We didn't need anything
we just bumped against each other
and lay together, if so, a nest
of friends, who know to find each other
no matter how far we've flown out

Become angels, who would have thought!

Our soul connection
so familiar at first sight
at each reunion - forever young
is my chicken heart then, my skin
of flesh and blood, forever young

our spirit - but oddly
detached are our wings
our cheeks and the air kisses
that escape my lips
or have transcended them

Angels come flying

in, hear, here must be heaven --


where the ***** sounds.

You cannot sleep?
It will come
It's the clock genes

Just come over here
and lie down with me
Close to each other
You are so sweet

It tied knots in me
that are not quite undone yet
I was a saviour, an angel

not yet used
to her body, a child
who does know heaven
but not yet earth

It recurred
Anger grew inside me
Powerless aversion

It recurred
And with others
I lost my wings
A worthless angel

A nice canoe trip,

downstream, without worrying --


about getting lost.

A night of *******

on sleeping bodies, and then --


the leeches explode.

Animals take me

into the night with the wind --


Call in the distance.

An imperfection

is a shadow in your life --


with thanks to the sun.

An island, nothing

is said, here, time is strolling –


away from the trails.

Another new birth,

another programmed clotting --


of exploded cells.

Antivertising art:

an advertising column --


that is a mirror.

An unwanted guest:

that happens to Lords only --


in a scary dream.

How many quarrels unthinkable
relationships much happier
and laws superfluous, if
vices did not exist?

No avarice on the throne
in our heads, made up
with pride and pretense
no greedy dissatisfaction
and hedonism in our bellies
no more anxious blood
pumped through our hearts

if everyone answers honestly
to themselves: what do you want
to do if money is not an issue
and you don't have to be afraid?

Do you think this question is too
ambitious or not asked often enough?

Any memory

you repeat turns easily --


into a desire.

Any overworld

is a palimpsest over --


a scraped underworld.

Talking to men
who I don't know
singing along with the music

on which I dance in the eyes
that follow me
like shadows

wishing to be desired
without being in danger
dressed for it, that too

is who I am, free
to the extent it is permitted
by the hell

of other people's eyes
that love my body
and hate me for it

but that's not me
I am anything
but what they think

Anyway we live

in common on our commons:


our planet, the earth.

A page, a glimmer

of truth, rustlingless silent --


and then wind again.

Apart from science

it is not allowed by law --


to tell the whole truth.

.....I here, you there
.....Apart together
.....Our love a bed
.....full of missing

On my way home
weak from desire
for all days
with our family

.....I here, you there
.....Apart together
.....Our love a bed
.....full of missing

Wild, wild horses
cannot separate us
Wild, wild horses
we will ride

.....I here, you there
.....Apart together
.....Our love a bed
.....full of missing

A passer-by asks:

Where from? Where to? I walk on --


with him, in silence.

A peach blossom branch:

then it's nice to have a chat –


with a nobleman.

A peach blossom branch:

then it's nice to have a chat –


with a nobleman.

A person must learn,

there are no suns anywhere --


that don't cast shadows.

A person who boasts

of a quality, wishes --


to receive it, right?

A photo, I'm six,

in the garden I bury --


a box with secrets.

A photo: I'm six,

in the garden I bury --


a box with secrets.

A photo is true,

a film too, twenty-four times --


of truth, per second.

A plunge in the night,

all I can see is a hat --


on the bridge railing.

A poem he wants

to write about me. Do I –


have to pose for it?

A poem opens

you to the light, it drapes light --


into sounds of words.

A poem: tail tip

of a cat that's already --


around the corner.

A poet fiercely

yearns for a louder silence --


than the other speaks.

A poet who cries

writes concentrated, uses --


his tears as his ink.

A polease is boss

of cycle and motocarr –


holding them with halt.

Because I don't have time
I just like to waste the day
unwashed in a bathrobe

Being myself, at home
in my city bunker -
in front of the window
that mirrors on the outside

If you fly past it
you will see sparrows
being chased off the seed
by ducks who then flee

from the gull army
which has hardened its beaks
four times in the gastric acid
of the Duck family

I am safely offside
and what I don't like
I erase from the screen

Moor at the orchard
wade through soft grass
and golden-yellow apples
to the pond in the middle
steaming in the evening

Enter the round basin
glide into the warm water
and swim over the bottom
of your primeval-applewise knowing
to the stairs of the tower

From the gallery, read the wind, the well
the flow of time, their ripples, their depths
and the misty shadows from later
which in the outside world
only will be recognizable

when the truth in which you
have bathed, is past
Known once remains known
somewhere in the haze of your
dressed-up consciousness

A quiet goodbye

in bed, with silent kisses --


everlasting seals.

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

A reconstruction:

you get closer and you see --


nothing but vague spots.

Are dissertations

anti-science? Given that --


they're unreadable?

Are journeys searches,

and the prey on which you hunt:


a refuge called Home?

Aren't all romances

a huge explosion of dreams --


and dearest desires?

Are there aliens

inside the clouds? Who is there --


rummaging about?

Are there any saints?

Possibly, they always hide –


like the unicorns.

Are, these days, men's skirts

like kilt, sarong and lungi --


called 'legless clothing'?

A romantic kiss;

her first, so her eyes tell me --


dying passively.

Around the green land

we drive a fence, with a gate --


to future harvests.

Around what centre,

in ever wider circles --


do I fly, blow, sing?

Around your presence,

everything becomes gloomy --


So stay in my eyes!

A row of benches

bends along the garden paths --


for the elderly.