If
brick after brick
  drops down
   don't think you can
    pick them up again.

We have learned
About eternal
Distinction between things.

We have seen
The separation
And the cutting into half.

The faces and the masks,
So similar but not
Entirely the same,
Are driving us mad.

Please –
Please for once -
Make it stop;

Make the division stop
And show us
The one thing.

As he stepped
Into the puddle
He thought: I should make it double -
And jumped a second time.

Wet drops soaked
His trouser legs;
Smiling then, he dropped his specs
To see without reflection.

If you had flipped this upside down
A scene would have emerged
Where waterfalls began to drown
His feet, his pants, his heart.

And watercolors soak the page now,
The puddle empty, dry.
And He only a mess of paint,
The painter whistling: My, oh my.

Thunder,
And my heart lies under
A pile of rotten gold.

Flash,
I crash the things and bash
The rules that brought me here.

Rain drops,
And I chop off the heads of the problems
And kick them to the edge -
Off, in the whirling bowl
Of elements and flesh.

Forever to be buried
Among the rotten and the dead,
There lie my gorgeous troubles;
The loveless and the judges.

In the rough wind they were playing,
Always, and swaying like trees,
Knowing the cool breeze
That blew.

One day in September
They forgot to remember
How this breeze sometimes turns
To a storm.

Whirling around
They then saw their own faces
Celebrating the ******
Which embraces
Those who know not what’s real –
And what isn’t.

Sudden strikes of swollen thunder
Hit the air and cure the silence
Of a long forgotten wonder
Lingering within this house.

Crows and leaves surround the tower
Circling in moving halos
And I hear the golden hour
Calling for the final act.

So I open up the gate
For the rush of air to enter
Out of grey-white, misty shade
Into this world of broken laughter.

With a cracking noise the glass
Smashes and is torn apart
Wind has formed a hurling mass
Blowing out remaining light.

For a moment in the dark
Nothing is but pounding rain
And I ask my beating heart;
Do you fear –
Do you fear the coming pain?

I like short poems, she said
And mechanically he –
Not knowing what –
Liked her and her head.

He wrote page after page,
Confusing her smile
With admiration and love,
Igniting her rage.

In the end she set fire
To a huge pile of paper
That included no more
Than his wish to admire.

Unreal cities within the claws of two great lions;

None-existing walls to be mended in the end;

Roaring clocks that tick off all time;

Eternal sunshine spots no mind after all;

And we still think about meanings of form:

LaernU.

Behind the sharp line
Of the red horizon
There lies a city, and it is called Real.

People of Real
Only show their faces
While picking flowers
And walking through brains.

Children of Real
Learn very early
About the black cloud that lingers
Above their horizon.

And they are warned
Not to dream about it
Or to touch it, ever,
For it is not Real.

The cloud they call Liar
For there live the liars –
It is a dusty place
Where dark crowds reside.

And if one day a child
Crosses the horizon –
People of Real
And people of Liar
Will change their opinion.

All the weird shapes that take over
When the brain shuts off,
And slices of words that do not count
As they hang in the air -
And hover.

Shifting the moral
From wrong to worse,
And using up all their power,
Those books have caused trouble -
For their songs were always oral.

Set fire!
They say, as I pass their place,
In my dreams or not,
Fire to the grey cloud.
And I do –
And I join in their choir.

Look,
In winter I have concealed my face.
In spring we all felt the cruelty and all that comes
  with new beginnings.
In summer the heat cooled us down and made our fears
  seem irrelevant.
Autumn is about to come and the harvest,
Traditionally,
Can be both: good and bad, and good or bad.

Clinging to the golden needle
I pull and pull
As hard as I can.

But I cannot shift it -
It won’t move
A single bit.

So I get up
And turn my head
And look to the other North.

Deep,
Deep,
And even deeper
On the very ground of the ground of this poem
Lies a word
That won’t come out.

And maybe,
Yes, maybe
It feels good where it lies,
Surrounded by those little letters and signs,
Unwilling to leave it alone.

So nobody ever will guess
What became of the word,
And if it had altered
Throughout the times;

Or if its lonesomeness,
Along with the fact that it rhymes,
Was not so bad
after all.

A tall man is walking
Across the bridge at the river.
If I look very hard
I can see his hands quiver.

He is a poet
And popular, too,
For the men of the village
Claim it to be true.

But today he is moving
With a crooked pace,
His limbs slightly distant
Searching his trace.

Approaching the poet
I hurry to find
The skinny figure
With a beautiful mind.

As my lips part to speak,
His finger flies to my mouth,
Sealing the gap
So no sound would come out.

And his rickety hands
Shape figures above
Of great clearness and passion
For me to set off.

And I see for the first time
How fed up he is
With the weight of those words
- How genuine is this?

Cutting through my chest
With the force of a steel fist
Your absence now pounds in my brain.

And as present as ever
The feeling is burning:
A stain in the white rag.

As it came running
Like three lights or three eyes,
I could not but would not
Step aside fast enough.

It hit me and cold steel,
Slashing my body,
Drove right through the inside
Of my bones and heart.

Grieve not, for this time
I felt deadly alive.

As easy as the wind can make
The leaves shake,
So am I able to conjure up the image of your face
In my head.
And all the time, too.

Nothing in-visible to me,
Nothing you do goes unnoticed
But will always be accompanied by
a little counter movement,
A tiny expression on my face.

Colours of mountains,
The song of a blackbird,
Painful it was, and a little bit scary.

When my eyes would grow bigger,
Rays of light shaped the edges
Of things and of shadows
Not seen but felt.

Carrying on in a distance,
I learned to distinguish
The sounds from the voices
Of soundless creatures.

Battered and crumbled, fallen to pieces,
The cities lie dusty, and silent He is.
Until looking at her face,
So pure and so shiny,
Pacing towards her, through the debris he walks.

Unfolding his black wings,
He comes to a halt.
And she stands, with a shiver,
Her eyes wide in awe.

A second of loud noise,
Then a minute of hush,
So they stand and they stare,
For nobody to see.

In the end it is Him
Who is finally vanquished,
By the immediate gaze
Of a flesh and blood creature.

Arising again, He grows paler -
             and paler.

Clapping and smiling
They will tear me to pieces,
Outraged and amused,
They will knock me down.

I am a new member,
So please be soft on me.
Have mercy, my people,
You see what I cannot.

Hours go by, not unnoticed but silent.
I sit in the snow,
Counting the scars and how violent
They had been.

Slowly the melting water soaks
My coat and my bones.
And the turning pages do not make me frown any longer.

Dropping from my face,
Not a single tear but water.
And, tying my shoe lace,
I get up for the last time.

Outside the storm moves things to their ends;
Outside it is cold, and cold hands
Make me frown and I fear
The end, myself.

I stand at the window,
Seeing things reflected; the glow
Which comes from your eyes.

So I am not scared anymore,
Because inside
Things are not reflected,
But wide
And as peaceful as ever.