Casting fishing lines

is a slow dance; I'm catching --


peaceful quietness.

Causes and effects,

implicated in something --


like the One and All.

Cautiously I take

my very first steps, my eyes --


feeling out the light.

With a seething hand, heaven shattered
the new city and the huge tower
The Hanging Gardens flew up

Chambers became airplanes
and carpets with set tables
landed far away in the long sea

A heavy rain
of rooms formed, with a splash
a sky-high mountain crest

The people from the Tower
spread out in fifty languages
fighting for borders

In reverse time, our world would
fly up in a nutshell, clot
together and land in Babel

Heaven would open
and the miracle would happen
that everyone understands the other

Maybe we were once stranded here
on the slopes of these mountains
between the white peaks and the low land

We certainly came up with words
to tell that story
and we went into the world

with that answer to the question
Where do we come from?
From the belly of the boat

as the image of our Mother
Earth, who is born where she is
in the lap of heaven

above the Holy Mountains
which kiss eternity
on the border of our existence

We move on and give names
to the world we discover
Time and space embrace us

Ceiling with a hole:

the airco lies on the floor --


It is still buzzing.

Censorship: fancy

is dangerous, so don't write --


about *******.

Certainly, AI

isn't the future, it does not --


escape from what is.

Underground, my thoughts
collide with him
They tear flames

from his stature, from his voice
They blow fire into his house
put a fire around his wife

A chain of craters
Ash clouds over the world
And me in the Peaceful Centre

of the catastrophes
which must hit his marriage
without harming him

How many aftershocks to go?
How much heat?
How much desire?

Chaos every day:

the weather, the people, and --


I keep sorting out.

Chapel in the woods:

inside, the flames are flaring --


autumnal silence.

Characteristic

of old people's buildings is --


their name: Home of Loss.

Characters, even

lifelike, are only alive --


within the story.

My good intentions have returned
undeliverable and broken, they stick
to me like a failed cake

encrusted to the baking tin
in an oven which is set too hot
Stone-hard charred crust

After weeks of rubbing the scratches
continue to itch in my soul, they scream
for attention and recognition



In the station hall, I listen for hours
to the playing of the piano, the messages
and the rustling

of the destination signs
which do not point me any direction
for a journey

to a better world
improvable with people
like me, strangers



At home I keep the curtains closed
the walls have no windows
and there is nothing I want to see

Chatting up someone

is a hassle, luckily –


men love to do it.

Cheerful children stir

the cauldron, they are brewing --


bubbling happiness.

Depilated from inside
opened and closed around
the navel, the core
of the beauty of the body
and the pearl in my scar

Cherish me, cherish me
let me feel and feel
that you are there, you are there

It is not my skin that I soften
in the bath, it is my muscles
and my soul, warm and supple
they must be to myself
to keep myself together

Cherish me, cherish me
let me feel and feel
that you are there, you are there

How much inner, how much
internal fight do I yet have
ahead, how much injury
to suffer before I can't
don't want to, will not go on?

Cherish me, cherish me
let me feel and feel
that you are there, you are there

Chests full of fabrics,

silk, velvet, lace: beautiful –


like a robber's den.

Chick chick, the nozzles

form a diaphanous mist –


with a pale rainbow.

It's a tradition, an old superstition
the night is hot
we'll go and do it
as soon as everyone is asleep
we sneak out of the house

leaving our husbands
as to take a ***

It is not far to the rock
with the flat stripe of white
In the light of the moon
we *** indeed
with laughter

while ******* for the picture
because we want to have proof

We slide our **** warm
over the pale stripe in the middle
of the Chilchliflue. Landed
in the grass, we feel
with each other

for the beginning
of a baby in our belly

Children ask questions,

and they learn a lot from that --


Just like adults do.

My first loves, a game:
the cool boys in the breaks
for which school was good

and in the weekends with lies
confirmed by my dear brother
evenings of fun in disco and club –

the true, my real, life
Get a berry, we're not leaving
not going to bed. The bike will wait

we stay, chatting and laughing, free
we are, because mum doesn't know
and is not worried

Children wonder what

it would be like to be dead --


but not: to be old.

Child's play can smell of

tobacco smoke, camphor, cat --


and burnt porridge.

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)

The woman behind my sister
looks outside, and her husband
is also busy

with his own thoughts
I wonder why
she herself looks past me

although she wanted to bridge
the distance she felt
and now I feel the same

She has changed
her ******* are too full
in the tight sweater

and her lipstick is too red
so unapproachably girlish
under the helmet of her hat

We have finished our tea
They'll stare us out
if we don't order a new ***

Christmas time: looking

for snow in the clouds, crystals --


full of peace on earth.

Christmas, visitors

absent – as the saying goes:


peace starts with yourself.

Cities put their faith

in citizens, villages --


put their faith in god.

City life is hard,

made of stone, but with sidewalks --


smelling of roses.

Lilith was just like him -
from the clay, not as docile
as me; she left him

She prefers to roam
the world, seducing
men in the evening and robbing

families of their babies
so say the malicious tongues
that blacken everyone

who does not fit in their rules
It's true that she lives in trees
like a snake, I saw her once

at least, I think it was she
who praised me for my brain
and showed me the ripe fruits

With Adam I got two children
rib from his ribs, blood of my blood
The third was later made up

by the false tongues
that whitewash everything
that does not fit in their rules

Clearly resounding

in me, my Temple of Joy:


the bells of life's pains.

Climbing a mountain

you're proudly proving your worth –


But what would it be?

Climbing a mountain

while thinking about the top –


you're nowhere at all.

Climb up the ladder

and look next to you, a snake --


is waiting for you!

Closed shutters, it rains,

the city is still sleeping –


the first tram coming.

Clothes being blown up

from the grass by the river --


What could have happened?

Clothes in the colour

of my skin, I do not dare --


even on the beach.

Clouds are approaching,

they are dark, I seize the days --


The sun is still shining.

Clouds passing over

the sun give life to the floor --


it breathes up and down.

Cloudy in my head,

showers coming from my nose –


a mist in my eyes.

Clumsily we search

for words to say the goodbye –


gloaming between us.

Coded signs direct

the construction traffic: there –


was the heath, before.

Codes cutpaste poems

and lyrically they call --


themselves Rozalie.

Coincidences,

I see them, remember them --


in my doubtful head.

Cold rain being blown

under my hood, the shelter –


of the mosquito.

At home, in the sun, I watch
the news intently, I study the photos
the parabola of a mortar
like a shooting star
and the grey ruins after the impact

There are cameras everywhere
I shiver from everything
I do and don't want to know
but I wouldn't know anything
if I didn't know

I read of people
who woke up and
ran to a cellar
their children crying
in the pale morning light

The wounded crawl over debris
scramble past the charred cars
An ambulance drives away
Daily corpses, daily news
with survivors

with a dry mouth
speechless, pale in the sun
in which I follow the news
with my sharp eyes
my cool heart

Collecting little

bits of happiness: fresh bread --


and filling the bath.

Colourful birthday!

Those who don't know don't know you --


Unfortunately!

My ear is colour positive
the red rim boils
from your words, a bright
light bursts from the auricle
and hangs in front of my mouth

in front of my held breath
my lips not quite open
my thoughts unspoken

my look colour negative
with well blooded brains
crossed arms, glowing
with suspicion and defiance
with the desire to attack

You won't get away with it
you won't get away with it
you won't get away with it