Bitterbös sind die Tränen auf meiner Wange,
die sich in mein Gesicht brennen,
bitterbös ist der Gedanke,
mit dem ich mich bestrafen möchte,
bitterbös der Nachgeschmack,
den ich nicht loswerde,
bitterbös der Hass,
der wieder so tief brennt,
bitterbös die Worte auf meiner Zunge,
die dann doch geschluckt werden.
Und ich weiss nicht, wie bitter
dieser Funke Leben ist,
den ich bereit bin mit Bosheit zu füllen.
JBG, 4. Dezember 2010
Saturday, 4 December 2010
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
unFair
So you stop dead for a second to check me out,
My broken burnt nose,
My orange hair showing my roots,
My split ends and uneven haircut,
My five quid-a-shoe sneakers
My zip undone, my nails bitten down,
My trousers splashed all over with ice
My shirt dipped all over in cream
My yesterday’s bra starting to smell of me,
My last week’s knickers waiting for you to make ‘em drop
drop down to the knees,
My socks taken from a pile of laundry,
My guts and soul ready to be sold
to whoever needs another piece of gratitude,
My patience to be tested by egg in my teeth,
My false leather to be ripped apart by your gaze,
And you judged that little voice of mine,
You deemed it unworthy of your time and nerves,
And one glance down my top into my bosom,
My cleavage, told you to back off that swimmer’s back of mine,
And the stubbles on my legs and under my arm
only assured you in thinking “how the hell was I so wrong”,
So you take my strength, my perseverance and my pride with you
as you buy that bottle of beer,
Get your ass back onto your high horse
And let the knights swallow you whole.
MJ 6/24/2010
My broken burnt nose,
My orange hair showing my roots,
My split ends and uneven haircut,
My five quid-a-shoe sneakers
My zip undone, my nails bitten down,
My trousers splashed all over with ice
My shirt dipped all over in cream
My yesterday’s bra starting to smell of me,
My last week’s knickers waiting for you to make ‘em drop
drop down to the knees,
My socks taken from a pile of laundry,
My guts and soul ready to be sold
to whoever needs another piece of gratitude,
My patience to be tested by egg in my teeth,
My false leather to be ripped apart by your gaze,
And you judged that little voice of mine,
You deemed it unworthy of your time and nerves,
And one glance down my top into my bosom,
My cleavage, told you to back off that swimmer’s back of mine,
And the stubbles on my legs and under my arm
only assured you in thinking “how the hell was I so wrong”,
So you take my strength, my perseverance and my pride with you
as you buy that bottle of beer,
Get your ass back onto your high horse
And let the knights swallow you whole.
MJ 6/24/2010
Seem to
The African tunes in your head won’t stop you
from lingering on those memories for a moment, not one,
And you turn your back to the people accompanying you on that train-ride
from A to B, while you’re gone
Gone from bliss and torture and nothing seems to express
the feeling you’re holding in your hands the best
While the worst part seems to have fallen behind you,
the clouds seem to have lifted, the wild breeze is still here, but you,
You don’t seem to mind the croaking baby, its first words of independence,
You’re putting on that bikini seemingly untouched,
And while you watch those faces pass,
exposed like a mannequin in a window selling fabrics they don’t need,
You seem to extend that breath onto other parts of your body,
parts that seem to have been asleep in slumber,
And you don’t seem to mind that numbness in your left foot,
in your ear, that buzz you’re left with at night.
It creeps all over you, that tingling you can’t get off your page,
and you seem way too pleased with how
And why the world is going to end,
you don’t seem to notice that black spot on your mother’s iris,
that undeservingly freaky title of that new comedy,
That mouth smiling back at you in that magazine you secretly despise.
You gloat at everything and everyone
and everything seems to gloat back at you,
so take a moment,
Fulfil that dream of automatic writing when phonology seems to dictate semantics,
when camel-piss is in your cup and you seem peacefully drown in it.
