John admired the streets in front of his house. They were beautiful, more beautiful than the ones, he had lived on. Back in the days, when he had been »gone missing«, his main places to stay were the streets – or old buildings near older streets. He loved the cobblestones, their unsteadiness, their glimmer during the twilights. Old lamps threw their orange lights, more or less yellow than a nicotine stained wall, on those stones, echoes of light and sound…
The house looked at me and I stared back. The windows, lidless and dark, showed no other emotion than pure despise. I did the best I could do. I turned back to the street. The streetlights glowed, nicotine-colored lights surrounded my black shadow like a shield. And yet, they were not able to disconnect me from my fear. And my work. My work was simple: You visit a house, you check out, who is the renter or owner of the…
From the midnight clouds someone is singing from the midnight clouds from the shadows of the moons someone is singing from the shadows of the moons from the bright abyss someone is singing from the bright abyss from the river of molten glass someone is singing from the river of molten glass from ash-covered bones no one is singing from the ash-covered bones from my unsteady steps no one is singing from my unsteady steps from the echoes of the…
There is a creature outside my window there is a thing, maybe a man, I have no reason to believe, that its real I have no words to describe its form I have no need to paint a picture in your mind it has a form, I am sure of and eyes and nose and ears and arms and legs, maybe too many, but not enough to move its body near my window. It even may have a mouth full…
Poetry died in the 70s or was it ever alive? I am not sure about that a kind of grainy tv screen connects me with the past and words crawl from eternity to eternity behind the curtain of history into my mind. Poetry died in the 70s but I am still alive I am sure of that a kind of high definition glance from the mirror connects me with the present and emotions jump from now to now behind ……
Are you too fond of the world beyond? Maybe you need – like a reed near a pond – something to eat. Ignore the fake: Imagine a lake where the winds make waves create illusions and tales of fate. So rhymes become form and this is the norm, the narration of life: the focus to strive the endless want the fear for »beyond«.
I am not here yet I am just the essence of things to come of dreams to fear of love to conquer I am the others the wordless builders of holy fates of destinies unseen I am the scribe the ponderer who ponders way too much instead of listening to them which are the things to come
I feel time behind every breath behind every heartbeat behind every smile every pain, every step I feel time and its just it: that death is not only a possibility but there mere outcome of this what I call life. Without life there is no time and without time, there is no movement and yet I wish I could stop for one eternal moment All precious things are lost when time goes by when smiles are withering,…