MORAL PHILOSOPHY

and what is this screaming inside my head ?
what does it mean ?
pain ?
learnt behaviour ?
and, if learnt behaviour, then why ?
because of pain ?
because of this mix
of pain, depression
with a dull contentedness
self-satisfaction
happiness

moral philosophy is beyond me !

WILLOW

back then
my Latin teacher
told me to buck up --
else your accomodations, your willow nature
will be the death of you !

one night

she screaming
sudden a fright in the night

i screaming
vine clinging to the trellis
i screaming
pen in my fist

i fool look in my wallet
for certainties

i empty
and overflowing
with tears, tears
my hatred and despair
exaggerated and stylized
I CANNOT FIND SELF
not here i am not there

FLYING

flying
transferring to another continent
to another time, place
culture, identity

and who i am remains constant
through all my changes
of costume, behaviour , custom

the coldness

there is a small chapel in the city
its walls and roof are made of human skulls and bones
today all i want is
to sit there
and feel the coldness of life

One lonesome day

here there are scattered stones

in memory of the king

i remember

the corpse of a turtle

2 meters in diameter

discovered in the dunes

heating up to explode

i remember

picasso´s women running on the sand

i remember

the happy-go-lucky old timer

who pointedly didn´t buy me a beer

sitting on a stack of railway sleepers

pencil in my hand

staring at an empty wall

thinking of the incommunicable details of my life

a dark female form passing by

whispers

and who is your signmaster ?

COLLUSION

sitting in the cubicle
cold like an icicle
that was a road i didn´t ride
and now it´s tearing me up
i was a pup
an amorphous mess
without a driving wheel
mummy, daddy
what strange convoluted
stupid conspiracy
between us three led to this ?

you loved me
but between us
we produced a poor result
hurts me to speak thus of myself
self-preservation rebels against these words
words of an age
but the sounds
and the fury
keeps me alive !

CANNY

Angelo was drinking whisky, a sip every ten minutes or so, his words coming slowly, carefully picked. Pausing between sentences, watching the response, listening to words answered. "it´s both, it´s a fight and a game." Weighing his words now, I start to understand. Fighting is an adrenaline thing: fear, desperation and the subjective imperative can turn a man into a killing machine. Everyday impatience and itchy dislikes suddenly explode into burning resentment and ferocious aggression. And as a fighter you are weak, vulnerable, quite simply because it means much too much for you. So you need to be someone who doesn´t care, who could be heading anywhere, who anticipates and savors the other´s moves, who takes the game as it is. I cannot know Angelo´s motivation, what he desired in his heart. Yet he spent his time passing on a truth that few know.
RIP Angelo.

DO RIGHT

i used to use alcohol
to stick me to the page
like a stamp
there was something i wanted to avoid
they dragged me
screaming and kicking and mumbling
into the examination room
parallel lines feeling

my only answer was
no, not so
i concealed the above
with a meek demeanour
with drugs and dreaming
now the fog is clearing
i do right with me

that it be known

let it be known that
should i die tonight
(heart attack or stroke)
it often hangs on a thread

the sway of your breasts keeps me alive
my daughter´s vivacity
my sons tenacity
keeps me alive

but me
like some billion others
it just hangs on a thread
and there´s scorpions in my head
horny sadists of the inquisition
getting their kicks off of torture
and the faceless ones with their imperatives
so i am screaming silently
a day late, as always
rushing ´cause i´m far behind
so many miles
away
way back then
in tepid bath water with my yellow plastic ducks

STATEMENT OF FACT

a cyclist swerves
pig´s head balanced between the handle bars
in my ear music compositions
that i cannot hear
my bits do not fit together
it was between night and the morning
in the grey hours
colour seeping in ever so slowly
i repeat
my bits do not fit together
there is a waterwheel in cordoba
squeaking and sloshing
my various IDs
floating like embryos pickled in formaldehyde
there are expanses of wheat
screams, lists, currencies
but please don´t listen
nor worry your sweet head
concerning the tentative articulations of a small boy
shouts, brine, juxtaposition
failed states, laughter, drambuie
a day late
a dollar short
my bits don´t fit together

a word in your ear

organise your desk
correct positioning of keyboard, mouse, paper
saves time and nerves
a chair with wheels
and everything in its place

set up the naming conventions, 
organise the folder structure, the back-ups,
check disc status regularly

and the heart ?
your heart of different ages
the heart you have from your mother
open your heart !

Q & A

what is the texture of your life right now ?

lonesome piano and chocolate

what are you hiding ?

my sexuality rumbling, my tears welling,  despair
the realisation
bearing down on me like a tanker
of my flaws and failures
hate and self-hate scratching on the door

i see the fissure in your face
it´s time to explode !

WHEN

when you are ninety-one
events, memories, images floating through your consciousness
and i am worm food
you will remember my embrace
and probably think
stupid man
silly boy
but the kisses were sweet

One God

truck driver
in the cab
rainy night
swish
so many miles
so many miles
turns off the music player
there is but one god
and that is yourself
to save you
or damn you

The Service Economy

cage of light bright metal
warm smell of straw and urine
a rat presses a lever with its snout
receives yet another shot of dopamine
its eyes dull
as if that were it
presses the lever again
again
again
an automatic counter
plastic parts and electronic components
registers each event
relaying information in a real-time printout
uploading a graph to a science website
inside is outside
as  if it were that

the lab technician
white coat with the firms logo
a decent roller pen
 a discreet piercing twixt mouth and chin
is thinking of relationships, being authentic, vacations

as if it were that

VAN GOGH

you say
that artist didn´t die
he lives on, his name known the world over
one thing though:
of this he knows nothing
he himself does not live on
just his legacy
and for him
it´s all been packed away
rolled up, string around it, and packed away
however hard this is to understand
in this maelstrom of shitwords
i die

i die and know nothing
of what happens to the memories i leave behind