MJ 6/23/2010
from lingering on those memories for a moment, not one,
And you turn your back to the people accompanying you on that train-ride
from A to B, while you’re gone
Gone from bliss and torture and nothing seems to express
the feeling you’re holding in your hands the best
While the worst part seems to have fallen behind you,
the clouds seem to have lifted, the wild breeze is still here, but you,
You don’t seem to mind the croaking baby, its first words of independence,
You’re putting on that bikini seemingly untouched,
And while you watch those faces pass,
exposed like a mannequin in a window selling fabrics they don’t need,
You seem to extend that breath onto other parts of your body,
parts that seem to have been asleep in slumber,
And you don’t seem to mind that numbness in your left foot,
in your ear, that buzz you’re left with at night.
It creeps all over you, that tingling you can’t get off your page,
and you seem way too pleased with how
And why the world is going to end,
you don’t seem to notice that black spot on your mother’s iris,
that undeservingly freaky title of that new comedy,
That mouth smiling back at you in that magazine you secretly despise.
You gloat at everything and everyone
and everything seems to gloat back at you,
so take a moment,
Fulfil that dream of automatic writing when phonology seems to dictate semantics,
when camel-piss is in your cup and you seem peacefully drown in it.
MJ 6/23/2010
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Men with Glasses
They disgust me, men with glasses.
They drool, they burp, they never pray, men with glasses.
They swim, they drown, they toss their sorrows, men with glasses.
You free them from themselves and their weekendly spirit, and their thoughts become sober and clean, men without glasses.
Their vision is blurred, but for the first time you are convinced they think alike, men with glasses.
You glance at their small eyes, red and twinkling, men with glasses.
And through the glass and the sweat on their eyebrows, they look back at you in haze, men with glasses.
There’s a reason why I don’t like you on hot days, men with glasses.
There’s a reason why I’d never set foot into a stadium, men with glasses.
There’s a reason why I ignore you in bars, men with glasses.
Carry on carrying cartons of juice, men with glasses, because beer is definitely not your perfect, but preferred milieu.
MJ 14th june 2010
They drool, they burp, they never pray, men with glasses.
They swim, they drown, they toss their sorrows, men with glasses.
You free them from themselves and their weekendly spirit, and their thoughts become sober and clean, men without glasses.
Their vision is blurred, but for the first time you are convinced they think alike, men with glasses.
You glance at their small eyes, red and twinkling, men with glasses.
And through the glass and the sweat on their eyebrows, they look back at you in haze, men with glasses.
There’s a reason why I don’t like you on hot days, men with glasses.
There’s a reason why I’d never set foot into a stadium, men with glasses.
There’s a reason why I ignore you in bars, men with glasses.
Carry on carrying cartons of juice, men with glasses, because beer is definitely not your perfect, but preferred milieu.
MJ 14th june 2010
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
selfishnessfishness
January February March and May- maybe.
You know what they say, don’t you?
They say those people lack the world outside.
They stuff their faces in order to hide in this place.
It’s not the end.
It’s not the way out.
It’s inventing a new you, a new persona in your mind.
You know what they say, don’t you?
It is some kind of murder.
You kill your parents, your family, your friends.
Are you that selfish? Didn’t think so.
Because you know what they say.
They are selfish people, but we haven’t crossed that line yet,
have we?
Then again, there is no one there but you.
Make it look like an accident.
Being hit by lightning, getting run over by a car, a truck,
anything.
Anything along those lines.
And when they’re groggy enough,
you pat them on their shoulders and make them fall off that line.
Me, I’ve never had to be selfish.
Never been implemented the knowledge to be selfish,
to see you and no one else around you.
I’ve never (liar).
You know what they say, don’t you?
They say those people lack the world outside.
They stuff their faces in order to hide in this place.
It’s not the end.
It’s not the way out.
It’s inventing a new you, a new persona in your mind.
You know what they say, don’t you?
It is some kind of murder.
You kill your parents, your family, your friends.
Are you that selfish? Didn’t think so.
Because you know what they say.
