At last there's a flag,

flapping next to a café --


like a crackling fire.

At most I myself

catch what I mean, with you it's --


misunderstandings.

At night, the houses

with their windows are yawning --


at me everywhere.

At parties he crawled

through the livestock like a child --


sheep among the sheep.

At parties I try

to leave soon, always longing --


for festivity!

A trail in the snow:

the fresh footprints of a fox --


along red spatters.

A trap? Then I'll step

into it, wondering what --


will happen to me.

A travel story

without an experience


is just air – bad breath.

A tree uprooted,

mud, a crack in the rock-ledge –


and clear spring water!

At regular times

a message comes, stating: this --


connection exists.

At school I learned all

sorts of things, especially --


the art of boredom.

I didn't learn
to live, I just
got used to it

and try to be myself
with friends who don't make demands
and are available

when I come or shout
that I'm lonely
but with you it's different

Sometimes I don't know afterwards
whether we were connected
and then I get lost

in my thoughts, so
there is no contact
and I must embrace you

feel the firmness
of your body
to believe in us

Attention is nice

even from a distance, but --


I miss our embrace.

At the airport, I

follow the people who know --


where they are going.

At the bench, just before
we get there, he reaches
for the ground

and sits down
but he doesn't seem to know how
he doesn't seem to be well, I wait

A municipal man comes
to see and he calls for help, sirens
My companion is carefully laid down

A woman presses her arms
around me and holds me
caressing me

Others are watching
tirelessly his chest rises
after every push, another push

I'm still not allowed
to go to him, I'm waiting
it can't be right

that he stays down
that he is not on the bench
that he doesn't talk to me

Slowly the bell is ringing
slowly the donkeys move on
under black blankets

The covered coach is high
Up is Up and Down is Down
Crying, we carry the long train
through the circus, we change
hats, unroll the will
and stop for a group portrait

Life goes on, under drum rolls
the coach moves around, faster
and faster, hunted
by the music and salute shots
from the tuba, smoke, and fire everywhere
the fire truck comes in

Champagne and applause
We swing through the serpentines
until the light goes out

Are you an angel, am I a dog?
Are you from heaven and I from hell?
Or are you a dog, my dog?
And will we go to hell together?

Where are you taking me?
Where am I taking you?
Why do you want to love me?
What can I ever give you?

The more you love me
the more I have to
betray your love, tear it apart
like a dog at the gate

The more you believe in me, the more
I'll bite back until your love is dead
at the gates of heaven
or the gates of hell

At the junk dealer

I write, of course, life stories --


of the furniture.

At the reception

I am bouncing everyone --


like silly putty.

At the steering wheel

the child goes Around the World –


in 80 Daydreams.

Politicians are at the top
of language, salesperson
and lawyer in one they
compress the voters' words
with lobbyists and preachers
along the line, it's all

about bluff and the art
of getting stuck every now and then
so that a competitor has to come
and help and inconspicuously
pushed on previous promises
crashes, chokes on them

or at least tears
himself inside
on their blade
You too, Brutus?
It is a full moon
The people are cheering

At three in the night

I have a hot chocolate –


my sweet brown mama.

At times a boat, car,

or delivery, the town --


has been ruralised.

Authorities, act!

Really, I do want to change --


so help me! Force me!

Authorities are

smart, they don't say anything --


they just ask questions.

Automatic belts

work without having to switch --


Are they analogue?

Automatic face

recognition: wearing masks --


for your privacy.

Autumn, it's raining

the old dejection again --


of my frightened heart.

Because I feel that
we still love each other
at a distance, I dare

after the tour through the garden
the last honeysuckle smell and
drinking unclarified apple juice

together in the autumn sun
to ask you:
How are we

now, our love
how close are we still
heart to heart?

Would we, living in the same
house, also have gone
different paths?

In what spring will we
receive our children
after this winter?

A very low tone

fills the corners of the hall --


the ***** sings Om.

A violinist

lightly strokes the sheep gut with --


tightly stretched horsehair.

Awake all night long

since I heard the door bell ring --


Anyone in need?

A war is concrete,

but it always starts abstract --


with words, with language.

A waste bag bulging

with plastic is cut open:


the seagull's stomach.

I feel the discomfort
of staying where I am
and leaving the problem

to someone else's job or duty
to the neighbours with whom it happens
on the outskirts of the village

It's urgent, there is need
to fix the houses and the barns
but

it takes too long
or there is too little time
for my impatience

I talk with the neighbours
while we wait
until we can move on

within reason and the rules
of the comfort of staying
where we are

Away with strict rules

to prolong my existence --

I keep on Living.

Away with the vice

squad-patriarchy: I am --


Boss Of My Belly!

A white vibration,

of the blossoms, I shiver –


for what is to come.

A wink: I look back,

he promises something, but –


what do I believe?

Awkwardly he holds

my hand, just like in photos --


from the olden times.

A worm in my head

wants to wriggle at my fate –


it drives me crazy.

My home
if it still exists
in the wrinkles and grey hair
where I rest

My body
stiff from the years, all
so long ago, you too
my dear unknown

My soul
full of tears, memories
of your sweet lips
never to be forgotten

My song
my breath, still singing
where I stop
coming back

At home on the couch
I crumple the edges
of the puke bag

The old times, the old songs
the excuses for the postponement
of the promised future

are back, back
from not having been away

We're still at home
in Old Man State, our
freedom was a dream

There are no more musicians
and no more beautiful
girls from Ukraine

The iron cold is back, back
from not having been away

Back from the city,

I clearly see, rich people --


here are just paupers.

Back 'home' after years.

What will I come across there?


Can it still exist?

Back in Amsterdam!

So, why aren't people shining --


here with happiness?!

I met someone and asked
'Where are you going? Something special?'
There's a large field over there
where I will sing
to free my soul

People are golden, star
dust in the large, large field
- finally back in the garden
'Oh, can I come with you?
Out of the smog!'

We just spin around
in mists without a view
but very perhaps
something changes
in time, or in me

The army no longer throws bombs
but food and drinks
on all the hungry people
without money, devilish money
- finally back in the garden

Back in the Garden

of Love, I walk around lost --


among gravestones.

Back in the old house,

silently, we fill the boxes –


with our mama's life.

There's nothing to eat in the kitchen
of Charles Frank Watchman
born here in this town

and deceased last winter
We polish the worktop
made from his gravestone

There is not a scratch on it
The coffin in which he lay
have we traded for

nothing, bacon and beans
Times are changing
but inequality is not

no matter how many marches
we walk to the Great Golden
White, Pink, or Blue House