It has already been two weeks
since we wrote to each other, rejoiced
weaving springs into a poem

about love in which we mix ourselves
with the candour of a friend
and our need for being connected

You rhyme with me
into an ethereal love, we create
daisies in waving fields

with kissing gates in the hawthorn
the golden keys shine
upon our hearts

Come in and play, dance
blind man's buff, reach and touch
each other's soul

The Queen of Nothing

gave hope to the poor people --


She was dangerous.

One horizon all

round the green sea, here and there --


a cow sailing by.

Day to day I live

eternally, in moments --


of time that passes.

The poem opens

a window where I expect --


to go through a door.

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

The mosquito smells


blood, she can sting gently, but --



not fly silently.

I create the earth,

all, but people, that mistake --


I won't make again.

The holiday guests

stay away, I imagine --


a quite poor reason.

Just make excuses,

people prefer to pretend --


that they believe them.

On the veranda, we wait
for coolness, a fresh shower
Only with us there is light

Nobody sees us
nobody is at home
What is he thinking of?

Not of me, fortunately
I'm already hot
in my underwear

I keep quiet
otherwise he'll fancy
and that takes me too long

The nights are so short
we need sleep
no sweaty ***

Don't people have to

be good, is it enough if --


they seem to be good?

My house has large beds
in which naked people groan
and girls are *****
by other people's loneliness

The guests pay for
washing the curtains
which their soft hands stroke
after the night

They don't expect calluses
from the day, they rearrange
and they smell, they don't pick the flowers
themselves, they live inside

where they are content
without achievements, because
the world is exhausting
if one wishes to change it

and spring admits no delay
life must be lived, enjoyed
since no one spoils you
better than you do

I want to create

what is not there, not as art --


but genuine Love!

I have a gun and

like to have it with me, but --


where can I put it?

Wander herb, full moon:

we are homesick in autumn –


in many places.

I am motionless,

my will is like a goshawk --


exalted and still.

I want his face
nicely towards me

I don't want to tear it open
because he chooses
me this weekend

I want his stubble
his fabric softener

he is so different
from the men of my friends
with their itchy *****

I want his words
his withheld love

reserved
for me under clothes
of inaccessibility

Bare buttocks in the berm
free, peeing under my pants
laying down on my side

the world and I flatter
grass everywhere, empty
of chairs

blue flashing light over the ****
I think the sound
to the condensation stripes

My look jumps over
the ditch, sees hided
flowers, I hear beetles

that I don't hear
the grass colours my eyes
it flies upon my tongue

and lets me have a taste
green with marigold
and fresh *****

With a clean duster,

the maid goes around the house --


waving like a queen.

Before they can speak

angels always have to wait --


for a listener.

My body becomes a wreck
if I don't take care of it
and am dissatisfied

if it's not all that beautiful
not as it seems, and so much
should change what can't be done

I see shiny people everywhere
they devote their bodies
as temples

of flesh, bones, and blood
to plastic beauty
or something higher

but my temple is for myself
a work of art
of my mind

that listens
when my body calls
for recognition and tenderness

to give and receive it
I am not an avatar
but intimately myself

The house has new sounds,

a harmony: languages --


dance, and skin colours.

I wrap myself up

in my poem, to show me --


show my open wounds.

In the large bookcase

the cat is choosing the scent --


to lie down and dream.

You cry in your sleep,

that is a side of yourself --


that you don't know yet.

I am shy, you know,

because of my big secret:


I'm very ugly.

Words do sometimes fit

with someone's situation --


as a deep insight.

So I'm a poet,

which was once just a pose, but --


I conformed to it.

The city, people,

its pulse of fast flowing life --


all bustling beauty!

Too bad, he only

does his duty, I would like --


him to be a saint.

I'm the first to leave,

because I'm a spectator --


of repetitions.

In hindsight you see

what happened, not surprising --


but predictable.

Our eternal love

started to blow and then it --


flew out of the bed.

Everything is different, I am
really alive now, my friend laughs
Really, I dream

that the earth stands still
and the roses keep blooming
My nights are full

of expectation
and I will be saved
whenever it storms

No more accounts
of the benefits
of the doubts

about the future
of the world
and myself

Tourists are sniffing

the holiness of the church –


they make it thinner.

I like to travel,

but only a few can come --


to share it with me.

There are just no ways

to our goals, we hesitate --


and saunter about.

Am I not alone,

is there up there on the roof --


a guardian angel?

His caressing hand

over my body, followed --


too tensely by me.

Lying in my bed,

I saw a house being build --


for after my life.

I do enjoy it

to walk in the noisy city --


and being the noise.

Living in exile:

hoping or not to return --


covered with honour.

Be cross, be angry,

but please, don't do anything --


for once and for all.

Well, when would one be

too old to do that, kissing --


under a shelter?

The golden twilight:

a beautiful last evening –


but not today, please.

Your world is inside

your head, existing inside --


real reality.

It's our secret bed,

there in the dark, where we live --


dreaming together.

Once there was no space,

until it ever arose --


as it always was.

Election time: there they are
in beautiful dresses, the fairies
with their wands
aiming at my dreams

Sparkling stars
a beautiful world
is what they wish me
I get it as a gift

if I want, 'Say it'
my vote
makes the difference
but the jester laughs

and dances around the shiny dresses
He points to the wands
they mostly point to each other
the rest is advertising paper

that wraps up the problems nicely
so be careful with wishes
they come true
the way you think:

half, and inconsistent
with a bill
for others
or for later