Be gentle, be soft in my arms

She exhaled hot air,
next to that large speaker,
in one Berlin underground bunker.
She was
too plainly bored to be serious,
scanning the room for something beautiful,
a tad weird, just cool, but far from crazy.

High heels,
short skirt,
seventies Kinks t-shirt,
and a hat, that was out of fashion,
in a good and steady way,
worn to threads,
as if it had never left her head.

She smiled and blushed just right,
sneakily glimpsing up,
searing the white from my eyes.
She was the best people can ever be,
a promise, a future, an iconography.
Become of it what might.
She was deep and sweet,
and a lure I wanted to inhabit desperately.

Dressed in a cliché of an irony
she held my idea of how to get it right.
A whisper of
„I know“,
„I know“,
between just us two,
lets pretend to act,
as if we cared,
as if we didn’t know,
I know,
I know,
Let’s play the game.
Just once more.
The rules
my truth
with a shot of eternity.

Between all those hips on a dance floor,
another girl, old boy,
interested to
have faith once more.
You might be a believer after all,
until now you just took it all too literal.

The penitent man believes in right,
he might be weak at time,
in the face of overwhelming odds.
But he is looking,
always looking
for what has to be,
for what cannot be different,
otherwise he shalt not have been.

I found all that,
first in the eyes,
then in the souls,
then in the folds,
of all those women,
who share a glimpse,
a hope,
a yearning for,
one great idea,
always different in two people.

Mary is God,
and forever,
and a girl I met a thousand times.



Und die alte Dame sagt doch, dass er genau da Fleisch unter seinen Armen spürt, wie es sich hebt und senkt, wie es nutzt und verschwendet. Setzt man zwei Männer eines gewissen Alter vor ein Getränk oder zwei, hat man den eigentlichen Philosophen schon gefunden. Jenen, der aus der Verzweiflung einer nicht-heimeligen Welt geboren wird. Jenen, der sie verwandeln muss, einfach weil es die Einzige ist, die ihm zur Verfügung steht. Bei dem, der nur existiert geht es von dort nur nach unten, während der andere mit frohem Mut die Pfeife stopft um noch einmal, noch einmal wieder Land zu sehen. Das Lebens Ruf an uns wird niemals enden. Zwei Entscheidungen, beide bevorzugte Wahl zweier schlauer Männer sind selten gar so verschieden. Sie sind Präferenzen eines Wissens, dass dies so zu machen wäre.

Ein Photo ist nicht deswegen interessant, weil es Erinnerung weckt, sondern weil es die Situation gerade nicht abbilden kann. Nicht die Zeit, nicht das Verstehen, nicht den Moment. Stattdessen kann es als Beweis für all das stehen, was man im Moment des Nocheinmal-Sehens gerne empfinden möchte. Glück definiert sich nicht über ein wahrhaft schön gelebtes Leben, sondern über ein schön erinnertes Leben. Was am Ende kommt ist immer die eigene Wahl. Ob man mit 50 zu sterben beschließt oder weitermachen will, ist immer nur in der Gegenwart von Bedeutung. Die Vergangenheit ist immer jetzt unsere Verantwortung.

Es ist immer die Angst davor die nächsten Zeilen zu schreiben und sich die Menschen vorstellen zu müssen, die sie missverstehen könnten. Weil sie von vornherein annehmen, dass sie für sie geschrieben sind. Die beschwören, dass ein Leben so klein geworden ist, dass die Intimität eines Zusammen es gar nicht anders zulässt als das alles, jede Silbe, jeder Atemzug mit einem anderen Leben zu tun haben könnte. Es ist noch eine Viertelstunde Zeit dann ruft der Schlaf, der mich kuriert und entlässt in ein anderes und gewinnträchtiges Leben im Dienste eines höchst angezählten Gewerbes. In genau diesem Sinne ist jedes hier befasste Wort Dienst an der Vergangenheit.


Give me a son to preach to and a daughter to trust.

All this hope that arrives when my screen turns to white and that pale blue cursor starts blinking like a metronome. Tik, Tok, Tik, Tok, once a second, presence and then none, till the end of natural life.

