GORDIAN KNOTS OF SHIPWORTHY SOULS


Perhaps it is no longer possible, and there cannot remain such a restless, compromising night, when my soul, wandering like a free bird, would leave the prison cage of my straggling, shipwrecked body and set out on a journey; because I ponder a lot, I grind my own tightrope-walking, eternal-childish nerve: how and how could I have come to trust people who, with a light wave, tricked me over the fence and I have not looked back now, to see if that unfortunate chubby Don Quixote who didn't give a **** about the dog, who I am, lives or dies in this melancholy, indifferent decade?!

My increasingly stubborn, firm silence may still contain aborted fever dreams, if gold could be pressed from the treasure-seeking soul, perhaps even ordinary people could be much more satisfied and richer - of course, if we do not count the exaggerated outlook on life of the material mass consumer society. Halfway between petty soul traps, only one counterargument may remain in my favor: somewhere, perhaps, a little hope for me to still want to live may still be stirring in the envelope-dark seas of placentas.

Now it doesn't hurt to take care of myself, because no one else will. The world is now increasingly the domain of creeping ****, and of more base, two-faced worms, on a secondary, dispensable basis. Their stinking vulture-dog-mouths deliberately absorb the creative-inspiring treasures of culture and knowledge, which are then condemned to destruction by a whole series of brainwashed sermons, so that we never have to think about it. We gradually throw away the distinguishable quality marks of our personal humanity; Fate casts its concentric circles one after another, like a large fishing net over our unsuspecting, naive heads; the eternal baton of life and death - perhaps - is often one and the same!

Your Shadow - if you believe it or not - continues itself, and sooner or later perhaps it will return to itself. The small pulses of conscious mistaken doubts in the music of your fingertips, if the Universe were to play flirtatiously with you. Just believe that there will be a tomorrow when everything is right and everything seems perfect. No cheap, mediocre, small-style insinuations, no series of car scoldings in the traffic jams of the heat wave.

Faithful and true love does not need to be raised as an altar gift from the Darius treasures of palaces on duck legs. The ****** features of simple understanding should be universally, necessarily strived for; with a stubborn, compromising, quiet English farewell - perhaps - you are worth nothing if you do not say what really lies in your heart and soul.

One day you will understand, as an old greyhound, that memory and magic constantly echo within you; the secret Apocryphal order of complex things that have happened and can happen, which only you can safely decipher. On the floating threshold of immobility, like in the pearly foam of the seas, it is as if gravity ceases if you meet those who could rightfully like and love you. The wounded heart preserves fragmented wingbeats, and it would be so good if the Beloved knocked on your door three times.

The scars that change without concepts still remain with you, because somehow you would have to remember them a little; the promises that smell of handshakes towards the future run away in your hands, a little just like the vain flirting intentions of promised help or amorous fluttering of eyelashes. One day, before you know it, you'll be saying goodbye to your sure return!

The falling twilight of arches still breaks through the balcony of the dusks; a few orphaned beams of light drift, the barks of dusks crackle on the branches of the trees - even the former loving hearts are shackled by the wedding songs of the birds. Rushing contacts strain against each other, until even the beginnings that were thought to be planned end in total breakups.

The established form and movement, which once seemed so homely, become formless. In our wakefulness, we listen to the talking shadows whispering greetings, sneaking unnoticed here and there; with a butterfly soul, it is perhaps increasingly difficult to truly get to know someone, because it does not let itself be deterred by superficial exhibitionist frills.

- The conscious dream of insignificance seems to have long been an integral part of the calvary of our everyday lives. For the petty Odyssey of ever new futility is also the homesickness of longing, which once belonged to every man. The garden of despised silences is watered with tears of childish sadness; one should not possess the power of inexorable surrenders - but one should understand their meaning.

Truth-telling honesty maneuvers in a boat among inescapable mistakes and perhaps even itself cannot know how it should learn from its mistakes and the set of its failures... For it is known: every Shadow of Times is only an empty phrase-dream, if it cannot be realized tangibly. We must increasingly uncertainly maneuver ourselves through the turbulent waves-murmurs of existence. - It is not certain that it is possible to cling to the uncertainty of seasons. The compulsion of reality has also become inexplicable; in the discovery of ourselves on journeys, homesickness is just as tense!

I scraped together the broken-tile memories of my eternal-child Hayden Coldfield adolescence; my broken, restless peace is periodically disturbed by a stray mushroom cloud, a nuclear beam of light. Faceless Gorgon prisoners mingle in the corridors of moving footprints, as if they were constantly anxious, convulsing over what is rarely possible to bring back, since it was lost long ago.

In the eternal birth-movement, I prefer not to scatter the seeds of my goodness that I believed to be solid, because the Universe has both led and deceived me. I know: sooner or later, that certain Someone who loves me for myself will find me in secret; I would fall asleep in the honeyed lap of a rocking dream, like a child asking for a mother, because stones longing to bear witness no longer only wait on the snow-white sand of beaches - but I would also have to be able to find a safe way out of the labyrinthine cave system of the soul.

Every movement of the Beloved left me with an endless, snow-white tremor; as he danced at the blood-dragon glances of twilight, when the waves and murmurs of the sea become one with the expanding horizon, and the ebb and flow of heaven and earth are faithfully grouped into a single center. From our bodies - even after twenty or so years - the solid Shakespearean farewell of our timelessness shines. For destruction always follows a little from the innocent beginnings, which at the beginning of Time the old woman Pakas released above our heads; devouring wolf-traps remain beside us, which it is perhaps better not to step into.

