The guests run away,

the staff is left with the feast --


left with the rumours.

The gull does not flee

from their stench, no, it attacks --


them: the garbage bags.

The gum bubble bursts,

people scream about profit


motives: blue ******!

The hairdresser cuts

me, he is cutting up time --


to eternity.

The hairy leaves bend

their silver to the sunlight:


the tree full of moons.

The hall is sold out,

because we always remove --


superfluous chairs.

The hall lights go on

after the film, there's no one --


we can applaud for.

The harbour bell blocks

all men with colourful socks --


in the Northern Docks.

The harbour: the quays


are like a flat sea, the ships --



are walls of iron.

The heart and dagger

on the dark jar lure me, ask --


me to pick it up.

The heart as a drum,

and the mouth as a trumpet:


that's a human life.

The heating remains

cold, but it makes an effort --


It howls and rattles.

If there is a heaven
where souls reside after death

within or far from their bodies
it can only be poetry
the meeting place

of living souls and old souls
whose pains exist no longer
here and now, only

as an image of fate
as an understanding angel
of the love

to live, to try
... the golden mean
... of following and leading

to feed the senses
... with the miracle
... of mother earth

embraced
by the heaven of poetry

The heron recedes

with a very slow wing beat –


the sun is setting.

The highest ruler,

the self, is hungry, in need --


of beauty and love.

The hilly country

gives us to drink from its lap --


heavenly nectar.

Across the road was the land
homesteads mixed farming
in acid air are the animals
clearing their throat, safe

behind the teeth of the dog
each of them servient
to a higher order
only the rooster didn't know that

I grew up at that fringe of the city
and in my absence the farms
have grown to giants
which have eaten the landscape

but they don't have an appetite
for hills and gorges, winding roads
choke them, so they leave
the Hinterland alive

The holiday guests

stay away, I imagine --


a quite poor reason.

The hospital drinks

patient blood three times a day –


Well, no vampires here.

The hounds sniff the ground,

fallen leaves and moss, they are --


no longer hunting.

The house creaks, little

brother leans over me, says:


I'll never collapse!

The house has new sounds,

a harmony: languages --


dance, and skin colours.

The house of my youth

has been rebuild: younger bricks –


for younger people.

The ice cracks and squeaks,

because it does hurt to melt --


and take on colour.

Old people stiffen
They eat less and less
That's the beginning

of their end, but I want to go ahead
I crawl and waddle until I can run
and in the meantime I do magic
and grow myself taller

I am impetuous, at least
in the desires that bud
from my soul
regardless of season

There is a hungry growth blazing
in me, I eat to keep on
eating, there is so much
to reach to, I jump

and I eat, I live

The incantations

in the dark are the disguise --


of true confessions.

Inexperienced travellers get lost
so soon in unknown regions
They are tempted
by alleys and signals
and go down the stairs

to the inside
ignorant where they are, somewhere
for real or just romping around a little
in their heads, turned crazy
crazier craziest by their senses

which surround them with walls
that they want to touch
to know if they are hard
or that they can float
right through them at a gallop

They are looking for a hand, a body
They want to talk, fight if necessary
with someone who will grab their axis
to stop the monologue
that shrills into their ears

He was new here, young
no threat, he was allowed
to lend a hand

To survive, he had to be worth
himself and get to know
the people in this country

There was no path mapped out for him
Nobody expected something from him
Soon he started his own business

He became rich because of the stupidity
and the self-interest of the regents
He bought up surplus harvests

and built expensive barns
to safeguard the food
against rain and vermin

He was indispensable, an authority
strengthening the dynasty
His daughter became Queen

Our large body has no face
no one sees it is us
it's kerosene

the Djinn who brings us everything
with an invisible trail
of destruction

footprints that trampled
indented and soured
all for us

I entrench myself in my house
full of old stuff, repaired with love
that does not eat animal suffering

Bye birds, bye flowers, bye children
from which hunger you will die
you cannot know

The jinns: a cloud cuts

through the moon and through the eye --


that looks at the moon.

The jinns: a man looks

in the mirror and he sees --


the back of his head.

The joyful crowd throws

me into his arms, we laugh --


and then I lose him.

Sometimes, I have heard something back
from a sister or neighbour, something
from the past that makes me special, well

I'm no longer being driven around
the districts, behind dad
in a litter on the cycle rack

with barbs in my skin
which reflect the light
with royal allure

no, I am not colourless
although I don't have a fringe-tail
and no public, I drink

a beer with you
in The King's Hut café
and that's the king here

The lake overflows,

there is way too much water –


to keep for itself.

The landscape awakes

in hesitant morning light --


still breathing silence.

The landscape forces

me to put it on canvas --


and then it won't work.

The large autumn moon:

in the darkest of the night –


the sun is still bright.

The large pipe *****

is building up walls of sound --


a castle in air.

The large pipe *****

rumbles doom, heading for me --


with its air soldiers.

The leaders avoid

the prophetess. It doesn't help --


because she has sown.

The leaves are fragile,

at the slightest they come off --


caution! breathe softly!

The winter is over, the men want action
like rams without ewes and without a shepherd
By the fishing lake, I promise to be their king

It takes a fortune, rows of carts
bring bread and fish every day
the campaign begins, we march
through the outer regions

On the Mount of Anointment near the capital
we camp under the olive trees
The saint pours a golden crown of oil
over my head, it is my best birthday

I address the men: It is near!
And my enemies, who do not want me
bring them here and slay them before me!

The light at the end

of the tunnel is my hope:


heaven anyway.

The lightning dances

yellowly on the ridges --


It's an event here.

Expats, foreign workers, people
who are stuck, stay and continue

dreaming of a free life
as shepherds and cattle lords
in their own country
of grassy meadows, milk, and honey
the old promise

The young men long
for the beautiful girls
of the north
while they do the work here
in the delta, where they feel at home

in the stories
of the ancient god who created the world
with thoughts from his heart, living
words from his mouth, the Potter
who molded man

stories
that mold their souls, giving some light
when it is dark in their hearts
filled with old ash in which still glows
the fire of the Destroyer

The little blue hat,

she always wears it, because --


why would she undress?

The little cottage

transforms me when I enter --


into a giant.

The little donkey:

proudly young eyes on high legs.


Once, I was like that.

The little mermaid:

on her tail, she got buttocks --


from all the sitting.

The little plant bends

with the sun and the wind, blooms --


as much as it can.