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

Man is a wild animal
in a herd, a group
that organizes
to be tamed

but it's not easy
to get the systems right
There are unexpected effects
or oppressive requirements

No one is responsible
Deposing leaders, killing
dictators makes no difference
The people tolerate the successor

Help is needed
From the outside, but
the borders are deadly
to humanity

So I must appreciate little
things, a glance
the clouds, fresh bread once
and dream what is forbidden

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

Barefoot, my mother

squats next to me in the grass --


very intimate.

Battles and heroes

of the past are homages –


to ******, shameless.

Your cloths are already dry
but I just let them flap
so at least something is happening
in this deserted place

You just sit there watching
taking a dip every now and then
Afterwards you carefully dab
the short hairs on your skull

I liked you better in the bar
although you were bragging
about your house and the beach
all to yourself

You showed your brown chest
I wanted to lie on it
and work on my tan a little
so nice by the sea

No, you are not social
the day is still long
and there is nothing here
to cook a good meal

I am sitting on the full power
of 210 horses, running
across Rooster beach
I exist, I live
ouring fast

my soul devours the surf
and the dune, the landscape
of my freedom, my dream
and reality fall together
on the border of the sea and friends

where I embrace my Norton
strong, autonomous, and free
I create image by image
life from my desires
I create love in myself

All people look at me
but no one sees me
Their looks stop at their fantasy

That's how it is to be almost a goddess
inhuman, an image, an avatar
around my body

concealing that I exist
and preventing me from dying
although everyone wants to **** me

for what It has done
in its creative drive
from which I was born

As if I can do something about
the way men and women see me
and what follies they commit

for the phantom with my name
which is immortal and naked
looking fixedly at them

so that their weapons fall
and they reconcile
with their dreams

I have no worries
no other than ***
and the question of what love is
How do I keep his attention?

I'm trying my best
to converse intelligently
and wittily, but
I don't lose the feeling

that our marriage is a play
In bed, he stares away from me
while caressing and making love
He doesn't see my loneliness

but makes the most of it
he keeps me safe in his arms
before he gets active, and then
puts me to sleep on his chest

on his heart, which beats so
quietly and intangibly for me
when it suits him
He doesn't see my beauty

Beauty: a flower,

two people in love, or three --


high bar releases.

Beauty: an angel

of terror who despises –


to sweep us away.

Be careful, my love

is heavy, you will get tired --


and then you'll leave me.

Be careful, my love

is heavy, you will get tired --


and then you'll leave me.

Be careful with men,

because they want just one thing:


your full attention.

Be careful with Plans:

if you keep altering them –


you'll go in circles.

Broken contact, what can you
say about it, do you have to
talk about missing it?

Having lost someone
who is still there, but never with you
not as it could have been

Having our own lives, you
because you decided so
and I because it is that way

If it wasn't so
we would feel
what we don't feel now

mutuality, togetherness
a sideshow though, yes
we let life flow

It can go around obstacles
it does not need any comment
and no afterword