They are selfish people, but we haven’t crossed that line yet,
have we?
Then again, there is no one there but you.
Make it look like an accident.
Being hit by lightning, getting run over by a car, a truck,
anything.
Anything along those lines.
And when they’re groggy enough,
you pat them on their shoulders and make them fall off that line.
Me, I’ve never had to be selfish.
Never been implemented the knowledge to be selfish,
to see you and no one else around you.
I’ve never (liar).
Garden Art
And they erected your holy double,
they put up walls and formed the base,
they really really made it work for you.
Even though the artists have passed for good,
your erected golden cow is rooting
still standing and bidding its time, never forgot.
You are the worst-known sinner and I,
I am the world’s most elusive whore,
and I will piss on your head, laugh in your face.
Because you are not the statue of Liberty,
you are only three feet tall, and your foundation
can be rocked, it has and it will be.
We have the power to erase you, and we will
use that enigmatic force to beat every living
cell out of you and back into its creator’s holy spirit.
May 20th, 2010 MJ
they put up walls and formed the base,
they really really made it work for you.
Even though the artists have passed for good,
your erected golden cow is rooting
still standing and bidding its time, never forgot.
You are the worst-known sinner and I,
I am the world’s most elusive whore,
and I will piss on your head, laugh in your face.
Because you are not the statue of Liberty,
you are only three feet tall, and your foundation
can be rocked, it has and it will be.
We have the power to erase you, and we will
use that enigmatic force to beat every living
cell out of you and back into its creator’s holy spirit.
May 20th, 2010 MJ
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
From Here On Up
What has happened to you,
Fat old bloke,
Where did all your inspiration,
Aspiration, go?
I know you’re still wearing that
Fake necklace,
I’ve seen it in the pictures,
In The Mirror
Why did you drive that car
That night?
Why didn’t you wait for
Your boyfriend
To do so, as you were clearly
Tired and in no
Clear circumstance to drive
It yourself.
Oh, what has happened
Pill-popping queen,
That you’ve been making all
These awful decisions?
I couldn’t be there for you,
I apologise,
I couldn’t grab the steering-wheel
For you.
But then again, I reckon I’m not
The one to
Get your feet back on the ground,
Not really, no,
Instead, turn your head to him,
Keep the mic,
Get your ass back on stage now,
sing that songs
for me and my seven invisible friends.
Dedicated to Mr Michael, July 13th, 2010
Fat old bloke,
Where did all your inspiration,
Aspiration, go?
I know you’re still wearing that
Fake necklace,
I’ve seen it in the pictures,
In The Mirror
Why did you drive that car
That night?
Why didn’t you wait for
Your boyfriend
To do so, as you were clearly
Tired and in no
Clear circumstance to drive
It yourself.
Oh, what has happened
Pill-popping queen,
That you’ve been making all
These awful decisions?
I couldn’t be there for you,
I apologise,
I couldn’t grab the steering-wheel
For you.
But then again, I reckon I’m not
The one to
Get your feet back on the ground,
Not really, no,
Instead, turn your head to him,
Keep the mic,
Get your ass back on stage now,
sing that songs
for me and my seven invisible friends.
Dedicated to Mr Michael, July 13th, 2010
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
When you look @ the world
What is it you see when you look at the world?
Do you see girls throwing up at every corner,
either because they’re boozed up
or because of their fingers down their throats?
Do you see the tantalising friends who try to shape each other,
hype each other until they commit global suicide on the internet?
Do you see women and children, legs and arms gone amiss,
begging for a couple of quid,
turning down food because their pimps don’t need vitamins?
I see all that.
I see all that every day when I close my eyes and listen to the earth, the ground beneath our feet.
I’m told to start sharing.
I’m told to stop worrying.
I’m told to start breathing.
I’m told to stop looking after you.
You and the other one over there, cause you’re all grown up,
you’re all grown out of the shoes your mum gave you.
So know it better, I dare you,
Know it and lecture me about it,
Tell me what it is, what you see when you look at the world.
