Snowflakes are floating

between the blossoming trees –


like flower petals.

The sky is blue and cold today
as if the atmosphere is thinner
and I can sense the void

under which the houses are small
and low, meaningless
fleeting and interchangeable

The old timber factory seems to be leaking
On the right side of the base
smoke rises from the building

as if a reversed draught
through the black chimney hole
absorbs, from distant stars, seas
of gigawatts of power for the city

Being in love, blind,

but don't be blind later on --


It would be the end.

No blood needs to flow
we may as well separate
and combat only in stories
who we are, brothers and sisters

with the common needs
for a place of their own and virtues
that are sometimes vices
knowing better, living better

thinking to be better
willing to sacrifice lives
for lack of an angel
who stops us

only reading the discord
in the stories and concealing
that we are brothers and sisters
as if we are not

I quiesce the storm

and welcome my enemies --


people just like me.

Be responsible,

and legitimise nothing --


with a nice story.

Teardrop diamonds,

frozen on my eyelashes:


beautiful sadness.

I exist! Me too!

And I! Here! I exist here! --


And I? Who hears me?

No one's listening,

so there is no censorship --


of the protesters.

Today, too much is

happening, I must pretend --


it is a story.

Empty the meeting room
The chairs lined up again
The screen in the corner still spouting
the latest news reports

I lie down on the round table
stretch myself out and surrender
to pleasure, caressed
laziness, oh, don't

think of your hands now
not of decisions taken
plans and action points and
not of the noise outside

the air rippling around
the boxing hustle
the profits bouncing
across cartwheels of hurry

the life of our excesses
of deeds, although I prefer them sometimes
to words, although I prefer them sometimes
because each life does count

I'm getting older:

more experiences, more --


different from you.

Mama keeps chasing

me, I give me the advice --


she would have given.

She waves to me: mummy look
She plays in the grass, the earth is turning
She shouts throughout summer and rains

from white sand to black sand
She is a little pig, gruntgrunt
and one more time, one more time

One two see sour sive
singers she has, and ***** seet
that climb everything: mummy look

Her hands want to take everything
feeling the whole grown-up life
herself, caution, it is hot

She drags my bag with her like a lady
She likes sweet gruel and bread
without crust, cheeks with peanut butter

She cheers for the gnomes: mummy look
who always come to help her
at night when she sleeps

After the shower,

floating around in the glass --


the candle still burns.

You jump the queue, but

why do you want that, your soul --


being left behind?

It is super thin,

the gold leaf that will survive --


the iconoclasm.

The beauty of art

and the world does not exist --


if you reject it.

Thunder and rain
it's not a dawn yet
You blow little kisses in my ear
Wake up, I want to smell
in your blood

Touch me, turn around
kiss me, desire me
make me feel fine, let me shine
and fly and buzz
between velvet bumblebees

Let your little kissing mouths
float away from my skin
like velvet petals
to the sea of stars
let them fill the whole sky

There's some truth leaking

from the joke, hey, every joke --


has a hole somewhere.

On her bed she thinks

of budding love, so often --


you read about it.

Since I'm old enough

to understand adult jokes --


they're disappointing.

In the dressing room

I have seen smooth-shaven girls --


I've seen what you want.

At the junk dealer

I write, of course, life stories --


of the furniture.

Well, the usurer

was generous, nonetheless --


Was it his money?

It's always the same:

there must be a better way --


So, should I do it?

Come into my arms,

leave your body, discover --


the soul of your soul.

The girl with the fan
goes up the bridge
the water reflects
her slender image

The gentlemen peer
casually ahead -
to the girl with the fan
who wants to be wed

The girl with the fan
is silently beckoning
the ruffles rustle
what she is thinking

The gentlemen stare
as they portly squire
their fair-haired wives
in fancy attire

The crickets chirping
their love songs westwards

(The girl is hopping
there to the pastures)

The crickets chirping
amidst the flowers

(The gentlemen are
still walking northwards)

From year to year there are
memories snowing, covering
and blocking the driveway

I shovel them aside
I must get out, I must
do some shopping

And when they start to melt
when they drip down
the drainpipe and run away

I lie awake in bed
listening and following
the rippling in the gutter

It makes me desperate
I want to leave, a break
to write it all down

to tell it
in the dark and be
answered, applauded

I take the highest

stone, the very mountain top --


and I throw it down.

Foreigners test us:

are we really as caring --


as we think we are?

Beginnings are small,

the big thing will come later --


I believed, I hoped.

The hairdresser cuts

me, he is cutting up time --


to eternity.

Shadows slide quickly

through the water, elusive –


is reality.

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

Picking a flower

to hear the snap, the flower --


can be thrown away.

What I secretly do
but not hidden
      
from myself, the truth
that I do not want to know
      
yet sometimes see
in the questioning eyes
      
of others, surprised
or hurt, on the border
      
of judgment on me
is the truth in the eyes
      
of my conscience that examines me
I sweat, it's a purgatory
      
and as long as it lasts, it is
hell: I am not
      
just myself
but one of the others

That's the drama

Dad never writes me,

oh dear, I start forgetting --


to be forgotten.

The plants will show you

where it is passable here:


the Questioning Bog.

Boys look past
my shyness
I don't understand

So beautiful I see my feelings
in my face, my forms
in the mirror

Why doesn't anyone
want to enjoy me?
The beauty of a boy

discovered inside and out
by my skin
my curious body

In other people's houses
I capture the beds
in my dreams

None of them invite me
Can they see in me
how critical I am?

I furnish my house

with more and more stuff, around --


the sewer system.

A small hatch opens

in the fog, there's a small hand --


waving a little.

I suspect a cow

in the meadow at night, there --


the black spots that move.

The famous writer

is awfully shy, no one --


attends to his clothes.

He comes to bathe me

in his yellow butterflies –


of amourousness.

When I'm furious,

I react inhumanely:


neighbours are a prey.

My room: a waste bin,

chair, chamber ***, and myself --


tossing in my bed.

A worm in my head

wants to wriggle at my fate –


it drives me crazy.

My soul searches you,

I fly further and further --


and I do not land.

Little waterfalls

along my long strides, hear this --


music fantasy.