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.