Hand-picked poems

Translated or written in english by the author.

The surplus value of being

Thirty years, thirty years,
young and perspective cadre.
I turn outward, for there’s where the world is,
they say.
I turn outward,
for inward it’s calm for now
and one doesn’t disturb the calm,
they say,
for fear of something sprouting.

Thirty years, yet no one cheers,
the company men are gone,
while HR rattles,
& sniffles:

it was supposed to be different.
HR and PR (harumph and ptew-argh)
happiness’s jailors.

Thirty years inward, and old outward;
I turn to the side,
I was an older soul once,
they say.

The surplus value of being
an ontological redundancy,
a deficit.
They say:
young and perspective. Cad(av)re.

 

 

aught : fifty-three

I world-test
my mornings.

Positive.

They’re part-time
double agents;

part-time
paramilitary.

My mornings have lives of their own.

Cunning mornings,
evening keen,
never wake me sleeping,
never lull awake.

My mornings dream me,
part-particle

and lie in wait:

I grow by coffee and vitamins,
a splash of water to wash away the scent.

The morning wash load (of consciousness, conscience) – an ambush
along the way.


All the world’s words have lost my mind

A poem on sleep,
the scattered freight of perception,
fragments of whispers,
naked paint-by-numbers;

we wallow into tomorrow ominously,
cities fly past our windows
(like dreams,
the flattering gypsies).

Some words have lost my mind:                             dreamos, that
live under
cold windows;

buzzwuzzers from beneath
heavy stones;

the dead river sleeves with tiny
wrists I used to love to kiss.

Cities breathe, cough & spit,
the summer smog opens the streets’ nostrils,
the buildings disband, all
the world’s buildings have lost the cities.

All the world’s words have lost my mind.

The poem on sleep awaits their return;
the dreams await the return
of the dead freight of perception.

 

 

An unday diary

A year/and a half of undays
had passed, it would seem.

An unday is an unending day.

An unday doesn’t count
hours
and in it hours don’t count.

A year/and a half of undays then;
in it but that: a year/and a half.

An unday tips its hat
»Unday/and a half,,
»charmed, I’m sure.«

And then
»Where to?«

»Home. It would seem.«

An unday is always at home

somewhere

and en route elsewhere,

in between you and I
over you, over I

(always en route)

unto self, you and I. Each day
an unday takes everyday

»Where to?«

»To a day. It would seem.«

An unday is a done day,
a day, done away with,
for a year/and a half.

 

 

An apology

An apology, hugging breasts tight,
shimmering mind-game rule-boards
in front of second-hand day-time allowances.

She loves/loves me not,
positions shift her/me on top,
talking shop,
deeper, harder. Remembering
wild scarf-bound spring curls,
remembering smiles,
table-top finger struggles.
I won her/she won over.

Lips tight lips, I think and
thighs spread thighs love –
an apology.

Never, she said
and I look in cold-cold north-bound trains
for sunny vales to slip in/over the horizon.

A car-scene, she waits there,
smiles for eternity. Cheese, says eternity,
click-click it goes.

An apology for eternity’s fucked-up career
as career photographer.

 

 

Love

I dream of her sometimes and it is and isn’t her. I see her on the street never knowing if it’s her I’ve seen.
I talk to her on the phone. I love you, I tell her, I tell most of them that.
tooo                      tooo
She loves me too.

Hair color she changes. Makeup she wears and does not wear. She is my first, my last, the current ex.

In dreams we run in the far future, entwine, entwine.

Too many people, the future is full of people,
a solitude solo.

She will not be, never has been. Love is flesh in mind in mouth love is my dark closet of memory love is always
only when gone.

 

 

My street

My street is being torn down today. It’s settling into dust and bruising,
my street’s bruising today, while the bruisers in blue hang off the walls,
through the walls, though the walls (in my street today ) are gone.

And it’s not even my street being torn down, they’re tearing saved souls, souls saved on junk and on air, they too do sleep (have slept, are sometimes slept with) in my street.

That they’re tearing today, I only found later, a while ago and there
– no bulldozers,
yet I know perfectly well the souls are waiting for them…

At night the souls and bulldozers shall dance.
The fluttering souls and thunderous bulldozers — what a dance
it shall be!

Awkward bulldozers in tailcoats/ ties/ souls in arms
erroneously tear down my street.

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Arhiv