The ice cracks and squeaks,

because it does hurt to melt --


and take on colour.

I'm falling apart, believe me
it's real, and not a request
for pity, just
falling apart, cracking
like an old jar

I've been through too much
suffered too much, for now
it is going slowly
but still faster

I can't keep myself
together anymore, so be it
I just let you know
then you can come
to accept it too

I will soon be about
630 million impersonal
particles, dust
of course
without consciousness

Behind her: a man,

his head perched on her shoulder --


like a frightful hawk.

Am I in hell now?

I don't think it is heaven! --


There is no one here!

I have a gun and

like to have it with me, but --


where can I put it?

The city, people,

its pulse of fast flowing life --


all bustling beauty!

In the large bookcase

the cat is choosing the scent --


to lie down and dream.

I want to create

what is not there, not as art --


but genuine Love!

The golden twilight:

a beautiful last evening –


but not today, please.

Another new birth,

another programmed clotting --


of exploded cells.

The wind surrounds us.

The restless howling tells us --


that we are inside.

My body becomes a wreck
if I don't take care of it
and am dissatisfied

if it's not all that beautiful
not as it seems, and so much
should change what can't be done

I see shiny people everywhere
they devote their bodies
as temples

of flesh, bones, and blood
to plastic beauty
or something higher

but my temple is for myself
a work of art
of my mind

that listens
when my body calls
for recognition and tenderness

to give and receive it
I am not an avatar
but intimately myself

I am shy, you know,

because of my big secret:


I'm very ugly.

I like to travel,

but only a few can come --


to share it with me.

Party-time today,

the world turns yellow: the stars --


my heart and my love.

Believers give God
a portion of His abundance
not as a sacrifice, but as a person

who helps neighbours and fellow villagers
spares pack animals and allows butterflies
to flutter and who is not only sweet

to stuffed animals
but builds fountains
to water the noble horses

Unbelievers decide for themselves
whether they sell their yield
what they eat and what they share

God and greedy people too
choose themselves who benefits
what the henchmen get

for taking, and the front men
for hiding the abundance
in the heavenly clouds of Moneyland

I do enjoy it

to walk in the noisy city --


and being the noise.

There's a woman in the verge
of the highway, I know her
She looks like me, like the face
next to me in the side window

She comes closer and bends
forward to my indicator
I break a sweat in the dark
behind my steering wheel

'My boy, what are you doing here?
I turn over in my grave
of all my worries
about you'

Mama, I'm going to work hard
and then I'll get rich
'Oh boy, don't you know?
This is the road to hell

On your journey through barren poverty
from the desert to the source
you got lost, you turned off
to hell'

I am motionless,

my will is like a goshawk --


exalted and still.

I want his face
nicely towards me

I don't want to tear it open
because he chooses
me this weekend

I want his stubble
his fabric softener

he is so different
from the men of my friends
with their itchy *****

I want his words
his withheld love

reserved
for me under clothes
of inaccessibility

Be cross, be angry,

but please, don't do anything --


for once and for all.

In hindsight you see

what happened, not surprising --


but predictable.

Once there was no space,

until it ever arose --


as it always was.

So I'm a poet,

which was once just a pose, but --


I conformed to it.

Wander herb, full moon:

we are homesick in autumn –


in many places.

Wild waves, the shore comes

close, it narrows more and more --


Then, calm, the strait.

Words do sometimes fit

with someone's situation --


as a deep insight.

Long, long more and more,

for me, for my company --


and for my body.

With a clean duster,

the maid goes around the house --


waving like a queen.

Just make excuses,

people prefer to pretend --


that they believe them.

The clouds heavily

sail through the lake of my eyes --


Swans are flying up.

There are just no ways

to our goals, we hesitate --


and saunter about.

Stamps on the pages

of the letter to my dad:


Not To Be Censored.

The war means dying

of hunger, inside the cage --


oh, poor canary.

The house has new sounds,

a harmony: languages --


dance, and skin colours.

He's gone, I linger

about in our shared past where --


he is still with me.

Among the bright stars

our happiness shines for life:


a future of love.

The pointing finger.

Does it point to my finger?


To my path in life?

The city reflects

my dream of love: weathered grey --


from all the waiting.

Green on green, the grub

eats its way to the calyx --


to change colour there.

Lying in my bed,

I saw a house being build --


for after my life.

The war happened to me
the hostile people
my neighbours and family
I have to
      
take my loss
anyway

The dark is teaching me
to accept
that I am invulnerable
there is no need to flee

my soul is my asylum
if I ****, I **** lovingly
      
with a silvery shine
around my duty
which is not a mirror
of their motives

Living in exile:

hoping or not to return --


covered with honour.

Bare buttocks in the berm
free, peeing under my pants
laying down on my side

the world and I flatter
grass everywhere, empty
of chairs

blue flashing light over the ****
I think the sound
to the condensation stripes

My look jumps over
the ditch, sees hided
flowers, I hear beetles

that I don't hear
the grass colours my eyes
it flies upon my tongue

and lets me have a taste
green with marigold
and fresh *****

In morning twilight,

seen from my window through yours:


the sun going down.

I am shocked by the question
to myself: who will comfort me?
Where are the arms

that rock me happy
and promise me a bright future?
With whom will I be safe?

.....Come on girl, there is more
.....under the sun, it shines
.....look around you, smell
.....the weather, you have your nose

.....your eyes, ears, and mouth
.....and your hands of course
.....not just for the love
.....of a man, of a child

But the world is so big
I want someone
for myself, a home

where I recharge
I want someone
to embrace, four arms

that feel together
that I am a woman
to love

Your husband: rotate

him and look at him closely --


See what he's hiding.

I know father well,

he is happy to see me --


though he doesn't show it.

Old sore praises it-

self for its best intentions --


Own glory comes first.

Don't people have to

be good, is it enough if --


they seem to be good?