The white butterfly

moves, to save it, I quickly --


put out the candle.

The bookkeeper counts

the legacy, a drawer --


filled up with poems.

Deep into the night,

he read, deep into the words –


We're digging him out.

The future eats me,


which I don't mind, as long as --



I feel the chewing.

Sadness disappears

in ever wider circles --


of re-retelling.

I rake the ashes

of the olive stones and I --


smell my homesickness.

I must travel light,

otherwise I won't succeed --


to comprehend things.

It's about childhood,

well, a difficult childhood --


Who could do without?

There's enough spring green

for one hundred thousand eyes --


I only have two.

You stroke me, I am

quiet like a church before --


the ***** glories.

He is sweet, but a man
In order to protect me
he loses

himself in impotence
acting tall
doesn't want to be consolable

on his haunches in the corner
hesitates to change
and ponders about a miracle

from himself, hungrily
the fire beats out of his heart
searching for fuel and glory

seeking balance and afraid
to find it in the ashes
of his desires

Something's happening,

more and more people pass on --


what they do not know.

Mosquitoes may drink my blood
I stay here to enjoy myself
the blood of the moon

the fireflies in the garden
and the whooping children
around a campfire somewhere

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

My dreams are blind and nameless
They **** on the spot
and eat when I'm away

Maybe it would be easier
without them, but when I see them
asleep, everything is fine

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

He makes no contact

with life, his blood is flowing --


without energy.

Unsatisfied needs

will accumulate to waves --


of ferocity.

The circus! Led by

the animal with the nose --


that can walk along.

It is religious

that I desire to touch you --


receive your power.

There's a museum

called Ministry of the Sea --


No coast anymore.

At night, full trains standing still
between the erigeron
The grass **** wobbles a bit

The water sighs
little waves over the railway
Geese splash around

Bye Atlantis
Bye floating gardens
Thank you, all the best

We're flying out
the earth is open
Where to, where to?

Rombom, the sun will come
Zirconium sparkles, colours
expectation everywhere

It paints our desire
promises us love and happiness
- a fabulastic home

I looked at his hands
as if there was blood on them
and I cursed him
He stayed calm and read

in my eyes the shape
that he had to put on
to win me
His amorousness pushed boundaries

We had long conversations
and made future
plans for the world
as it should be

with us shining in the middle
as a sun that doesn't need to
be applauded, but simply exists
to share richly what it has

The planets follow their orbits
understanding and friendship drop down
and our hands do the work
Sometimes bleeding

There are knocks, no ring

at the door, I open it --


for a little boy.

Why are there people dreaming
of hell, a formless world
with leafless trees, beastly

people, thirsty victims
theatres where the murders are real
and of slogans written in blood?

Why do they fantasise like this
about a better life
about a new beginning?

Why are there people dreaming
of freedom, equality, fraternity
without prelates and politicians?

Why don't they sing
the song of humanity
Why

do they numb themselves
to explode
their pettiness?

Numbers: Eight times eight?

When I am in doubt I know --


that I am in love.

Who of the great saints

has lived up to all of them:


the Ten Commandments?

She submerges us

in a great deluge of words --


We're completely soaked.

Facts are like bags, they

only stand when you fill them --


with your affection.

Well, is man still in

the cradle of Earth? Would it --


predict anything?

I've an aversion

to fighting and to people --


The fight of my life.

Whatever reasons

we suggest, we will do it --


mainly for ourselves.

Notre-Dame, she is quite old: although she may
bury Paris, which has witnessed her birth, one day
But in thousand years or more, Time will make recoil
her heavy body, like a wolf does with a bull
and twist each iron axon, each of her neurones
to gnaw alas, with its blunt tooth, her bones of stones!

Many men will overflow the island in the Seine
to contemplate the barren ruin, the last remains
dreamers, re-reading what Victor Hugo has seen ahead:
- Then they'll think they see the old basilica
as it was, mighty and magnificent, a Gloria
rising up before them like the shadow of a dead!

The deer is close by,

it breathes and looks, motionless –

I feel being seen.

The percussionists

are counting, they are alert --


to the right moment.

Look, a dragonfly

reflects the sun in a flash –


then… nothing is left.

Around your presence,

everything becomes gloomy --


So stay in my eyes!

Will this be goodbye,

our happiness a photo --


of a splendid day?

They are ponderous,

real men, no, nothing boyish --


recognisable.

Bump, bump, with those blows

on my head I can't think what --


to do about it.

Parties everywhere,

in every house there's something --


worth celebrating.

On a parachute

I'm gliding into the day --


I jumped from my dream.

Crippled, skinny gull
puddles in the potholes
of empty streets

holes in the walls
the school closed, no one
who could leave stayed

after the riots
no one who was released
from the cells

Losses have been taken
suitcases packed
the water shut off

Old town, dead harbour
where I was at home and would
have liked to come back

clean your white steps
turn on your lights, please
turn on, turn on again

My heart beats action,

so my mind follows, almost –


forgetting to breathe.

I'm calm and quiet,

just as the windless world is --


in the autumn sun.

The Buddha statue

lives crystal clear in the freeze --


melting in the sun.

Above the pilgrims

it flies, the large parasol:


a butterfly swarm.

Swimming in windows

dark with all the office ink:


the ghostly white fish.

Quarrels, the little

war at home, my fear of your --


being different.

I'm fully fed up

with plans, it is unhealthy –


I'd better give birth.

I do not dare yet,

I wait and leave it to chance --


which does not arise.

Total harmony

of the universe: the drone


hole in God's big Ear.

Look for a long time -

you'll merge into the colour:


into It, Something.