My interest lies with allure and the might of a want that is expressed within the hint of possibility. Of all the words we posses to say what we like best, this is the one I will kindly refer all your wildest dreams to now. Forget your „beauty“, your „sensuality“ and god forbid your „attraction“. Allure rolls from your mind, down your tongue and with a lick of a throaty hint it ends in ends unspoken. Which is what this is, the one truth. You do not stop. There is no end. The hero has his will, the date has her presence, but in the end you will whisper with a hope closer to tears than mind „stay, but never stay the same“. We are raw-cut, unadulterated possibility. People are outstretched, at their limit, clamoring with a presence that is the most stringent test of their sanity. But then they do not care.

Allure is bathing in the beauty that summer’s sun peels back from the tight bodies of our populous youth. With every whiff you get from chance encounters, there stands a life right before your eyes. A tug, a twist, a shove, a push, a possibility untested. Sexiness is not defined by bodies tight, by lips firm and will outspoken. It is the room you can take without a fight. A play of words as an invitation for a ride and someone moving along. Not knowing what this is about, but making it up, because it is fun and games and will be alright. Have rules, have tons of them, principles and convictions and all that makes a man, but be prepared to see them bent by a wench that swears to know how the world twists just now. And see everything she holds dear be dented and upturned by a thought unkempt that shoots from your mind and is honored by a smile of faint understanding. Because that is your power and her will.

She is pure saccharine, caffeine, nicotine gum. And she grabs your shirt and skin till her knuckles turn white and pull you into the twilight to leave a soft kiss planted on chapped lips. Now you understand allure, one profound beauty that is here, and another hiding in the folds, a struggle that needs unwinding. And no matter what, we shall never stop. And like the atheist I am, I pray, pray, pray you never stay the same.


Kids or the last song. thank you for watching us.

You hold up a slice of cold pizza and bite into it heartily. Youth is one hundred twenty beats per minute. It is not having to worry about tomorrow morning, because tomorrow morning everything will be fine. Going to work and being able to function thats the prerequisite to live, your paycheck, your money. You can do it even if you are close to delirium right now. Aspirin saves you. Painkillers save you. Junk food saves you. What about it? You live till you get kids. Then you live for them. Get them their life. Then you are useless. You avoid Aspirin, Painkillers and junk food because it will extend the period you are useless. Do I really think that? Who cares?

There is a concert, there is a party. You feel the alcohol abating, you feel the energy waning, you feel conscious control reentering your mind. You regain the feeling that these words could be used against you in a trial one day. A laughable, ridiculous thought. Because whatever you write is not your opinion. Whatever you do is not your identity. Whatever you promise is not stability. But somehow that is how easy some people believe the world to be. You want to avoid that, so you imbibe more. Afterwards you will think you missed the music, missed the great lyricism in the words. That is the moment you will have failed the man bleeding into his microphone. Bleeding into his record collection.

I am scared to have kids. I have been since I met the man. Walked past a bench, got invited to stay, because I held a beer and so did he. He was graying, like Sibona. Like Desdemona. In his voice were tremor and determination in equal parts – the definition of wisdom. He had kids. And he wished them pain. He wished them hardship, inflicted by the world. Dealt out by reality. Of modern day and age. Long and determined suffering. Not the one where you have to do what you are supposed to. But the one where you believe with everything and are let down. You believe in the blonde or the artist. Or the best friend. And in the end it’s you and your home that remains. Since that day I know I’m the same. I wonder about the resolution you need to want kids but then want their pain.

And have not found it yet.


A Golden Now

There is no golden age and there has never been. When we are young we miss the point about all we read and all we see, as we mistake it for what might be reality. Inspiration is around the corner, it’s in the air like a an ice-cold, sharp realization that cannot be held at bay: You have never grasped life. It is everything multiplied by everybody squared with eternity. Our existence is limited, but just because we cannot take more. We cannot overreach, we cannot evade the simplicity we truly need. Complicated beings woven into a fabric that is who we are, is what we are. But the next lady or gentleman we meet, might change that. The truly sinful french girl, who dresses with careful carelessness knowing that all redemption she will ever get, will be through the saving of a another soul, through delivering it to greatness. The soft-eyed, timid gentleman who will not speak out, but has the world to say. The urge to save someone, something, it could not be greater, when we are packed into the warmth and comfort of a dark night and a friendly drink. A glimpse through the biting air into the huge eyes of a soul who for just this second is brave and confesses how truly lost she really is. And your whole body wants to reach out, and heal and right everything, with a kiss and a touch. One want to kiss her like you kiss no other.

