Not dinner time yet, on bed
I am drawing you, your back
the book and the red candle
the almost empty mirror image

We've seen enough
of the city today and no longer
immediately jump on each other
even though we're on vacation

I love you equally profound -
looking, drawing and feeling
how absently totally present
you are, your bare shoulder

which I caress with my eyes
your full attention
for the story and for me
as soon as you put the book down

It's something from years
elusively there
even if we don't pay attention to it
or if it's absent for a while

Hand in hand we sit

together in the garden --


of our affection.

The yellow glow scares me
Already this afternoon, when things got blurry
yet I seemed to be awake for a second
from the pain in my belly

It shouldn't be, I don't want it
My belly must be safe
for the baby, hopefully
it will soon be over

here, in my own bed
oh, what is happening?
I gotta get out, close the curtain
against that dreadful moon

All is well, the doctor said
but I couldn't get up
and not thank him
I just lay there

Guy smiled and the doctor shove
something into me, not as nice and sweet
as I am used to with Guy
not even in my wildest dreams

Before they can speak

angels always have to wait --


for a listener.

It will not have been a long time
that my parents sent someone with me
when I went to see the trains
after school and at the weekend

Far too often, they thought, but
I liked to be there, on the bridge
at the station, especially in this town
you could see old models pass

I know them blind, by their sound
the vibration of the viaduct
their smell if it doesn't blow too much
and the Doppler effect

It is mainly freight transport
yet the town is connected
to the big world
and still there are children

on their toes
to look over the wall
and I never saw a daredevil
scrambling on top of it

They're waving to me:

children in the express train --


which I just have missed.

Collecting little

bits of happiness: fresh bread --


and filling the bath.

If knowledge is off,

there are only wishful dreams --


as moral guidance.

Whoever wakes up

here, will wake the butterflies --


sleeping on his cheek.

Well, you better hide

your thoughts, others don't have them --


It makes them jealous.

He is so holy!

Wine on his lips instantly --


turns into water!

Living in exile:

hoping or not to return --


covered with honour.

I pity old friends:

the old memories they share --


can be so hurtful.

She could not look: did

those love scenes on the hay-loft --


ever happen or not?

They work very hard,

while the pilgrims are asleep:


the wallet-rippers.

Power is: never

allowing what whoever --


keeps secret for you.

Alas, making love

is the worst, so self-conscious --


we are, both of us.

As a priest one serves

in the churches in the hell --


of confessionals.

People keep thinking,

about their feelings, even --


about their thinking.

The door slams the light

closed, my eyes slowly begin --


to see in silence.

Slowly taking off

from slumber, humming freely --


and finding your voice.

My hair blown apart,

my motorbike cleaves the wind --


cleaves heaven and earth.

The world rotates, nights

after days, and after peace --


the Master arrives.

Depicting the Now:

vibrations of the breakers --


the wave of Being.

Humans are so much,

prudent, stupid, good and bad:


humans are sided.

The rock bank hangs down

from my feet into the air --


under the water.

It's about childhood,

well, a difficult childhood --


Who could do without?

There's always something,

something that is in my way --


even if it's me.

Early morning mist,

hanging about in the buzz --


of the rising sun.

On the horizon

the sun is humming, turning --


the pink fingers pale.

Unanimously,

people call up to heaven:


God, don't be so weird!

**** in my nightie,

I still feel his eager hands --


I still feel his breath.

She visits my house,

and I am a guide who learns --


what things are special.

She doesn't want to smell

like she does smell now, unwashed --


It's turning men on.

In the new country

I follow a friend, stepping --


within his footprints.

The biggest fairground

attractions for teenagers --


are the French kisses.

After my last word,

the closing point also crossed --


the border with me.

I'm whirling, whirling

around my heart, there's a gate --


it's the gate to love.

I can see myself

dancing on fast and light feet --


all without stumbling.

Saturday: bags-day.

Groceries, sport, and ******* --


The day of unrest.

There's a lot of sun

in the salt on my skin, please --


taste where I come from.

Come and sit with us,

just take that chair over there --


standing all alone.

The landscape awakes

in hesitant morning light --


still breathing silence.

The leaders avoid

the prophetess. It doesn't help --


because she has sown.

The treetops shake off

the mist, they're getting colour --


with mass, and a trunk.

I play this ballad

every day, it's the tuning --


fork of my spirit.

Time can't be measured

in silence, nor can the beat --


be calibrated.

When it is quiet,

a tone rings out clear and light --


with all of its weight.

Like a priestess she

is mumbling incantations --


waiting patiently.

The ordinary

is in slow motion simply --


nothing but beauty.