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