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Du wirst diese Geschichte nicht lesen glaub ich aber du kannst  das übersetzen. Ich habe dich so sehr geliebt.
Ich vermisse dich so sehr jetzt.
Ich weiß dass ich nicht ein guter Mann  bin.
Komm zurück zu mir.
Ich denke das wird eine schwere Zeit ohne dich zu sein.
Mein Teufel ist  da. Du hast den schon gesehen und hoffentlich kannst du mir in eine gute Licht anzusehen.
Hoffentlich. Wirst du mich nicht hassen.

Als die abgekühlten, verschwendeten Träume des Unterbewusstseins
langsam ihre Farbe verlieren,
werden seine verwaisten Hände übertastig,
greifen blind nach dem Fleisch,
neben dem seinen,
das weltverloren aus der verweiblichten Realität atmet.

Im Niemandsland halbwacher Gedanken,
erscheint jene Schaufensterpuppe,
die ihn an einem ganz gewöhnlichen Wochentag,
mit ihrem leeren Blick fixiert.
Plastische Existenz im gedankenlosen Körper,
zum Schweigen gebracht,
damit sie ihr Selbst nicht verleugnen muss,
wenn ihr der rechte Arm auf links gedreht wird.
Im Vorbeistehn schenkt sie ihm ein unbewohntes
Lächeln.
Oder ist es doch sein eigenes,
das sich im Fenster spiegelt?

An den Venusgürtel der Blauen Stunde gekrallt,
hält er die Augen fest geschlossen
Unsichtbar für das Lichte,
nicht sehen,
nicht gesehen werden,
ein Sich-den-Sinnen-verweigern,
im unbemerkten Raum innerhalb der Zeit

Wie der Blaue Blumendichter,
so weiß auch er,
um die Notwendigkeit der Verschiebung,
wenn die ätherische Illusion berührt,
wenn das Subjekt zum Objekt geworden,
in die Nichtwirklichkeit zurückgeschoben werden muss,
damit das lyrische Heimweh aus der
Überlebensverhinderung befreit wird

Wäre sie immer noch das,
was er am meisten bewundert,
wenn er jetzt,
jetzt,
in diesem blutleeren Augenblick,
sein linkes Oberlid öffnete,
nur einen kleinen Spalt breit
?
Wäre sie nur eine der liebreizenden
Schmetterlingspflanzen,
deren sinnliche Blüten begierig mit seinem Unterleib
tanzen,
und die Töne aus seinen Lenden presst,
bis die Musik verstummt
??
Würde er in seinen Weißhaarzeiten auf einer Bank
sitzen,
unten am See,
eine verschlissene, offene Aktentasche auf dem Schoß,
den Kopf tief vergraben im ranzigen Leder
und mit zittrigen Händen

nach einer fragmentierten Erinnerungsspur suchend,
die längst in die Bedeutungslosigkeit geflohen war
???

Er wagt einen halboffenen Blick,
hinüber zur lichtblauen Sehnsucht,
dem gestern noch so gefräßigen Verlangen,
das sich nun,
in gnadenloser Sattheit,
in seiner Fleisches-Unlust ausbreitet.

Ausgelangweilt kratzen seine gierigen Finger an der fiktiven Verkleidung,
bis ihr schamhaftes Blut in seine eigene Selbsttäuschung tropft
und ihre Brüste aus den blaubepuderten Versprechungen bersten,
die er nicht ihr, sondern sich selbst gab.

