Living the good life,

ruminating lush grasses --


in the shade of trees.

Cold, perhaps even

everything, you can endure --


with a companion.

Books and photos on paper
are a fine way of preserving
and keeping my life complete -

who I have become
from my youth up, memories
of my family, images

of their presence
their activities and the places
that belong to it, all together

a constantly growing mountain
with hair-thin dendrites:
the mountain of my life

In the soft glow of

the sun just above the hills --


we warm each other.

Only for you, I

am in the picture, says her --


understanding look.

Mother can continue to see me
as a daughter, but my brother
and my husband must want
to know me as I am

I need that
even if it's not true
because my fruitless striving
keeps me alive nonetheless

Walking and writing
in notebooks and letters
explanations of who I am

Book after book to refute
and to replace what they like
to think about me, to break
it down and nuance it

Word by word weighed
and considered and rejected
now for sale to strangers -
my kind, if they dare to be so

Isn't it a spoiled life:

picking flowers on the edge --


of the precipice?

People aren't easy,

they're full of expectations --


that keep pushing you.

Why write down my life

accurately when I am --


mostly just writing?

Been enough madam big belly
in comfortable harem pants
Now I become a spiritual
matryoshka, I blow myself up:
      
my child (the little parasite
which I, in a wide-leg squat
hoopla, pulled into my arms)
grows, crawls and tries to walk
further and further away from me
but I will not allow it to escape
      
all my life I will extend
my most sensitive nerves
straight from my mother heart
to embrace all
of his world forever

In my mother's house,

very familiar scents live:


I smell who I was.

To be made pregnant

for love and not for a man --


who's just taking you.

Making love, they teach

the men, giving pleasure, to --


women after them.

At home, we each have our cell
our monastic life dedicated
to words and deeds
My words, his deeds

Walks after work
turning on each other's axis
like spiral trees on the edge
of an abyss

Practical issues
we discuss, the undiscussable
I write down in precise sentences
No endless talk

certainly not about myself
And in my struggle
to be seen
as I am

never using improper
words as a weapon
rather encouraging him
to be his best self

You turned down my book,

so I'll have it published, as --


a detour to you.

Hey, he looks past me,

completely preoccupied --


with my arrival.

Living simple, no

belongings, just floating on --


a plank in the sea.

It's your eyes
.. but even more
it's your sleeping body
.. against my chest or my back
it's the very beauty
.. of your desire
.. when you get up
it's your smell
.. that almost isn't there
.. and most of all
it's your hands
.. that take care of me
.. in between making me
.. inconspicuously feel
.. under my clothes
.. that it is true

Such beautiful eyes

my teacher has, I use them --


to look at myself.

I do need to talk

about my grief, he thinks that --


this would be unwise.

The church draws the square

into sleep, offers comfort --


to homeless people.

Let me my habits
Let me, let me inside
Give me a shelter
Give me a kiss

... Take me
... Protect me
... Give me your magic
... Give me what I need

Then I'll give you my blood
I will pump it outwards
I will blood on your belly
I will blood in your mouth

... Danger is everywhere
... just a blow away
... Love is everywhere
... just a kiss away

Happiness is elusive
The pie turns around
Happiness is elusively
nearby

... Let me bleed
... in your storm
... Let me bleed
... in your heart

Come on, says Adam,

the apple has been eaten --


and now we'll move on.

It happened to her:

Eva is bitter, it is --


simply not her fault.

In the amusement park, we kiss
a movie of love and music
Words are unsweetened and pure
An eyebrow raised
for a moment says it all

A ******* roller skates
between the houses of cards
and sand castles gets priority
from staring drivers
who cut off the pedestrians
and separate Romeo from Juliet
on either side of the street

They are fast on their way
to going mad, thinking
of a secret lover
beneath the scars
of their lies

*** and frustrations

toss and turn behind the fronts --


of neighbourly love.

He wanted to romp

with me, that's what he called it --


and I was startled.

But in your poem

I didn't find any meaning --


that was about us.

You are too beautiful
to be touched
by anyone, by me

alone, I hope
if I may, if I dare
to do what someone may one day

I pass your house
There is only a window
between me and your bed

in which I dream myself
when I cannot sleep
and hold my breath

and time stands still
intoxicated by your lips
I feel your hand

on my chest, no
I won't run away
when you open the door

Private brainstorming,

a smashing serious clash:


puberty chaos.

Children rush past me,

I hold on to the edge, no --


longer a mother.

As a child, I milked

cows with Harry Outerwoods --


Who remembers him?

Bends between mossy boulders
Poor reception in the clouds
on the mountains, they recede and close
behind me, keep my thoughts

trapped on the road
No views, not stopping
for a ***, driving quietly
Standing still is dangerous, perhaps

I'm going to cross a pass to the sun
Still a thought
out of the fog of my feelings
I miss the sun

Bits of Nostalgia on the radio
with a lot of noise
Would it help to cry

once that is safe?

Alone in my house,

being enclosed by the fog --


A cow is mooing.

There are quays for, for

passers-by: the spectators --


and the cargo boats.

Like lottery *****

we keep changing position --


We're dancing on air.

Life is good
in Brussels and Amsterdam
People do their work

without headlines and footnotes
without indolence and excuses
in advance

Work and rules change
but everyone knows for themselves
what it takes, being of service

and satisfied, every time
the customers are kings for a while
and both are human with each other

A nice reunion,

on the pier, babbling water --


and a quacking duck.

Plastic chairs, shaped in

such a way that I can't help --


but think of buttocks.

Under shiny drops
the windowsill is black
with mould, they eat
pollen and glumes, stuck
on a bed of honey-
dew from the linden trees

I'm stuck in sadness
not knowing why
... Yet you are much stronger
... do not grieve no longer
... just light up your day
... smile the tears away
sings his warm voice
in my sadness

without knowing why
tears full of melancholy
shine in my heart
with colourless desires
from the low clouds
that cry in silence

The rain shower pours

down, it rustles everywhere --


I'm treading water.

His brotherly love

carries a knife, in my life --


nothing may go wrong.

If there is space, you'll

start smiling because it is --


how you want to live!

We tore our misunderstanding
in two abrasive stories

...... flakes of sour air

kept our own half
just like Saint Martin
but the other way around

...... between us: the shredder

we just took our right with us
it was so much work to do it away

...... up to three pieces at a time

rather we armed ourselves
under the skin, the gloss
shone through it

...... do not touch me

On the beach I think

about our days here, and you --


blow away again.

The friendship is so

delicate, we cannot say --


goodbye properly.

I write about you

so as not to lose you, so --


as to be with you.

Follow your gaze
to a love hotel
that does not yet know love

Smell your temper
Yes, I want you, I want you
in the lap of my desire

Arrange your locks around
my love, let them sway
on waves of pleasure

Wrap your thoughts
around my finger, let them
lick my skin

Cry for the festoons
we've known, kiss
the heart on which stranded

A friend should simply

understand me, any words --


make it difficult.

Again and again

the baneling draws the borders --


he desires to cross.