Do you see beggars turning into thieves to support their wives and children,
to make ends meet in one way or another,
to start running in the streets?
Do you see the struggle for survival,
the fittest most hydrated animals to be kings of their ponds,
roaring at enemies big or small, intimidating everyone?
Do you see the ones who never look back,
a glimpse at the human species, the rest of us who are green with envy,
while we’re ignoring the green of the world?
I see all that.
I see all that every day when I close my eyes and inhale the fumes and odours of the earth,
its wrath and foulness spread in my lungs.
They tell me to start caring .
They tell me to stop agonising .
They tell me to start hearing.
They tell me to stop listen up for a word from you.
You and the other one over there.
Cause you’re all too much on the nose,
you’re grown and you’re too much "in your face",
So you do know it better,
and I dare you to share your infinite wisdom with us,
and now tell me what it is, fucking tell me what it is you see when you look at the world.
April 24th, 2010
Do you see girls throwing up at every corner,
either because they’re boozed up
or because of their fingers down their throats?
Do you see the tantalising friends who try to shape each other,
hype each other until they commit global suicide on the internet?
Do you see women and children, legs and arms gone amiss,
begging for a couple of quid,
turning down food because their pimps don’t need vitamins?
I see all that.
I see all that every day when I close my eyes and listen to the earth, the ground beneath our feet.
I’m told to start sharing.
I’m told to stop worrying.
I’m told to start breathing.
I’m told to stop looking after you.
You and the other one over there, cause you’re all grown up,
you’re all grown out of the shoes your mum gave you.
So know it better, I dare you,
Know it and lecture me about it,
Tell me what it is, what you see when you look at the world.
Do you see beggars turning into thieves to support their wives and children,
to make ends meet in one way or another,
to start running in the streets?
Do you see the struggle for survival,
the fittest most hydrated animals to be kings of their ponds,
roaring at enemies big or small, intimidating everyone?
Do you see the ones who never look back,
a glimpse at the human species, the rest of us who are green with envy,
while we’re ignoring the green of the world?
I see all that.
I see all that every day when I close my eyes and inhale the fumes and odours of the earth,
its wrath and foulness spread in my lungs.
They tell me to start caring .
They tell me to stop agonising .
They tell me to start hearing.
They tell me to stop listen up for a word from you.
You and the other one over there.
Cause you’re all too much on the nose,
you’re grown and you’re too much "in your face",
So you do know it better,
and I dare you to share your infinite wisdom with us,
and now tell me what it is, fucking tell me what it is you see when you look at the world.
April 24th, 2010
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Fix
Fertig.
Ich hab damit aufgehört.
Einfach so.
Mit einem Kopfschütteln
und viel Händedruck.
Einfach fertig.
Mit einem Stopschild.
Im Kopf
Eine neue Idee die
am Leben hält.
Vorher
War alles schlimmer
Als zuvor eingeschätzt.
Ich hab aufgegeben.
Richtig so.
Und das lange Gesicht.
Schluss.
Ich habs nicht nötig
Nie mehr.
Mit Achselzucken aufgegeben.
Einfach Schluss.
Richtig Schluss.
Ein Donnergrollen über mir
Ein Wanderweg unter mir
Ein Leben vor mir.
Aus.
Fertig.
gju, Sonntag, 24. Mai 2009
Ich hab damit aufgehört.
Einfach so.
Mit einem Kopfschütteln
und viel Händedruck.
Einfach fertig.
Mit einem Stopschild.
Im Kopf
Eine neue Idee die
am Leben hält.
Vorher
War alles schlimmer
Als zuvor eingeschätzt.
Ich hab aufgegeben.
Richtig so.
Und das lange Gesicht.
Schluss.
Ich habs nicht nötig
Nie mehr.
Mit Achselzucken aufgegeben.
Einfach Schluss.
Richtig Schluss.
Ein Donnergrollen über mir
Ein Wanderweg unter mir
Ein Leben vor mir.