Im Schein des Morgensterns
glänzt bereits der melancholische Trauertau,
als sich beider Seufzer ein letztes Mal berühren.
Hastig wickelt er prosaische Bandagen
um ihre offenen Wunden

und schiebt das Gestern in (s)eine neue Zukunft.

and i saw, four figures of fire rise up
and transverse the night sky...
     to reiterate: i'm used to seeing wandering
stars... that's almost usual for me...
to reiterate:
    if i'm originally writing in English...
i have to go back, to the zeppelins...
und ich gesehen, vier zahlen aufgehen
und querlaufend der nachthimmel!
mein gott! ich war rechts!
                                  der zeit ist reif!

of the 3Ps i once cited: priests psychiatrists & prostitutes, there's also a 4th P... poets? then again, i'm not too sure, too much soapy-water, too much cuddle-fiddling going around, not enough gusto akin to Julian Tuwim, Witkacy, Dante or Giuseppe Belli... i mean, go for it, go see a priest, see what he tells you: repent! some ******* solipsistic mea culpa - only you exist! it's all your fault... right... everyone else is ******* blameless?! go see a psychiatrist... if they don't prescribe you regression - i.e. want to implant you with false memories, they'll prescribe you the sort of drugs that make you wet your bed at night! or **** you out, out of a yin-yang... zombie! oi oi! ZOM-BIE! i.e. EE! alternatively... go and see a *******... if you ever thought you had erectile-dysfunction... go and see a *******... never fails... well... it fails when you've drunk too much and she's being an overtly timid little *****: but even then you cuddle and share tongues... what's eyes in Romanian? what's freckles in Romanian? what's nose in Romanian? then you exit the brothel, get on your bike and scream like a werewolf all the way home, harking, grunting, ******* at yourself for drinking too much... but you still exit the brothel like a gentleman: in their own words... you kiss two on the hand and the one you just spent an hour with on the forehead... then you go back again and ask for the Turkish girl that was so eager to sleep with you... this time you go sober... turns out she's a nymphomaniac and you're into that sort of ****... wholesome stuff... nothing ****-funny... none of that Dubai crap... wholesome... oral *** without a ****** and then all that protection while she talks something funny while you try not to speak a word: word... who needs god in the bedroom? elevation of animal noises just won't do? all this talk during *** is a ******* turn-off...

             che bber ttruttrù! oh ddio mio che cciammellona!
   e ppoi sc'è la bbebbella e la bbobbóna!

like the men who put women on a peddle-stool,
this idea that: women are unable to ****...
or some Cinderella *******, i have the same problem
with the English, the people,
i don't know why... i always seem to envision then
as these ideal people... well... concerning what
they say: you'd think so...
perhaps not the people per se:
rather the society they have envisioned...
well... so much for the society they envisioned...
where's the best part at?
where?! 10 Downing St., there's where!
that's going to be a running joke for, some, time...
it's not that i even care...
it started to turn foggy, "all of a sudden"...
you know how fog looks like in the night?
like... someone breathed a breath of milk
powder into the atmosphere:
the street lights are visible, the moon is...
but people are less and less: visible because...
they tell big-little-truth: which are lies...
it's not the sort of lies associated with..
why would my supervisor send me
a sample of her fruit cake... white lie: oh... great
baking technique... like **** it was...
whenever having *** i always found it
suspicious that a woman might get pleasured
from the *******...
whenever it happened to me with prostitutes:
i still wouldn't believe them...
i would be met with scolding: OW...
yeah: they couldn't believe it either...
they couldn't believe that being authentically pleasured
i didn't buy into them being pleasured...
hey, weird as the world is... enough said...
so my supervisor sends me her take on
a fruit cake... oh **** me it's sweet...
it's so sweet it's like the antithesis of *******
a lemon... i mean... even though *******
a lemon is not exactly cringe... but a lemon
is a sweet-acidity... this load of *******
it is just SWEET...
i have to brew myself a cup of coffee
and not sweeten it just in order to... to...
recreate a concept of palette for my numbed tongue...
it's terrible: women can bake worth of ****
these days...
it's too sweet... i rather **** a lemon...
alright, here's to the plunge...
what are we working with...
two *****... *****?!
if there are two women... trying to look
unattractive... oh **** on me...
we even don the same haircuts... but i have the beard:
they don't...
i'd still... you know... do some plumping...
male sure something is working, correctly:
you read is correctly:
MALE SURE... no... not "MAKE SURE"...

