Being intimate

with people means having to --


share in their secrets.

Being in your arms,

I haven't any doubt, I feel --


that I belong there.

Being just the way

I am, together with you –


in our messy love.

Being objective

is easy, less scary as --


being subjective.

Being so concerned

with the oppressed everywhere --


just not with colleagues...

Being there, content,

nobody's burden, that's it –


Saints do live that way.

Being there, that's it,

he smiles at me, gardens live –


and are never done.

Being together

for a lifetime: call it love –


if it has been love.

Being unhappy

seeks company, it thrives on --


many witnesses.

I keep your letter sealed
until it is too old
to wish to read

that it could have been otherwise:
pronounced what happened
in me

I don't think what you think
of me
I only think you are
in me

I don't see what you see
in me
I only see you
growing in me

but I keep that
to myself

I want to belong
just
laugh together
and keep talking

whisper in the warmth
of each other's blood
safe in the insecurity
of life

that hits friends and takes them away
from the chain dance -- to the last
we hold them
hand in hand

I don't lock me up
in guarantees and fear
I bump and dent me outside
in the storm, together

with warriors
who do not hide
from the fate of others
because they belong

Be no burden, dear

body, let me die calmly –


because I won't die.

Be responsible,

and legitimise nothing --


with a nice story.

Every morning after the reveille
we hold a bicycle race
from the camp to the Meuse

At full speed I take
the last turn, right into
brand new barbed wire

invisible in the light of the sun
As proficient torturers two others
are colliding with me immediately

Flat tire, torn clothes
In a comic strip, I would now
be hanging horizontally

But I fall, rips in my flesh
gaping and bleeding
Bandages at breakfast

and then I lead my patrol again, what else
after the mysterious providence
of a farmer who's going to pasture on the river?

Besides the ferry,

seagulls dive to our pleasure –


on pieces of bread.

Better not to count

on society or God --


Provide for supplies.

Between a problem

and my actual action --


lies a nowhereland.

Between some remains

and undigested houses:


underground parking.

Between star and night,

between black skin and white skin --


our fire is burning.

Between the farmlands

there is a low walled green field –


with the peasant graves.

Everything starts with it, language
(mama's face and sweet words)
turning, crawling, walking
(mama's hand and encouragement)
eating, playing, wanting
(mama's example and commentary)
sand, water, wind, wood and fire
(heaven and earth)
animals, cars, construction cranes
(the world)
school, listening, practising
(teachers and reading)
practising and practising
(expertise)
until my attention slides smoothly
(like a fish in water)
through the matter
(mastery)

With people, it is different
(they are like me)
they scatter my energy
(in changing rain)
from clouds of love

Between the words, I

write my anxiety: white –


that doesn't disappear.

I wandered through the village
in the woods of densely formed trunks
and I was told that it is not a forest

but a tree, I drank sweet tea
under the ******* aerial roots
and the thick foliage above it

The woman I spoke to, laughed
at my wonder and took my hand
She led me to the middle

where our surrender embraced the trunk
which was too thick for four outstretched arms
The red ribbons touched our head

Back on the terrace on the edge
where the young trunks in the lake
form a living canopy

we saw a flight of parrots
The birds were shouting at us
'No Hurry', they yelled every time

when they passed in the bright colours
of their message: 'No Hurry!
Be Wappy!'

Beware, he kisses

beside my cheek nowadays --


as if I am air.

Beware of people

who cheer you along the way –


like vanes in the wind.

Beware, your body

is a prey for the devil --


He makes you hungry.

Be wise, do your best,

even though you get small thanks:


give what you are worth.

Beyond the ideas

of we and they is a field --


where I wait for you.

I dare to get into bed with you
Your big mouth is too small
for the world, your heart too big

for me, here I am
Well, tell, then I'll dream
with you, about you

in a purple cloak
the skin of innocence and power
Very discreetly, very discreetly

you take revenge
on anyone who does not get into action
and just lets everything happen

You issue wise orders
that camouflage your agenda
Much trouble for nothing

for though you loathe them
they are not another species
they are like you

only not angry enough
to be able to choose
what is important

That is the seed
the seed of your anger
Everyone's passivity

All beginnings are difficult, but
shall his heart grow with mine
and will not matching sensitivities

be given a warm place anyway?
Can it be big like an elephant?

It already is, trumpets one
yeah ha ha ha, stamp the others
grandma Phant blows my hair in a mess

don't hold on to your questions
she says, better come with us

She trunks me between her ears
chatting about phants and people
with their peculiarities

we reach a wide field
of waving colours

The children phants start tasting them
crushing more flowers than they pick
but with love, new ones grow

you see, grandma Phant says
it's easy

if you give space to the sun

Alone. Between lonely hearts
understanding misunderstood others
with attention, my password
the master key in my genes

Kicking I already did it
not yet capable of anything else
as a baby, as a grownup
no one should unlearn it

no one should claim it
when he feels hurt
by hurt people, wronged
by the world

of sham adults
Come, I'm coming, just swallow
your reproaches
for a kiss

He comes in without a word
undresses and points at me
from his golden locks of hair

with the power of his lordship
the natural armament of men
overbearing and selfish

but an overwhelming pleasure
when it enters me, rhythmically
taking me into ecstasies

making me drift
beyond any awareness
of ****** limits

Afterward, again
the wonder of the birdie
growing

with the slightest touch
of my lips, my tongue
and his desire

Birthday: the sweetest


I have goes, with the sweetest --



I had, my darlings.