Aus.
Fertig.
gju, Sonntag, 24. Mai 2009
Wenn + Falls
Es entsteht eine Sehnsucht nach Frieden
In diesen gewissen Stunden nach dem Entzug
Und du fragst dich, warum und überhaupt und
verdammt du dich jedes Mal auf das Spiel einlässt
Denn es drückt dich nieder, droht dich zu
zerquetschen, wirft Fragen auf, die dich
eigentlich nicht berühren sollten, denn
ihr Kurator warst du, der im Spiegel erscheint
Und die Nachfrage wird grösser, und
das Verlangen in dir wird stärker und
drückt auf deine Rippen, auf deine Lungen,
die sich vor Angst winden und drehen
Es gibt wohl keine Melodie in diesem
Universum, die dir helfen kann deine
innere Stimme zu befriedigen und all deine
wundersamen Gedanken zum Schweigen bringen
Und du würdest dich am liebsten ab-
wenden von deinen dir selbst aufgebührten
Problemchen, die so minim und nichtig
erscheinen im Schatten der grossen Welt
Du fragst dich, ob es okay wäre, dich
fallen zu lassen, dich in einer wachen Sekunde
den Gedanken hinzugeben, zu entschwinden
aus der Spirale, die dich droht zu zerschmettern
Und es wird gesagt sie vermissten dich,
sie würden nie mehr lachen, keine Minute
Glück finden ohne deine Präsenz, die zuvor
von Unsicherheit und Arroganz geprägt war
Denn es entsteht eine Sehnsucht nach Frieden
in diesen gewissen Sekunden nach dem Entzug
Und du fragst dich, für wen und überhaupt und
verdammt du dich jedes Mal so fallen lassen willst.
18. April 2009
In diesen gewissen Stunden nach dem Entzug
Und du fragst dich, warum und überhaupt und
verdammt du dich jedes Mal auf das Spiel einlässt
Denn es drückt dich nieder, droht dich zu
zerquetschen, wirft Fragen auf, die dich
eigentlich nicht berühren sollten, denn
ihr Kurator warst du, der im Spiegel erscheint
Und die Nachfrage wird grösser, und
das Verlangen in dir wird stärker und
drückt auf deine Rippen, auf deine Lungen,
die sich vor Angst winden und drehen
Es gibt wohl keine Melodie in diesem
Universum, die dir helfen kann deine
innere Stimme zu befriedigen und all deine
wundersamen Gedanken zum Schweigen bringen
Und du würdest dich am liebsten ab-
wenden von deinen dir selbst aufgebührten
Problemchen, die so minim und nichtig
erscheinen im Schatten der grossen Welt
Du fragst dich, ob es okay wäre, dich
fallen zu lassen, dich in einer wachen Sekunde
den Gedanken hinzugeben, zu entschwinden
aus der Spirale, die dich droht zu zerschmettern
Und es wird gesagt sie vermissten dich,
sie würden nie mehr lachen, keine Minute
Glück finden ohne deine Präsenz, die zuvor
von Unsicherheit und Arroganz geprägt war
Denn es entsteht eine Sehnsucht nach Frieden
in diesen gewissen Sekunden nach dem Entzug
Und du fragst dich, für wen und überhaupt und
verdammt du dich jedes Mal so fallen lassen willst.
18. April 2009
Monday, 9 August 2010
TUESDAY
Oh what a cruel way fate has
of telling me you died today.
What a waste of energy, what a waste
of disapproving of new technology.
Why do you still pay your taxes,
wait for the man to go down on one knee?
O what a cruel way fate has
of telling me to have fun and enjoy my life as much as I can.
For Olivera, October 14, 2008
of telling me you died today.
What a waste of energy, what a waste
of disapproving of new technology.
Why do you still pay your taxes,
wait for the man to go down on one knee?
O what a cruel way fate has
of telling me to have fun and enjoy my life as much as I can.