are these women supposed to have invisible sniffer
dogs around them, does it take having 5 children
to say: mmm... something is scented "funny"...
*****... for starters...
and that's like... normal... for the woman to
sniff you? sure, the compliment is great:
oh, you smell good...
           so does a fresh paintjob on a pristine looking
bathroom, but who am i to brag?
and it's like the most basic job:
lowest i.q. threshold imaginable...

i can say, i look the part... why do i look the part?
is some ******* **** going to stop me
taking a pint of beer to an area where i'm not allowed to take it...
or will some 6ft2 bloke...
donning a pristine coat... affirmatively pedantic
in questioning his attire... stop... 6 lads...
from doing likewise... because... i look the part?
because i'm a male and... ahem: "i'm entitled to being
entitled to the entitlement of being entitled of
being in a functioning role whereby i'm not given
leeway?!
optics... no one is going to take a woman seriously
in a position of a steward... even if she tries to pull it off
as a ******* ****... sorry, no...

reality tends to bite back...
even Brandon... oh my mother knows Brandon,
he works the Romford Blue Sapphire gym...
we talked about dogs... about him being abused about
the public, me trying to explain to him that:
he too has a breaking point... imagine that:
you going off a tangent...
see... this is what bothers me about the English...
Brandon says he's a home... manager...
some sort of manager... that he lives with his girlfriend...
i message me mumz and she clarifies...
he's not a manager... he's a senior receptionist...
he lives with his girlfriend... hmm... he might have
a girlfriend, but he probably lives with his parents...

status, hierarchy...
****'s sake... he says he's a manger of a gym, house, manager...
yet he... works added hours as a steward at sport events...
or the second girl that sniffed me up:
because i'm all ******* fine for being sniffed...
she apparently has a private... personal? huh?
business... oh... she just does this **** on the side...
right... 5 kids in...
you know the advantage of not being famous...
you can sort out a lot of ******* among your coworkers...

oh **** me, the atmosphere is great...
Emma loves pythons... you feed them... frozen, mice?
interesting... so they wouldn't eat anything
that's already killed, they need to be under the illusion
of having killed something?! wow...
imagine... living without eyelids... blah blah...
she's almost like this scary feminist blue-tinged hair fairy...
but...
oh my god... if no one's looking...
and i look at her earlobes... no... come to think of it...
if i just look at her ears... yeah: but me writing about this
is not exactly me telling her during hours of work...
oh you smell nice... counter-*******-productive
if you ask me... why? because now i'm thinking about *******
you!

the most ****** parts of a woman... her hands...
why? because if i were she were we were to hold
my ******* emblem... i'd ask myself to be rid
of the pinky finger & the 4th knuckle...
a woman's ears! it's like... itchy... itchy... smooth...
smooth... ears, hands... chin... neck's pleasure-dome
of tenderness... wild eyes!

and you know what: i watch these grown men
"indocrininate" their offspring into either
a support of a football team,
localised prejudices, yet those "disappear" when
support for the / a national teams surfaces...

hey, so much for pork eating
when you're Muslim and cousin *******...
i guess eating pork must be as much
confusing as cousin-*******, no?!
i guess pork-bad = ******-bad!
**** them, these ****** specimens...
who's going to care for them?
is Romania the only option?

        ****** riddled i.q. starvation oops...
how do you write oops in the plural?
as much as i might be discriminated to
eating pork, where does most of leather come from?
shoes? PIG... belt... PIG...
sorry... "cousin": you're about to **** your
grandmother's sister... or whatever happens
in Pakistan...

sinister taunt... how else to combat these
audacious suicide-bombers...
shame their ****** culture origins...
keep them there... they better settle for being there...
aww.... look at that...
only today... a Pakistani mother, daughter & grandma...
the daughter... all sort of fiddly... sort of weird...
to tongue out... trying to lick the grandmother's tongue...
even my cat doesn't do that...

eating pork is bad...
right... while god created all that's good...
god created cumin! turmeric! ******* ****** camel-jockeys....
right... cousin-******* is somehow divinely inspired?!
******* to Dubai... ******* to where there's no "racism" /
slavery invited by the Arabs using up Bangladeshi flesh...

