing at the window --


contemplating rain.

High in the mountains:

the silence, the absence, most --


of all of myself.

Behind the curtain

of his music he dances:


the master flautist.

Whatever comes over
as desire, only briefly
sticks to my experience
how relative it is

I can live, I am free
from deficiencies, I do not suffer

from pain, passion or troubles
not from the chaos of love
or ambition, I don't wait to see
what I get thrown

I am too good for that
my friends tell me too

I follow my interests
and that's not the way
of motherhood
and high expectations

but that of the beauty
of you name it

in which I am silently absorbed
One thought
without thinking
of anything else

At regular times

a message comes, stating: this --


connection exists.

It's normal to wish

to be special, do you think --


you are that common?

On the peak I dream

of La Vie Parisienne --


in Tijuana.

A sleepy village,

the doors and shutters are closed --


Dogs barking loudly.

Storm, I am awake

and I hear the stars stamping --


in the night stables.

It is a full moon,

music sounds from the café --


I'm not one of them.

My attention, where

does it go, what do I want --


to see of the world?

Are you coming, today
I like to look at you again
laugh with you
and listen to you

Come, walk around
in my house, let me
look at you, the step aside
the tension of your buttocks

and your lips
that will kiss me
your hands that are allowed
to do everything I long for

I will not ask too much from you
you don't have to commit yourself
not for longer than I live
not to what you fear

You don't have to take care of me
just leave me alone
when I'm sick
It's enough

that you think of me

Every day we are

celebrating without frills --


just being grateful.

So you do love him,

you really love him, so much --


that you admit it?

The nest with swallows:

a squadron squeaks and swishes --


down onto our cat.

Happiness: the joy

of the quiet awareness --


of your existence.

Don't trust him! He's nuts,

he even confuses Kant --


with Schopenhauer!