What is one is itself
but if you know someone else
you are partly also that person
you are also what was different
until that moment

And you observe that, it dawns
on you and you grow

That's interesting, we repeat it
in stories about people
and the gods they imagine:
the more souls, the merrier and the more
humor thanks to the differences

And the trick is to learn
to see that everyone is everything

Therefore, yes therefore there was
a feast in heaven for the wicked sons
at the end of their tumultuous lives
while the good sons
were taken to hell

And the supreme god laughed
at their illusions

On a tightrope, you

walk best thinking of it as --


air that carries you.

Well, I have wished for

an antipole, I got it --


as a drag on me.

No blood needs to flow
we may as well separate
and combat only in stories
who we are, brothers and sisters

with the common needs
for a place of their own and virtues
that are sometimes vices
knowing better, living better

thinking to be better
willing to sacrifice lives
for lack of an angel
who stops us

only reading the discord
in the stories and concealing
that we are brothers and sisters
as if we are not

Well, the usurer

was generous, nonetheless --


Was it his money?

The beauty of art

and the world does not exist --


if you reject it.

Mama keeps chasing

me, I give me the advice --


she would have given.

Chatterchick is scattering cackles
because my husband follows
a truth of his own again and in vain
I am looking for silence

Blacky is in the dumps
sighing that she suffocates
in the darkening darkness
where it's never silent

It won't work!
Bring nuts and bars of chocolate!
Madam settles herself
to savour it in silence

I wish it were so
easy, Chatterchick cries
Bonkers, Fatty, Layabout
they taunt; Silence, Silence, I

shout, Get out! I'm going
to think of something else
or thoughtlessly
do sports, get tired

I wish it were so
easy, Chatterchick cries
and the dumps are moaning
and the sofa is snoring

It is super thin,

the gold leaf that will survive --


the iconoclasm.

A night of *******

on sleeping bodies, and then --


the leeches explode.

Be responsible,

and legitimise nothing --


with a nice story.

After today's four steps
I'm sitting in socks by the fireplace
My heavy boots are standing straight
and my back is still rattling

I am a henchman
I push the boundaries
of the ladies in love
and the rich gentlemen

I leave horse **** behind
and take the scent of freesias with me
The water in the bucket sloshes
like yearning love

I don't travel alone
We are armed
The papers are precious
Sealed letters

Beginning and maintaining
of relationships and major interests
Between the stops, the reins
of fate are in my hands

Father, now waddling

from left to right, seems to walk --


on spherical feet.

Teardrop diamonds,

frozen on my eyelashes:


beautiful sadness.

You jump the queue, but

why do you want that, your soul --


being left behind?

Today, too much is

happening, I must pretend --


it is a story.

In the big city,

one person's ceiling is an-


other person's floor.

More and more, we speak picture
language with digital icons of Home
Heart (in the colour of the moment)
Envelope, Clock, Arrow and Bin

but icons of paint and blood travel
with us in their world of gold leaf
as portraits of the life
we like to live

thoughtful and attentive
like a ***** bird
showing its feathers

and not camouflaging itself
in the attire of its neighbours
colleagues or pictograms

(Translation below)

Kulupu kulupu
Lon li pona pona
E suno li pona
E *** kin li pona

En mi sijelo kin
sina sijelo kin
telo e kasi en
e kili li pona



Moku mute li pona
Lape mute li pona
Olin li pona pona
mi olin e mi mije

tan o ona li pona
Ona li pona mute
Unpa musi li pona
Unpa mute li pona



Pali pona mama mama
pali pona pona
E suno li pona
pona pona pona

Lon li pona pona
pali pona pona
Mi olin e sina
tan e sina li pona

----------------------------------------------------

Peopl­e people
It's very good to live
The sun is good
Clothes are good too

And my body too
your body too
water, the plants and
the fruits are good



Eat a lot is good
Sleep a lot is good
Love is very good
I love my man

because he is good!
He is very good
The joy of *** is good
Often *** is good



Thank you mum dad
thank you very much
The sun is good
very very good

It's very good to live
thank you very much
I love you
because you are good

Just you, all of you,

and my imagination --


and my hankering.

Dad never writes me,

oh dear, I start forgetting --


to be forgotten.

