Why are you shivering?
I just remembered-
something from your past?
No, yes - i dont know-
nothing that lasts
in any way.
How come your breath seems so repressed?
It does not-
-and your eyes narrowed?
And how come you keep asking me
all these things-
pierce my heart-
with that sharpened arrow?
I did not mean to-*
of course you did not-
that's like you
and you're whole lot
revisiting forbidden sites!

        Thus speaks one side of the two-colored face
                as the other speaks against it;
                          while the falcon keeps on turning,
                  unorientated, round and round

                                                                                      in the pale sunlight.

I couldn't sleep
sleepwalkers talk held me upright
the night I walked away

His ears are blind
his eyes are numb
the depth of thought erases time
and lime stone drips inside his mind

the mill-stone grinds
but slowly-
and cautiously bright daylight shines
through the curtains of this mind
that was so long definded by *silt
and slowly moving elements
and tide-

the flood has come at last:

and vastly confluencing waters
share speed and wit
with this one mind that walked behind me
all this time

and finally
*awakens

No matter how far
you can walk
no matter where you take your turn
nothing will show
upon this land
nothing will grow.

Burn all the waste
dig holes so deep
the ground breaks in upon itself
blow up the soil
so that the seep
comes up.

And in the end
you see-
you walk towards yourself:
a convex mirror hems
your field-
and as you try to flee
and as you try to shield your face-

it closes in upon you.

How the laws of a change of perspective
sound so eloquent and intellectual -

and how their glasses
reflect the sunlight and seem
so ill-positioned here

so out of purpose -
though in line -
and out of use already

Close
your folders
your handbooks of modules and rules
put aside your cups of linguistic wisdom

Release
the trees from your far-reaching longsightedness
pull off the net:

Confess
that you are
as clever as we feel you were from the

beginning.

*And with a feeble smile I turned around
and looked at them
and said:

"If you don't get this now-
                       I rest my case"

Count your blessings
you stupid idiot

count all the smiles and the fairytale moments
you deserved and did not deserve

count the minutes this earth was peaceful for you
and your loved ones

count your tears and the amount of those you have shed
in a happy embrace and the joyful look on your childish face

count - I beg you - the seconds of hope before desperation
and tell me-

why do you still not just take it and make what you want out of it
                                                                    - and break up your moaning.

That which does not **** you
makes you only stronger-
feels like
I do not belong to those
who believe in strong words

for if it hurts so much
if it leaves
but an emptiness
a huge amount of
feeling the distance-

and if I had
almost been killed
if I am hovering in between strong words to cling to
and a stone cold path into the nothingness-

how does that make me stronger?

over the fence i saw my very own
lungs exploding
splinters and bits of it covering
the next best breath
the next best line
of my own narrative
that - now -
wrinkled and crunched and wrapped around the fence
still knows how to dance-

and amounts to the desperate summit
of bright enthusiasm:
exploding this time
in vibes and waves
and again – and always

again.

Have you ever felt
this heavy,
heavy weight of an uncut theory-
a pile of words
with no real core-

                        with no real sense
                                  to keep you


satisfied?

Easy-
to write like this
to write-
and in a flash of bliss I tell myself
to lay aside
the pen and paper
delay-
until a later point in time

But now-
now-
never disrupt a running flow, they say,
and rightly so.
For now, I leave the words,
I let them go-
'cause what-

                *Ah, give it up, my love!
Or have another go, but bear in mind:
You only find what your eyes see,
and see they do a lot.
All good, I say, now rest a moment;

and look:
what you have done here.

I will have to gather
All my shadows together,
Not like an army
Defending my body and mind,
Not like a wall, stone cold-
No; more like: to find
What is left of the real things
In me.

Because look; it’s like this-
See: shadows are not shadows to me
Any longer-
Black is not black in the way
It is to others.
And white, in a sense, is not white
And I am not even fighting
Not even-
Writing about it.

For here is why:
Daylight makes edges too sharp
For their contours to melt.
So, as for my heart, I speak
Only to you-
Do you see them-
Do you see the shadows, too?

And even now-
Even this was not a question.
For it is only why I want to be
With you.