OI! ARAB! COUGH UP! YOUR RIDDLE OF KFC!
power, supposed power... now... a joke; always
the little people, one litre of whiskey will always make you a convert, given, that you get to see so many zombies from the mere experience of ingesting a pint, two pints, three pints of beer...

with me? you need to play a longer game.

- are they still going on about the war of words?
here's a new one i learned...
i believe that onions are the only plants in existence
that have consciousness - or rather:
are receptive of pain...
you chop down a tree... eh... not much...
perhaps a splinter under your nail...
given, in light of debate, ahem "debate" in Parliament
concerning the ethical way of killing lobsters...
boiling the: B'ah BAD...
but freezing them etc.: not so B'ah BAD...
i once dated a girl who found it funny that
in her childhood she would pour salt on snails...
i accidently step on a snail in the dark
in the garden i hear a crunch in my heart...
sorry, mate... didn't see you coming...
it's like this one time - thinking about it still
gives me a pseudo-PTSD...
Poland: where else? walking alone, "somewhere"...
i come across these two boys (i am also a boy
at that time) - oh... so what are you up to?
the reply? **** me...
oh... we caught this frog, we're smearing it
with lipstick then we're going to set it alight...

erm... o.k... see you later Jeffrey & Henry H...
******* Major Major, whatever...
o.k. that i'm not a presbyterian: shoot me...
give me a raw herring in a yoghurt sauce and i'll
tell you to stuff, your cosmopolitan sushi up
your ******* ***!
there, said it, no turning back...
    i'm done, with people, telling me what i can and
can't say... but killing animals in an unnecessary manner:
that's beneath even me enjoying
a few poultry abortions on toast...
a toasted bagel... with some cream cheese...
some raw smoked salmon (is it cooked if it's only
smoked?) some dill and... mmm... a squeeze of lemon...
beats a cucumber every single time...
curing... funny that... you pour some acid
on a sea protein and it starts a cooking process...
that's ******* weird...
it's "unconsciously" receptive of the cooking process:
to heat... via an acid...

right, right... that new word...
        syn-propanethial-S-oxide... said the cis-man...
that's the **** that onions release when you
cut them... which makes you cry...
ergo? you think that perhaps onions are receptive
of pain? should we have a Parliament debate akin
to lobsters regarding how one might prepare onions?!
i think we should... also... a debate about
eating oysters... after all: invasion of privacy:
peering into those shells... don't you think?

- sure, but if i were to do it... oh, something smells "funny"...
not good, at first, just funny...
she wanders with her eyes then focuses on my neck
draws in and sniffs it... oh... it's you... you smell good...
yeah... i do that... but in a brothel...
once i've paid to pass the paywall...
i take her hair in my hands and sniff it...
because she's lying next to me, naked...
and i'm naked it... but i don't ******* follow it up
with any words: i'm already intoxicated
by the scent...

if a man were to sniff up a woman - in public, or better still...
in a professional environment...
and these are the same women who get confused when
they are abused by drunk and disorderly lads
at a football match... like Louis XIV said:
perception is everything... for ****'s sake:
if you don't look the part... a hungry *** starved
yet still a beaming with joy angry gorilla...
you're not going to get away with much...
not in that sort of scenario...

a quest for double-think: my new motto is...
YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME THE TRUTH,
JUST DON'T LIE...
what's the middle ground? this supposed house
manager (ahem, elder receptionist) -
well... we ended up talking about him
petting a dog... an american pit bull terrier...
but he called it by some other name...
where he walked: Raphael Park, eh?