- I must endure the legal, calculating filth of evils - at least, for a little while longer - if I want to remain a man in the depths of crooked mirrors, and not a defenseless Sisyphus!

Only the exhibitionist, almost completely unexpected intimate revelations of reality; the secret, Apocryphal dialogue of the eyes, when the eternal child lurking within us opens the closed soul doors, because in his curiosity he himself wants to peek in a little - yes! Only these small, trivial in their insignificance, commonplaces are able to touch us alone. It is imperceptible to get close to the other in such a way that trust is still dependent, but is already moving along better and better paths towards it, so that it can reach its goal and reach a haven, because it has always been necessary to resign oneself to the current state of unchangeable things.

Even the deepest rabbit hole cannot be comfortable enough for a person to be able to adapt at all. The urban, unnecessary noise is increasingly oppressing its members, because they are not able to look into themselves with enough loyalty, while they can.

Dreams are also increasingly denied only to the average person, since the privileged are able to manipulate even their own dreams; a very tiny, tiny little girl with a Barbie doll who is constantly being pulled and dragged by her lady-model mother, because precious Time is not for her - but for profit and profit, and because of this, her entire childhood is punctured and damaged.

Now we have increasingly learned to sneak through loopholes, stealthily, and live unnoticed, so that no one else suffers the unspeakable damage of our existence here on this earth; we are forced to nod unnoticed, because no one else would have undertaken the backstage cleaning of toilets in Vienna, but with a mirror shine. Meanwhile, it really didn't even occur to me when a person had truly humiliated themselves?!

Like a deepening wound, our still faithful dreams are full of childish nothingness; someone wants a new family house, which - for the sake of variety - has already been installed with central heating and electricity, while another wants a new four-wheel drive SUV, which is a complete extra. A fairy girl with flaxen hair wants to eat fried meat, because even though she is over six years old, she still cannot know what it is, what it tastes like, or what it looks like.

Life is increasingly expandable, but it makes vague concessions and bargains to individual people, which they immediately cling to out of necessity, although they often cannot really understand why they could not move forward on a given social and esteem donkey-ladder.

- A cunning, mischievous, distorted reflection stares into full-length curved mirrors: as if it now wants to deliberately interrogate, to extract something from the person's inner soul, saying: ,,Well, old boy! Let's see! Why are you where you are, or why are you slowly vegetating below the bare minimum, when all our levels can be faked and are so low?!"

- Of course, no one accepts an answer, and perhaps they don't even hope for one, because it's unnecessary, some disgusting, ordinary false-lying tinsel hangs there, tenses in the musty air. They've twisted the slovenly, indifferent disposition - if it even existed - at all. - Perhaps the Present would also seek a human scale, if it still knew what it would be worth trusting in, there would be close, calculated, hesitant lingerings in Time, because now there is the greater lottery of luck to be decided. Fractional sentences of common repayments are torn out on the heads of unnoticed people...

gestures for use on the neighbours   it'll ward off isolation
foreign no longer        but privately guarded  
buffered against secrets     we're neighbours now  
lock in with these people                                                        
click eyes    like desert lizards                                                        
a­nd lick at the brickwork   to heal its insurance

throwing up our arms to gravy   like a sports fan
an energy of invite   despite  they  each see the other
                                 ****** near every day
fun hats and clothes picked for colours
                  or practical aging
like mating flare
use up the garish leftovers from the artists box
                         and a dog perhaps
garnish  for the family way
a long ladder  shared between neighbours
cause 'hey ! ; our kids match your kids'
and always work toward the perfect sale
prepared for that one forgiving day
                and 'The Move'

I feel I have a big heart,
Does that mean a lot?
Or is it something that
Somehow holds me down.
A blessing that feels like a burden.

Sometimes I hate it,
Sometimes I resent it.
Because I have no control
Over what I feel.

I overthink my brains out,
Apologizing for simply existing.
Forgiving wounds so deep,
Too easily, without much thought.
Even when it leaves me empty.

Worrying over people
Who wouldn’t flinch if I disappeared.
Draining my social battery
To the last drop where it doesn’t exist.

I feel guilty for actions
That I had no control over.
Making me rethink my past,
Where I was a name on a list,
Never a person in their story.

I stand among many,
But belong to none.
Because they never loved me,
The way I have loved them.

People now only take one step forward, on a rope without a net; they rarely pay attention to their precarious balance - in their calculated manipulative movements they still listen to the gears clicking in their brain, the pressing impulses of their steps, even the blocked calm. Perhaps they should practice the appearances of reality in their dreams, which are still tangible. With their prosthetic teeth grinding, they would rather greedily eat fried meat or fish fillets without bones.

People will probably never be as low as they are right now, and they will never be able to reach a certain middle-class standard, because from their meager salary they can only pay their debts forever, endlessly. - Their contemporaries are sighted colorblind; perhaps they don't even want to see and notice what the Present projects before their eyes with its telephoto lens. This is how they manufacture their buried excuses and carry them as guilt. Even the nothingness of everyday life is increasingly stared at with increasing fury by brainwashed, wild idiots.

Nameless snakes writhe under their feet, because it is a dethroning emptiness, and unconscious indifference would just as easily scratch out each other's eyes today, because it can do so, that all its misdeeds remain unpunished; the past useless years knock on stilts above their heads, because birth repeatedly counts down the meager life. They push the scenery of a bad conscience before their eyes, because they have to scaffold around the canvases of action and will with false words and promises. It would be good to neutralize the intended germs of evil every now and then!