For Olivera, October 14, 2008
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Dieses Haus gehört nicht mir
Ich hab ein Haus gebaut, für mich und meine Welt,
Es ist riesig gross, hat massive Wände aber keine Fenster,
massive Türen aber keinen Weg raus;
wer einmal drinn ist, wird nicht mehr so schnell verschwinden.
Daher weiss ich nicht, ob ich dich hier will.
Meine Zimmer sind vollgestopft mit Ideen,
meine Ecken dekoriert mit Stacheln meiner Pflanzen,
meine Geparde sind mit Schweinen eingepfercht,
meine Mäuse rennen mit Geldscheinen herum.
Ich weiss nicht, ob dies ein Platz für dich ist.
Ich weiss auch nicht, ob dieser Platz dich will.
Meine Küche ist übersäht mit Kieselsteinen,
die ich jeden Tag mit mir rumtrage und im Haus verteile,
meine Schränke sind voll von Zeichnungen alter Tage,
als dieses Haus noch nicht mir gehörte.
Die Geister fliegen im Keller herum,
der Estrich ist voller Spinnen und Musik,
mein Badezimmer hält diese kleine Welt am Leben,
füttert sie mit was immer ich durch ihre Leitungen lasse,
um es in den andern Zimmern wieder auszuspucken.
Ich hasse mein Haus, jedes Zimmer darin
erscheint mir gross und leer und wird doch jeden Tag
aufs neue wieder ausgefüllt mit Zeit die ich nicht hab.
Und nach all den Jahren, in denen du hier warst,
schicke ich dich weg, drehe ich mich fort von hier,
denn dieses Haus, ja, dieses Haus gehört nicht mir.
9. Mai 2010
Es ist riesig gross, hat massive Wände aber keine Fenster,
massive Türen aber keinen Weg raus;
wer einmal drinn ist, wird nicht mehr so schnell verschwinden.
Daher weiss ich nicht, ob ich dich hier will.
Meine Zimmer sind vollgestopft mit Ideen,
meine Ecken dekoriert mit Stacheln meiner Pflanzen,
meine Geparde sind mit Schweinen eingepfercht,
meine Mäuse rennen mit Geldscheinen herum.
Ich weiss nicht, ob dies ein Platz für dich ist.
Ich weiss auch nicht, ob dieser Platz dich will.
Meine Küche ist übersäht mit Kieselsteinen,
die ich jeden Tag mit mir rumtrage und im Haus verteile,
meine Schränke sind voll von Zeichnungen alter Tage,
als dieses Haus noch nicht mir gehörte.
Die Geister fliegen im Keller herum,
der Estrich ist voller Spinnen und Musik,
mein Badezimmer hält diese kleine Welt am Leben,
füttert sie mit was immer ich durch ihre Leitungen lasse,
um es in den andern Zimmern wieder auszuspucken.
Ich hasse mein Haus, jedes Zimmer darin
erscheint mir gross und leer und wird doch jeden Tag
aufs neue wieder ausgefüllt mit Zeit die ich nicht hab.
Und nach all den Jahren, in denen du hier warst,
schicke ich dich weg, drehe ich mich fort von hier,
denn dieses Haus, ja, dieses Haus gehört nicht mir.
9. Mai 2010
AGAIN
World, open up and let me immerse from your claws,
Like a phoenix rise from the rocks and stones the very first day
your mythology was invented by the masculine souls
thousands of years past.
And world, there seems to be a new song, pompous and divine,
every time I open my ears to the whisper of the clouds above.
The clatter of your waste and debris will be passed around,
and the hole in your heart won’t heal in a second, before you end,
end up facing that last task of yours.
World, where will that train of thought lead us, who will appear
to be the glorious winner in this race no one has ever won before?
And time, dear world, passes without a trace; we esteemed that no one
would ever fear the blink of an eye, turns out you did.
And world, we rip you apart, tear you to shreds,
chunks of trash spread all over you, your daughters and sons
as victim of our greed, will you ever escape our clutch and grasp?