oh the nights spent with dangerous ladies...
loved every minute...
the only place where i can: breathe me...
and breathe them...
where i don't have to be ignored, displaced...
******* of a man...
esp. among Romanian or Turkic women...
to hell with those overrated blonde ******...
give me Tuba Büyüküstün and i'll give you
the ******* Taj Mahal... eh... some prostitutes are
just worn beauties... you rub them the right way
some sort of Genie ends up appearing...
usually: grr... viciously... wild-eyed...
anyway... none of them could ever get in between
my affair with Fraulein Bernstein (whiskey)...
it sort of *****... but life's life... and death's death...
no point making complaints...
ooh... **** me... all that raven hair... and Turkic...
recipe for disaster...
why? well... because she's not exactly copper-skinned...
she doesn't look like she has a pernament suntan...
like the Raj girls from... wherever Delhi is...
(I know where Delhi is! for, ****'s sake!)

if we're being so adamant in living in a post-racial
society, surely i can pick and be fickle about
my sort of potential cocktail of genes, no?
does it always have to be about black on white,
or white on black... can i... hmm...
i'd like something more curious... again:
can i stick with the Turkic women?
i fancy that depth of a shared history...
the Ottoman Empire knocking on the door
of Europe (even though the Greeks cucked)
at Vienna... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth replying...
while being back-stabbed by the...
Prussians... Russians... Swedes...

o.k. i tried being extra special and slept with...
two black girls... not that i greatly enjoyed it...
o.k. i enjoyed ******* one...
but the other one gave me the creeps...
how, can, i, ****, a woman,
when... she has two children sleeping in the room...
she drags them out of bed...
forces them to sleep on the floor while i'm
THEN supposed to do, what?!
**** her?! she probably had *** since she
started to fake having a ******... instead ensuring
her inner thighs were tight enough...
or whatever the **** was happening...
i just asked her: can i sleep here tonight...
she agreed... i woke up in the middle of the night
while little afro Jerome was standing at the foot
of the bed ******* at a makeshift ****...
so i grabbed him and placed him on my chest...
the end...

*** is ugly... unless it's with a *******...
in a brothel...
   come to think of it... since: i'm always drinking
when i'm writing...
the more i drink the more i wake up...
i was going to suggest: the more i sober up...
no, the more i drink the more i wake up...
but i'm not of the "woke" brigade...
i'm of the SLEPT brigade...
    waking is for the people who are still somewhat
sleeping... or... rather... awake in a zombie-state
of consciousness, mantra-riddled *******...
what could get me drunk?
if i were drinking... as always...
a good conversation... i'm a sucker for a good conversation
like i'm a sucker for pop music when i'm sober...
AQUA: TURN BACK TIME... anything
by ROXETTE...

- and as it happens at every football match i steward,
i see a dad with his younglings...
sure... that could have been me,
but, my psychotic trip: exit at the age of 21...
sort of sorted my future affairs for me,
perhaps i wrote in my 20s... something or other...
but i wasn't really there: or here...

   i get really jealous when i see a guy with a pretty girl,
or when i see four or five guys, friends...
then again: i hate companionship,
i prefer the presence of animals...
    dogs i can almost stand if i don't require them
to be put on a leash... on a leech of authority...
i can stand objective language as long
as it is prescribing me authoritative pointers...
but objective narration bores the hell out of me...
it's so... so... unimaginative...
if objective narratives were a women
i'd call them a stuck-up-***** fakery
of a flaky "******"...

                             while Pearl Jam became
what Nirvana could never become... grunge-dad-rock...
i don't mind... i truly don't mind... after seeing
enough faces you start thinking along
the categories of: TO PREVENT A SECOND HILLSBOROUGH,
TO PREVENT A SECOND HILLSBOROUGH...

seeing so many people i sometimes start
thinking about working in a slaughterhouse  -
then again, to seem less psychopathic
i think about the people working in slaughterhouses...
it's not fair that i... wait... i'm not getting paid
for this... well if it's free: then i suppose anything goes,
right?
          