Holding
  My fingers
To my brain
It hurts-
    Framing my face, my head
       Encircling inner horrors
          And still –
For all there is, for all the dread-
I still don’t care.

Charcoal dust
on her cloudy eyes
lashes curled-

surprise in his eyes
as he feels the portrait
of the lady
he - before that - so despised
soft under his fingers.

as the two of them -
in slow, bright motion -
come together,
there is no explosion

but only -
she said later -

weather;
as it had been.

He covertly rubs his hands,
wiping an "A" from his mouth
sprinkles his ankles
with ashes of "summer's days".

He licks his blue lips,
parting to speak:
Not empty but "full", he howls
and, rolling the empty bowles-
with loads "of sound"-
to the edge of the table:

"And fury" he cries- shrill and brief
- Crash!
the little green ******, the *******,

that word-loving thief!

He slides down the wooden leg,
silently now, scurrying back.
Head low, mouth sealed,
yielding
                 the field
                             to the writers.

My head is filled
and to the same degree
                 so is my heart
with nonsense
                with nothing that
                         from nothing comes
with memory
and irresistibly
this draws me in-

Silently collected words
              and shadows of their universe
drew nearer-

In silence their exploding hearts
         come floating by
                 and inky melodies
come streching-

until they reach
                                my skin.

He looked up into the grey sky
and decided: it's not time yet, I got time
and, shakig off the cold, massaging his hands,
he said: it should rhyme.

And thus he began:

To fabricate the best amongst all the poems -
that is what I will do, and forget about the rest
and the empty phrases
that fill no cup and no page.

To make you wonder, and frown
and think: who is this?
This master of words, of letters,
What kind of bliss
is he blessed with?

Then also: to make you remember
my name and my word,
and the fame that so uplifted
my thoughts.

And: to remind you
of my soul and bones
when I shall be gone, and not long after that,
you will build a statue
of stone.

But before all that I will-
I must-
I should-

But where shall I begin?
Where shall I
begin?

And you will put down your paper, your pen,
you will sigh, and know: all this was only a revery.
Then you will stand up, undress, stand naked in front of the mirror-
and dance.

A sick feeling
reaches up
and crawls out of my throat
its feet still dangling in the middle of me

Pull it out I cant
for it is still tied to my skin

Forget about it
does not work either
for I do feel it with every step.

I can't write.
My fingers, thin, hoover above the keybord, a yellow bug irritating me when it collides with the light bulb
and my eyes, irritated as they are, and the tv in the background because it always is because I am not looking -

thus the situation being, and me in the middle of it, and no other noise except tv, bug, typing and - eventually, my own blood rushing-

and nothing comes from nothing, or so they say, and still no great lines on the page.

I will have to revise this and see what can I change, for next time.
The bug is gone.

Run -
I will have to run for a while
and not think of all the things
at once.

Somebody told me
- between the last bit of light at daytime
and the first rise of orange in the morning - that
actually life signifies nothing

that so, I thought, and bells started to ring
in my ears, and yours.

quit performing this dance, I thought
quit transferring your sport into life
for I fear it

you strive for this horror, the horror
of pages
and pages of pounding works
of giant piles of living paper

Later you will see
or hear
how they laugh at themselves
and this sound - which you will hate -
feels so great to me

The sound of laughing paper
of running ink
contradicting itself
in - and by -  its very own shape

Is not that great?

As I was bound to the vortex
in my head
and the odd shape -
no gap, no threat to the void -
came - awkwardly moving
and its core being
outside
It was me
and it was seeing the rays of light
streching-
streching their bright edges

and those edges: folding
and doing so
in a permanent way
for they multiply strangely
and without my hand knowing

their poles none,
neither minus
nor plus -
don't fuss, I tell myself -
a pious wish,
for my eyelids are shaking.


this was the dream.

I hate daffodils, because you know
and her face fell down a little as though not quite convinced of her own words
they are false and only mentioned when people
what? she thought, irritably
when people want to be poetic

But you like them, you told me once
and he was sure, and he was right about that
so I don't see why.

You never see anything, that's because you are too much-
too much yourself. and myself, too
because you are living in your own mind an awful lot of the time
what time?

Love, don't upset me, I mean what I say
and says what he means
and if you don't like them it's okay to me
only to me
and if you do like them, well I get you some.