If there really was a force here that gave birth
to you and your stellar friends,
would he claim you back after billions of moments?
would you be his again?
And if you release my energy from my crooked bones
by releasing me from your depths,
would I be his again?
Could we ever be his again?
June 15th, 2010
Like a phoenix rise from the rocks and stones the very first day
your mythology was invented by the masculine souls
thousands of years past.
And world, there seems to be a new song, pompous and divine,
every time I open my ears to the whisper of the clouds above.
The clatter of your waste and debris will be passed around,
and the hole in your heart won’t heal in a second, before you end,
end up facing that last task of yours.
World, where will that train of thought lead us, who will appear
to be the glorious winner in this race no one has ever won before?
And time, dear world, passes without a trace; we esteemed that no one
would ever fear the blink of an eye, turns out you did.
And world, we rip you apart, tear you to shreds,
chunks of trash spread all over you, your daughters and sons
as victim of our greed, will you ever escape our clutch and grasp?
If there really was a force here that gave birth
to you and your stellar friends,
would he claim you back after billions of moments?
would you be his again?
And if you release my energy from my crooked bones
by releasing me from your depths,
would I be his again?
Could we ever be his again?
June 15th, 2010
The Road Ahead
You’re sitting on a train,
with a one-way ticket in your hand;
You’re never coming back -
your cat’s dead, your mother’s gone,
your dad’s the only straw
you’re hanging on to in the big wide ocean,
and you’ve got your memories,
you’ve got your guitar
and you’ve seen that look,
that look staring aback at you
in the bathroom mirror, it said you should
get your sassy ass
on a train, not coming back
tomorrow, or even next week;
some people claim you’re running,
running away, and you say yes
yes, I’m running from boredom
yes I’m running from shadows
yes I’m running from one life
into the arms of the next,
and you’re nodding to yourself
as you’re sitting on the train
with a one-way ticket,
bag packed for two days only
while you intend to
make your way round the sun.
And as your way’s unfolding
bit by bit, moment by moment
your head is blank, as is your page
in front of you: no instructions, no help,
no guidance, you’re just riding
riding the wave of uncertainty
but for the first time in your life
you’ve never been so sure as to where
you’re headed at.
You can hear the raindrops
sizzling on the roof
of your train-ride, easily
they adapt to the rhythm of your tears
streaming down your face,
but you’re not crying because of
all you do is cry with and for
and the earth still turns
everyday as it’s done for years
and years before you were done
with this life that’s yours,
finally yours, but you’ve been
unsure about your next steps;
like a fawn, a baby-lion
you swaggered through the minutes
and the people, the boys you meet
look down at you from their high horses,
“knights in shining armours”
is the most overrated,
hurl-evoking phrase of
the past six centuries,
now get down from that high horse,
little sister, you don’t need
that saddle to be in,
that horse to enter the room in on,
no false modesty about
semantics, it’s all for frantics.
And, as you’re way’s unfolding,
easily betrayed by sweet lies,
the laughter in your ears is fading
the smile upon other’s lips is
tasting sour milk and rotten eggs,
so you’re sitting on that train
satisfied by how your history
has unfold, the story has been told.
And the social bond
you’ve held tight for decades
is slipping through your hand,
soon it’ll be gone, dragged
through the mud in your inner eye,
but as you pick up your guitar
and start strumming a tune
while the rhythm of the train
gives you the beat to your luck,
your vision has never been this clear,
and the road ahead is shimmering dear.
7/17/2010
with a one-way ticket in your hand;
You’re never coming back -
your cat’s dead, your mother’s gone,
your dad’s the only straw
you’re hanging on to in the big wide ocean,
and you’ve got your memories,
you’ve got your guitar
and you’ve seen that look,
that look staring aback at you
in the bathroom mirror, it said you should
get your sassy ass
on a train, not coming back
tomorrow, or even next week;
some people claim you’re running,
running away, and you say yes
yes, I’m running from boredom
yes I’m running from shadows
yes I’m running from one life
into the arms of the next,
and you’re nodding to yourself
as you’re sitting on the train
with a one-way ticket,
bag packed for two days only
while you intend to
make your way round the sun.