    oh what could have been...
oh sure sure, it's great... getting sniffed up by women
in their 30s with 5 children in tow
thinking they are single and childles...
white knight anywhere, anyone?! no? keep sniffing...
darling... and it was this running joke...
*** habits came up... one blue haired freak of a girl
that keeps snakes: some 3ft long, pythons...
she said darling but i forgot to lip-read her
mishearing: daddy... i've been called DAD before...
don't ask why...

i morphed Darling into Daddy... for the whole *******
shift she kept nagging me...
Daddy... this... Daddy that...
o.k. with a 7  year old i could understand...
i could cuddle a toddler... do all that mother-goose ****...
she or he could pull my beard... ;oke my eye out...
i don't do friends, i i don't do dates...
i do prostitutes, i do whiskey,
i do forests at night, i do graveyards at night...
i do German thinking...
  i might come across as autistic or as an imbecile...
but i think the same of you...

how unfortunate to have children of your own...
esp. girls... how unfortunate...
imagine the distaste in your mouth at being called
a father at some point... then again: the same goes for having
a son... it's a nice idea... a very nice idea...
but i'm here not on some ******* mea culpa
clause... i've reached my prime and i wasn't selected
for the replica... it doesn't bother me in that:
i always had a melancholic disposition...
given that i'm ageing... i have acquired a melancholic
sense of self-deprecating humour....
i'll sooner commit suicide than die the death of
"loneliness"...

   it will most certainly be a pristine night...
cloudless... with a full moon!

what's that counter argument i keep hering?
what's that? i said: WHAT'S THAT?!
oh you know that ******* yin-yang masculinity
undermined. that we should all be *******
farmers: not enough coliseums...
plenty of vegan hot-spots though...
love, my ***..

   personally i don't know how white girls ****
all these african boys... for me, ******* a black
girl is sort... sort of crippling...
anything beside something Caucasian...
in the raven hair category... i'll sooner *******
to Asia than i'll acknowledge to ever
coming from Africa... the Somali inbreds
**** me off the most: listen, curly-braids!
you're not here to be paid to watch the football match!
why isn't anyone paid to watch a football match!

once upon a time they were known as the Yanks...
the Yankees... these days? oh, you know...
these days some of us just call them the WANKEES...
the WANKS... cuck-barons of the world..
yeah, i once had respect for these people...
it's sort of waning day in, day out...

but if i'm expected to fight someone else's fight...
these days i'm going to say: no thank you...
i'm already gearing up myself to marry death...
how's that?! of course i can see the little people,
of course i love animals as much as i love children...
they're one and the same to me...
personally... and i'm seriously disorientated
by fraulein bernstein... eternity?!

Abraham! oi!
    an eternity spent among children...
or... with 72 virgins... your take...
         oh no no no...
i'm not taking these *******,
these supposed virgins anywhere...
i'm taking the children... throw in 72 rottweilers
if you're at it... i know time well spent...
but knowing my luck... i'll be bound to a hell
where women sniff my hair, or my neck...
even though i'm not exactly anything to peer at...

why are these Indian women looking at me oh
so funny? i'm not rich, what?! am i funny?!
then again, working around the Turkic manifesto of
a woman's beauty... some of these Raj girls give
me a hard-on like not other... they have eyes that tease...
white girls' eyes are all anti-racist: seek *******
zombie...

white girls are currently only available for black boys
given white girls' anti-racist "trauma"...
so here's to building up a New Brazil!
   yeah.... that's also called me looking elsewhere...
oh, no, not for commitment...
   for the sake of it!
anorexic bleached hair... in need of psychiatric help...
or otherwise beached-whale types...
feminists with pink hair... can... ha ha... CAN i say NO?!
or do i have to?!

ich bin verheiratet zu die nacht und nicht(s)!
ich! allein! bin!
was ein...ziemlich.... gesicht...
from time to time... Saxony?!

z-mooth ah smoochies... and... a "blah"...
what was written in hell: by hell,
must return to hell... please... no tenderness, here,,,,