Voices around me,

which I cannot understand,


coffee: the meeting.

Shadows slide quickly

through the water, elusive –


is reality.

From year to year there are
memories snowing, covering
and blocking the driveway

I shovel them aside
I must get out, I must
do some shopping

And when they start to melt
when they drip down
the drainpipe and run away

I lie awake in bed
listening and following
the rippling in the gutter

It makes me desperate
I want to leave, a break
to write it all down

to tell it
in the dark and be
answered, applauded

I exist! Me too!

And I! Here! I exist here! --


And I? Who hears me?

It's always the same:

there must be a better way --


So, should I do it?

Beginnings are small,

the big thing will come later --


I believed, I hoped.

She waves to me: mummy look
She plays in the grass, the earth is turning
She shouts throughout summer and rains

from white sand to black sand
She is a little pig, gruntgrunt
and one more time, one more time

One two see sour sive
singers she has, and ***** seet
that climb everything: mummy look

Her hands want to take everything
feeling the whole grown-up life
herself, caution, it is hot

She drags my bag with her like a lady
She likes sweet gruel and bread
without crust, cheeks with peanut butter

She cheers for the gnomes: mummy look
who always come to help her
at night when she sleeps

I quiesce the storm

and welcome my enemies --


people just like me.

What I secretly do
but not hidden
      
from myself, the truth
that I do not want to know
      
yet sometimes see
in the questioning eyes
      
of others, surprised
or hurt, on the border
      
of judgment on me
is the truth in the eyes
      
of my conscience that examines me
I sweat, it's a purgatory
      
and as long as it lasts, it is
hell: I am not
      
just myself
but one of the others

That's the drama

A small hatch opens

in the fog, there's a small hand --


waving a little.

Picking a flower

to hear the snap, the flower --


can be thrown away.

On her bed she thinks

of budding love, so often --


you read about it.

Boys look past
my shyness
I don't understand

So beautiful I see my feelings
in my face, my forms
in the mirror

Why doesn't anyone
want to enjoy me?
The beauty of a boy

discovered inside and out
by my skin
my curious body

In other people's houses
I capture the beds
in my dreams

None of them invite me
Can they see in me
how critical I am?

A worm in my head

wants to wriggle at my fate –


it drives me crazy.

It is going well, we are driving fast
away from where the bombs fall
Fatima's hand sways move move

We are many
stronger than the rules
we break through them

to a rich country, not a monastery
we do come to live slowly
but we bring our own rules

We want to work, take time
to learn and get married
to have a future

and to give it
to our parents
who did not believe in it

We've only just left
or I'm already longing to return
My life is an unpredictable journey

always on the same roads
The familiar road stations gleam
at a distance, purer than on the spot:

valleys of love, wonder, and knowledge
which I love to visit, and excitedly
      
leave quickly at the ******
of the bells of the caravan
of my needs
      
I wander between their oases
Only in the void do I find
what my soul yearns for

I furnish my house

with more and more stuff, around --


the sewer system.

Reality flows

out of the war camp, between --


dream and welfare work.

Then I heard the sound

of only one clapping hand –


and my cheek turned red.

My soul searches you,

I fly further and further --


and I do not land.

The hairdresser cuts

me, he is cutting up time --


to eternity.

A living statue

bends over, taps my shoulder:


it wants a picture.

Well, you better hide

your thoughts, others don't have them --


It makes them jealous.

If it's peace between

I am me and you are you --


we may call it love.

The priest is too old,

not suitable for people --


not for God either.

No supermoon nor

a field of flowers, true love --


kisses dreary days.

I take the highest

stone, the very mountain top --


and I throw it down.

I see no flat earth,

when I look down from the plane --


yet the trees are flat.

The girl with the fan
goes up the bridge
the water reflects
her slender image

The gentlemen peer
casually ahead -
to the girl with the fan
who wants to be wed

The girl with the fan
is silently beckoning
the ruffles rustle
what she is thinking

The gentlemen stare
as they portly squire
their fair-haired wives
in fancy attire

The crickets chirping
their love songs westwards

(The girl is hopping
there to the pastures)

The crickets chirping
amidst the flowers

(The gentlemen are
still walking northwards)