Poem for Richie and Bruce

When the poem said no

I knew what it meant

cause when we kissed

     – fire –


so I knocked it unconscious

with my baseball bat

pomegranate pumping in

chest still

accelerating back to stone age

the beast here thoroughly relaxed

in its untranslatability

scattering brain matter

and branding trees

with names so they

– still indifferent to this –

became significant in

other times

losing their ability to grow

in arbitrarily precise

banappling ways


now as it wakes

and looks at me

with sheepish loving eyes

I pierce its tongue

with an icicle

thus sticking it to

the ground where

it shall stay

until it stops being

such a fucking asshole.

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Now your view

is widely spread

on the kitchen table.

Beneath scattered crumbs

of bread, the head reclines

– a piece of boredom furniture.

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the holidays explode in your face

with a sneer of grandmother’s

eighteenth antique


all disappointments

pointing at

just that

little child’s face

playing the guitar in


Now stuck in tube

you wish

for a violent santa

humongous phallus as



up that brunch

in all its obsolescence

yes to violent rhetorics

and anger

under christmas tree

nicely wrapped

in grenade ribbons

you and the deer on the stove

forgot your safe word

and keep being fucked

in reality’s

straight jacket

cornering you on balcony

with bread and cookies


fat accumulates

like sin

you grow heavy

and slow

in heat


give in


the undeniabilty

of those walls


And as you feel yourself –

glue to wall

you silently demand

freedom from the viscosity of

the real

and a vocabulary

that knows exactly what you want.

And what would have been

if the conditional tense

hadn’t been

such an asshole?




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So stranded!

one after the other

washed ashore

bellies filled with

contemporary acid

throwing up on tree

down twig

upward facing god

or lamppost.


these distinctions

are irrelevant

our illusions

now thoroughly

embalmed and

stashed in cookie

jar stench

guarded by

lobotomatic robocops

asking the only

question relevant

now do you feel




driving that car of

autonomous identity productivity,

flashing our career-ism

in the park

(I flush you down the toilet

along with my memory)

Blowing our own horns

louder than anybody else

for the rest of our lives


the inescapable

violence of this

comes in like a wrecking ball.

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Now I Sea

pores pooring

out my pocket

where I had stashed them

for use in colder times

they were plastic

just yesterday


in swarowski stones

what is this

strange liquid

oozing out of ears

It is the case that

nobody wants

to be eaten

these days



and then

fingers are consumed


and wrinkles

become a parent

this is

a problem

you see

when thoughts


jumping out of

indiscriminate openings

of ones attire

positions have

to be taken

not only when


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Meditationen beim Schwinden


40 Sekunden wart ich schon.

Vom Springbrunnen am Platz

lassen sich Seelen breit ins Wasser fallen;


verschmelzen mit der Wassermasse

den Marmornen Mund, dem sie entsprangen,

aus niederer Ferne dann betrachtend.


So schauen Augen fleischig in die Dunkelheit

die sie erfanden, als sie beschlossen

blindlings zu begehren.



Wird Augapfel zu Hornisse,

zur Plage

durch die wir uns erkennen. 

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