sally, you know me

feel i´m one of the
walking wounded
and what battle was it ?
just some stupid business deal
drinking coffee, eating in restaurants, negotiating and calculating day and night
so that we have more chick peas, more cheddar than the next man
and sally
i still can´t dance
i still can´t love my being

me and a troubled world

in this troubled world
my worries weigh little
tho´ heavy on my shoulders

socially awkward
i seek to dance in my poems
a sublimation
that i don´t quite manage

two

about my father :
a time his fire raged
now a pummice stone in the bathroom
is the only witness to past passions
a stone now used to rub away the stains
the reminders of life lived

about his son :
stupid
foolish
melodramatic
romantic
depressed
would like to be on the golf course
and then to dive into egyptian fleshpots

Nicolas, single, 24 years

nicolas looks in the mirror
not bad
teeth a bit prominent but beautifully whitened
red hair combed back smartly

i wear sensitive glasses
well-fitting jeans
casual, elegant shirts
with personality

yes, they are watching my every move
all eyes on me
i open my mouth ever so slightly
they hang on my lips

i say things in a fascinating way
the world is very impressed
when i quietly say
that design is frozen life

edgy

I see production and consumption
the dance of the vanities
intricate complications
finance, well-being
weapons systems

I see, and you too see
the models on the catwalk
the trim beard of the environmentalist
the proud fathers of sports cars
the high fives in the chic bars
the refugees shouting for water
for a drop of humanity

I listen out for the silent one
I prick my ears
are those steps approaching ?
we all want, we all need
all bleed

I hear the cook chattering
about scandals, the internet, politicians
the drivers admiring, desiring the gleaming automobiles
I hear it, don´t you hear it too ?

The players of instruments
druggies or prim performers
are sometimes the only ones

The plain clothes inspectors catch the faredodger and I hate them
don´t you too ?

evening

good evening, mr. jones, said she
i put my arm around her
she turned in to me
i felt her breasts pressing against my chest
so i told her
yes my love
i am a bent corkscrew
but there ´s a good future for us together

8 years old

the sinking of the scharnhorst
a drama at the piano
and in poster paints
red, gray, and black

to say
only at that moment did i live
would be unfair
but not a million miles from the truth