                                *In the meantime, while his lips are moving, she begins
                                                                               to see words coming out of
his mouth and forming a beautiful little cloud above his head. She sees
                                                                                        them, does not hear them,
                                                                    circling. He is beautiful in every way, and daffodils are not
                                                                                                                                        the matter of this. Not at all.

I don’t feel like going
Anywhere
Without knowing
Where you are.

I apologize,
I know how this sounds
How you frown
Because you’ll never hear it.

I know I should tell you -
And in the meantime
We live parallel lives -
Tell you what drives me
To this place
Every day.

Instead we do not move
I say nothing
You are silent
Only the violent, fiery cuts,
Once in a while,
Are proof enough.

Sound* is what I eat -
Out there they say, get rid of it!
Under their skin I see eyes of greed;
No mercy, their voices sit
Down in the darkened chamber.

Music has scared them so much,
Utmost terror it has brought -
Saving not their minds, but mine,
Inclined to confess – here I’m caught,
Clutching a few notes, my shrine.

Sing no more, so I stand
In their midst;
No hands reach out.
Go away - is all they say.

Crooked windows,
crooked streets
in the light -
during the night
they leak.

The beast inside, though,
does not fret.
It crept to this place,
its very own grace
being cut down.

Huge green eyes
peer through the glass.
Slowly,
slowly moving mass
approaches.

The space between
grows minimal,
and as you scream -
it screams with you.

Mouth wide open,
claws inside
these creatures howl,
they spit and fight.

Science
has reached
its ******.
The windows crack,
as you have lost your track.

Two pairs of green eyes
peer out of the darkness -
four claws -
two pounding hearts -
the beat,
adjusted.

He is the one they told me about:
Iron fist, black head, no wings
Only strings
Which he ties around your feet -
If you try
If you try to creep
Out of his reach.

He is the high blurred figure
And the dark man
Beside the grave
He is the grave digger, love.

But also,
He is you
As your face turns
As your eye burns
In the dim light.

Realising -
They have told a lie -
Don't cry.

He is sick of looking at people,
at their heads,
from above.

So he climbs downwards,
unseen,
and dips into the shadow of a palm tree.

There he remains
until a child passes by
and frowns at the sight.

And he,
then,
mirrors the child
and after a while:

becomes the pavement,
becomes the street lights,
becomes the smoke that rises
the dust that swirls
around.

And at this very evening
as the sun sets,
all the smoke rises
and all the dust shoots

upwards again.

I have learned that
   If things hurt most
  My eyes open widest

  If heart and head touch
        I stumble
        In as much as I would
        If I could

Tell you all that.

And my grace is sufficient for thee
so he said, and exploded
for my strenghth is made perfect
in what, I wondered
in weakness
*and the sound surrounded
my drowning lungs
as they plunged
in the beauty.

Fields and forests,
         Clouds and thunder
             Mean nothing to me -
Is what I would say
If what was on my mind
Was even slightly resembling
The strength of your mind.

Unfortunately though
I cannot part from this world
Until my very last gesture
Is reaching-up-to-the-sky.

And I cannot leave this place,
And I hate you for saying
That the only thing keeping
You here is I.

In a circle I walked.
For this circle I prayed.
In a square I arrived -
    And am caught.

For the end of the circle
Would be its beginning.
And the round, colored space
Could be the world we live in.

But the square separates us,
Its edges cut sharp in my flesh
Each time I try to turn
And see where you are,
       And if we collide or crash.

Blindfolded I feel
Each new wall to come,
Each new turn,
In an angle of ninety degree.

So I am fleeing,
Searching you in the square,
And its natural shape
                         Prevents me from -
                                  seeing.

Help me she says
in a strong voice
and strong is the choice
she made.

Abandon him, she thinks,
I will,
and the chill
that runs down my spine
will freeze not only
my lonely feelings.

It will ignite the urge
for simple ratio;
a thing which, from the depths of my heart
I - upto now - so
despised.

I'm too wrecked
to write now
I'm so cracked
just see how

my words don't make sense
any more.

You put me
into a state which,
can't you see,
leaves me to stich

all my itchings
               by myself.