Sleeper ****, sheep ****
on the flats, not much happens

Gray on gray the slow breath
of night and day, shreds

of heartbeatless noise and waves
of screaming seagulls, silver-

glare on the sea
the slime trail of a snail

Nowhere blood, just some feathers
shells of past life

and silent sighs from the universe
Without a **** I would disappear

to nowhere, oh how I ache
for you

Silvery glaucous

leaves sail away from the trees --


Little crescent moons.

Unrest. Lotte is ill
I grab my backpack
my compass and some clothes
put on my boots, a jacket
and I'm out of doors

On my way to Lotte
Being alone with myself
As long as I'm on the road
she will live
she will not die

She's not going to die, it mustn't be
She's not going to die, she's not going to die
No, no, not now, not yet
It's not the time yet
She mustn't, she won't

My steps stomp
The earth shakes
Where I go, a bison rumbles
Where I rest, a mountain rests
When I'm there, she'll be alive

The free field, the blowing
of my hair, the waving
and flowing of the grass

Only obey myself
No water surface, nothing
shines but your eyes

to make me feel beautiful
I despise seducing
in see-through clothes

I spit on being beautiful
to be counted
I disgust being beautiful

and therefore not be counted
I too walk the world!
I too do a lot of work there!

I too oversee what happens
I too know the people
and I talk wisely with you

I'm falling apart, believe me
it's real, and not a request
for pity, just
falling apart, cracking
like an old jar

I've been through too much
suffered too much, for now
it is going slowly
but still faster

I can't keep myself
together anymore, so be it
I just let you know
then you can come
to accept it too

I will soon be about
630 million impersonal
particles, dust
of course
without consciousness

Sun on the roof edge,

underneath we sufferlead --


our cold shadow lives.

"Each day a party",

I only have to make time --


and hang up garlands.

Bring our friend home,

go to him, bring him around --


with all my ardour!

I despise myself

for everything I can't do --


like other students.

Forever new books

by new writers, for a dream --


they are immortal.

The tin drum throws me

back into my childhood days --


everything's in it.

A lie cannot walk,

it has neither feet nor legs –


you have to bring it.

The sitting room makes

me feel like I have to walk --


in a gliding way.

I've got everything,

my soul must be here as well –


or do I see spooks?

She enjoys smoking

between her cats, wonderful:


a silent woman.

They're hopping around

in the big brown cello box:


the twittering birds.

Get to know yourself:

listen to what's being said --


listen and translate.

Do you have to be

social to address anti-


social people? Well?

The harbour: the quays


are like a flat sea, the ships --



are walls of iron.

Today, an excursion to a temple
somewhere further along the river
and we don't take anything with us

although no one seems to be there
so there will be no daily rites
This must be a lesson

We walk single file
through the forest, we walk
over the edge

of a basin, we are there
in the middle of the temple
a row of orange flags

in the open cave
of the waterfalls
of time

which overwhelm me
and carry me away, for a week
I can't be found

Only the forest sees me
while my body meditates
and does not know that I exist

Afterwards it is

only vague what it was like:


a passion, a pain.

On a swivel chair, I look around
the time capsule of my head
flies and devises stories

of memories and images
that pass, I travel
to my birth country

It does not exist, never
it has existed, it is a soup

of ingredients picked life-
long at my feet, cooked
in the pan of my skull

.....The fresh soup now
.....from my birth country
.... tastes different, really

.....I see it
.....at the plants and the varieties

My room: a waste bin,

chair, chamber ***, and myself --


tossing in my bed.

We only 'conquer'

our own place in the world by --


living together.

Just you, all of you,

and my imagination --


and my hankering.

You can be so hard,

then I kiss and caress you –


soft as a baby.

On the times they had

a quarrel, she lectured him --


from his own poems.

On the mountain road,

the moon hops along with me --


valley to valley.

Silent night, pale-black

black the sky, high the full moon --


peace over the earth.

My signature then:

who I was, sixteen years old --


with a line through it.

Princes, princesses,

like everyone, each of us --


is an honoured guest.

It is night, I walk

across the metropolis --


which denies the night.

So, what is my life:

my existence, being there --


plus my history.

I'm not moving straight,

I am a piece of something --


bigger that rotates.

Do I prefer to

remember, forget, forgive --


or be forgiven?

My heart drinks the smells

of the lilac tree, I'm drunk –


of li-lilac wine.

The poem opens

a window where I expect --


to go through a door.

The pointing finger.

Does it point to my finger?


To my path in life?

More and more, we speak picture
language with digital icons of Home
Heart (in the colour of the moment)
Envelope, Clock, Arrow and Bin

but icons of paint and blood travel
with us in their world of gold leaf
as portraits of the life
we like to live

thoughtful and attentive
like a ***** bird
showing its feathers

and not camouflaging itself
in the attire of its neighbours
colleagues or pictograms

She is unswerving,

imperious: a fortress --


may not move, never.

I am a thinker:

although, can I think away --


sedimented thoughts?

It is going well, we are driving fast
away from where the bombs fall
Fatima's hand sways move move

We are many
stronger than the rules
we break through them

to a rich country, not a monastery
we do come to live slowly
but we bring our own rules

We want to work, take time
to learn and get married
to have a future

and to give it
to our parents
who did not believe in it

Day to day I live

eternally, in moments --


of time that passes.

Well, I have wished for

an antipole, I got it --


as a drag on me.

Rainy days mud
my garden, the golden root is rotting

my wishing well spills over
I am spent

flaccid roads to the city
get me nowhere, no one wants

to pay for that, the world stands still
my little son is sleepwalking around me

by touch, cow and calf look
at me and frown, sighing

vapours muffled by the fine droplets
of rainy tears on the globes of my eyes

the sachets of water in which the world
always is upside down

a violet hangs and thinks:

mud will become waterproof
slate, eventually

My friend goes, gives me

a rose from the bush, alas --


still in the bud, picked.

The oldest sons count
as patriarchs from Adam
Seth and Enos to Methuselah

Cain is a different story
from a time when there were more people
more women to get married

It is the story of the sacrifice
that was rejected
as if God did not exist

so that Cain lost his faith
and mourned for that
and God was sorry

so He forbade to **** him
and other unbelievers
you shall not **** a human being

Moses chiseled in two stones
which he smashed immediately
to teach the people a lesson

with the seething ******
of 3000 men, the blood sticks
to the priests forever

but they had every right
because God wanted
to do it Himself

Reality flows

out of the war camp, between --


dream and welfare work.

He starts
cautiously
with small steps

warms me up, back and forth
prolongs his leg, goes
from minuet to pavane

strides old-fashioned deeper
adds quick pushes
then unchains himself
      
from allemande to courante
and leads me into the sixth heaven
slowly flying there sarabande
      
around with me, in expectation
enjoying
each other and longing
      
for the delayed presto
touch on the sensitive strings
ending on the highest note

Changing one's name
after a scandal, it works
with time

Cain could do everything
he made tools
grew beans and grasses
with edible seeds and
built a house of loam

He created what he invented
but who still wants to know now?
His name has been black-washed

so the grandchildren just
had to deny him, no
their grandfather was Seth
the only real
son of Adam and Eve

who dug little canals
and made bedsteads
who created what he invented