REAL LIFE

endless whining lines
through years of tears
it´s simple though
they own you
they own you
they control your driving wheel
make you shout and squeal

if that´s what you want
if that´s what you really want
just keep on keeping on

IN CORDOBA IS A WATERWHEEL

they speak of rogue states, feral youth
and further words of an age
the programme features
nuclear and environmental catastrophes
economic blizzards
drones and the four riders

my simple sexual desires
make me unexceptional
just a man-child
cock-a-rising
in cordoba is a waterwheel
we fetch water, the sun sets
and desire is the only constant

XIIXXV

snow
white cocoon
silencer
signalling tradition and blazing log fires

drunken cousin in the corner
talking too loud, too long and incoherently
throughout the ceremonies of ice
they try to tell him
all is wonderful
cheer ! cheers ! cheerio !

brandy is burning its way into his brain
smell melting plastic in overloaded circuits
watch broken washing machines
spewing out grey slops

he stumbles over
kicks the front door open
and screams
this is not mine
a moan piercing the air
tearing the paper sky in two

HOME TRUTH

stupid vinegar mouth !
don´t forget :
the totality
will fucking kill you
just don´t know where
you don´t know when

NEWS FROM INSIDE

the air has flowed into my lungs
they are still burnt and twisted
like volcanic rock
now comes the rain, the river, the water that heals
and from the earth shall spring
the plants of fire

FIVE-FORTY

the moon the temptress
blouse buttons undone
lightening the last reaches of the night
beckoning and calling
the waves jumping and howling
the pack´s on heat

yes, empires and species die out
yet i sing, i breathe still
let´s hear it for the freaks, the competent, the great and the fuckers

let us go then
you and i
scared
clenching the reins awkwardly
to ride onwards
for just as long as it is possible

this is beyond that little love
this is beyond solidarity

my country

behind her skirts
a babe in the midst of bull rushes
hiding behind the girls hoola-hooping
trying not to get my clothes grubby
is it luxury to feel four years old ?
a crime?
irrelevant to the matter at hand ?
the festival of the judges is a riot of colours, styles, weapons, cults
machine gun pronouncements, slipshod hangings, sentences, barren wastes of time
i peer out through a crack to be nabbed by an unsteady moralist
who tells me to stand up and be counted
i scream
not my world
not my problem
i muff and swaddle myself wishing to be a hippo in his mud
a two year old with his bright yellow plastic ducks