Bits and bytes, shooting

through the circuits, are playing --


twister super fast.

My memories are photos
that life rushes over
from white to dark
night to day
feelings
already vanished
in black
or blanched
in the bright sun

Snapshots of the earth
frozen, still fleeting
by the rapid spinning
in the eternal sky
of time
from white to dark
night to day
to past, past
past forever

Black sails, thunderclouds
flooding all the shores
all the shores of love

..........Attica (Aegeus and Theseus)..........

Everlasting love
from parents to their child
unconditional and true

But fate is ignorant
and joy makes one forget
the preconcerted sign

Black sails, thunderclouds
crying for our son who died
Is my life worth living now?

Behind the clouds, the sun still shines
the hereafter beckons me
come, perpetuate your bond

..........Brittany (Tristan and Isolde)..........

Everlasting love
the poison drinking innocence
it compels the soul to love

Jealousy can be a tonic too
even white hands lie
when it comes to love

Black sails, thunderclouds
crying for my love who died
Is my life worth living now?

Trees grow out of the graves
and their branches intertwine
inseparable is their bond

Blanche, the white one
is another Tormenta
in another sunnier year

a devastating storm
in the white wall
of clouds around me

Sharply I see everything
rush, struck apart, it is
a raging, twirling and

lightly gliding out of the light
into the nothing
Calmly I see everything

dissolve
out of my eye
my quiet eye

The palm of a hand
is the sign of good intentions
.....I am not armed
.....that's my gift

so is everything
in everyone's hands
.....live with me
.....I will help you

My palm says
who I am, asking you
.....who you want to be
.....for yourself and me

before oblivion
erases who I didn't help
.....to grow, and why
.....I didn't bloom

My darling does things
that are a gift
.....it's her name
.....as a sign

Blind premature deaths

sneak around in sheep's clothing –


we look them away.

Blocks on the carpet:

messy, but very precise –


any way they lie.

It's quiet in the street
someone is splashing
in the bathroom

So small and soft as you
are lying beside me, too beautiful
to wake up

and make love by the open window
yes we're doing it, are you?
But not now, my love

must sleep, I wish he had
a blood-filling dream of me
then I would slide

over him, very carefully
I feel him inside me
and hold my breath

oh oh just a minute
unnoticeably
till I get there

You lie who I am
so do not bother me, do not look
do not say anything, do not ignore me
act normal, can't you see
my Blood Flag in the storm!

I don't want sugar and no pat
and certainly not to be good
I want your recognition
of what has been done to me
only then will I lower my flag!

Well, say it, say it often
enough to make me believe
it is true, the bad luck
I've had, and that I am
wonderful nevertheless!

Only then will I say: ****!
It's over, come on!
I just have to live with it!
And not stand in my own way!
I can really bear that burden!

From working you get wounds
****** clothes in washing machines

Then you sit beside and wait
with spinning thoughts

doing nothing but caress
your skin and fantasize

to do that together with whom
and how and excitingly beautiful

the wounds would heal
and also, very gently with the nails

scratching the scabs

This street in wonderland
a lane of pink clouds
must be the end

of the normal world, happiness
begins here and over there
must be the gate

but I don't want to go there yet
Let me walk slowly and enjoy
trees full of pink cakes

Let me fly away
from pain and nausea
from the holy trinity

of my thoughts, my
organs and the rest, my
despair, grief, and fear

of the unbearable
Let me walk in the clouds
Let the blossoms keep raining

I came here to keep the peace
but I am waiting for nothing
watching nothing

and recording it
in the logs
of the writing angels

with their sky-blue helmets
powerless against the thirst for blood
and nauseous from the smell

of the ***** in my mouth
while the ambulances sneak away
and the city is sprayed clean

The blue butterflies live
on honey from the magic world
of changes -

the rain and shine
and the wing beats
of all the bodies

with more or less happiness
suffered injuries and tears
for unwelcome outcomes

I massage my aching belly
full of vampire moths
As long as I live

blue butterflies will
fly up from the womb
of my affection

Blue lights, pink answers,

tomfoolery all about --


Feel free to join us!

Old self-knowledge, the old fear
of blood loss, beware
of predators

and dream of vampires
dream of witches
who drink the blood

of unborn children
who drink the blood
of their mothers

the sweet blood
that also feeds mosquito eggs
the blood that gives life

to all animals, a body
is a trunk full of blood
blue pale green
yellow pink and red

to catch or for sale at farms
breeding stations and speciality stores

the leeches with a crop
at the pharmacy, without a prescription

oh, ticks will wait a year
five years if it’s only then that you come

Body and mind are

capable of compromise --


but the heart is not.

Bombs are made of gold,

they are the expensive ***** –


of our high culture.