This is the greatest age anybody has ever lived in. Twenty years ago, a plane ticket cost a fortune, a call to another continent could ruin a family and your only way to get reliable information about the world was through the channels of mass media. Of which we believed that it could shove any thought it wished into the heads of anybody who would listen. Any one majority you poll is not smart, but the overall majority of people is. We have a world at our fingertips that is bigger, more colorful and more chaotic and unseemly than we would have ever thought. It is a realm of pure possibility, which is something that out of the box is the opposite of what we always believe. It’s not good. Our poets are people who take words and photoshop them on pictures they didn’t take. Almost all of them are neither pretty nor deep, but there is an awful lot of them. Our painters cut and mix what they find and care none about what is thought to fit. And for most of the time it doesn’t. But twenty years ago our music was not good, it was a mixture of artificiality and despair. Today we have music that is indebted with the flow. It answers just one question and it does so well: What’s next? What is ahead is not something to be planned with great care and artifice or derived from sheer repetition, but something that has to hold just for a moment. A good one. And if it is a truly amazing one, it will last. In our disinterest into our own past we mistake the warm feeling we get when we perceive greatness in our day and age for nostalgia. Not seeing that this age is not great just because its story has not yet been told; unlike the tales of the ’60s or ’20s. They look so neat in print, the ideas of the time seem so clear, so distinct. The past always is devoid of everything that made it complicated. That’s why we need old Freud most often right before we retire. Now we are old enough to slowly have a past that is shaping up that way and makes the right-now look bad. So old friend as you die to be saved by saving a soul, right now we are here and what is next is a kiss. Lips ridding one another of lament and sorrow. Nothing more, nothing less, it will work for now.


Why would you …

I had a weird thought today,
that the more words you learn,
the more your voice drowns away.

I saw a figures back,
drawn by a master of paint,
just a black line,
on red linen,
all but swallowed by crude horizons.

I felt need,
need to feel the earth receding,
below my feet,
to keep it spinning and turning,
like that odd ball is used to.

A friend came up to me,
and tossed me a sheet,
so crinkled and wrought
that I felt the urge to earn some spurs.

I miss my sadness,
miss my voice,
miss the urge to go and look,
and follow the longing.

Need a reason to resent happiness,
this is it.


La puissance invisible

Traurigkeit ist immer Sehnsucht. Sehnsucht nach etwas, das man sich vorstellen kann, aber noch nicht erfahren hat. Darauf gibt es zwei Arten zu reagieren, entweder mit Willen oder mit Bedauern. Hunter S. Thompsons Tag war das viertelstündige Einwerfen verschiedenster aufputschender und halluzinogener Substanzen, die in den müden Zwischenräumen der Stunden, die dann noch übrig blieben, mit Analgetika wieder soweit abgekühlt wurden, dass um Mitternacht ein Grad an Schmerz erreicht wurde, der genau richtig ist. Schmerz und Sehnsucht sind Gefühle, die nur durch Worte therapiert werden können. Freud hatte recht damit. Es ist die große Leistung, die große Ironie der Sprache, das ihre Fragmente nie genug sind um das, worum es eigentlich geht, wahrhaft auszudrücken. Und doch müssen wir genau das glauben, weil unsere Gedanken auch nur Sprache sind. In guten Momenten können wir dann Worte mit der Wahrheit verwechseln. Wer traurig genug ist, will morgen als anderer Mensch aufwachen. Und wird es nicht. Und weiß es. Und schreibt. Es liegt eine gewisse Ironie dahinter, dass wir uns dahinter dann schöne Menschen vorstellen.

Und es ist deshalb, dass man Traurigkeit als schön zu denken hat.