And as your way’s unfolding
bit by bit, moment by moment
your head is blank, as is your page
in front of you: no instructions, no help,
no guidance, you’re just riding
riding the wave of uncertainty
but for the first time in your life
you’ve never been so sure as to where
you’re headed at.
You can hear the raindrops
sizzling on the roof
of your train-ride, easily
they adapt to the rhythm of your tears
streaming down your face,
but you’re not crying because of
all you do is cry with and for
and the earth still turns
everyday as it’s done for years
and years before you were done
with this life that’s yours,
finally yours, but you’ve been
unsure about your next steps;
like a fawn, a baby-lion
you swaggered through the minutes
and the people, the boys you meet
look down at you from their high horses,
“knights in shining armours”
is the most overrated,
hurl-evoking phrase of
the past six centuries,
now get down from that high horse,
little sister, you don’t need
that saddle to be in,
that horse to enter the room in on,
no false modesty about
semantics, it’s all for frantics.
And, as you’re way’s unfolding,
easily betrayed by sweet lies,
the laughter in your ears is fading
the smile upon other’s lips is
tasting sour milk and rotten eggs,
so you’re sitting on that train
satisfied by how your history
has unfold, the story has been told.
And the social bond
you’ve held tight for decades
is slipping through your hand,
soon it’ll be gone, dragged
through the mud in your inner eye,
but as you pick up your guitar
and start strumming a tune
while the rhythm of the train
gives you the beat to your luck,
your vision has never been this clear,
and the road ahead is shimmering dear.
7/17/2010
Saturday, 17 July 2010
Bullets copied and burnt
A less tiring title for a less loathsome poem would have been desired
by more than only three poor souls who turned up that afternoon
and I felt as if the ground would tear open and tear me downwards,
spiralling on my own accord, my gravity lost in the fall.
I had no clue who was ready to bury the hatched - out of four
only two turned to me and stroke my broken wings.
I took another deep gulp of air, turned and faced my fear,
all my demons that had been hiding behind pillars,
sheepishly grinning at me, with their fricking features,
their tomboyish attitude almost broke my will to succeed.
I will or will not succumb to my desire to turn around and run,
run till my fingers bleed and write till I run out of oxygen,
“Either way, you’re gonna lose it all, your face, your savings,
even that black cab waiting for you round the corner.”
Any second, any minute that went by I grew less and less steady
on my feet and a faint voice from another time yelled into my ear
from afar that “you don’t need this disease, not right now”,
and I was so sure it was Tom calling to me from another place
in another voice, where French was less frowned upon.
Nevertheless, I did turn around, I faced my fear in shaking boots,
and three pairs of eyes fixed their gaze on my forehead,
and still they are judging me to my very core.
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
At Stealth Speed
At stealth speed I didn’t realise what you meant
When you said I should remember the mental image
Of the moment I heard about his accident.
In that seven seconds I could have opened hell
And all its deviations below, could have enchanted
Those dragons to burn you alive.
After those seven seconds an annoying thought
Made its way into my heart and started nagging
On my throbbing muscles.
What if you were right, mental doctor, what if
I did channel that melancholy, that fear, that
Oh so wonderful agony
And use it for mankind to bask in, for women folk
to understand the limits of failure and disappointment,
The moment a life collapses.
After yet another seven seconds I thought it didn’t matter
So I opened my lungs and inhaled that bitter sweet
Scent of electronic devices,
Thought about the archives in our brains and conjured
Up that moment when I dropped my mobile, let the
Voice on the other end fade away.
There was this earthly tune, touched by the force of
the unknown strength within myself when, at stealth speed,
I remembered the moment he let go.
June 14th, 2010
When you said I should remember the mental image
Of the moment I heard about his accident.
In that seven seconds I could have opened hell
And all its deviations below, could have enchanted
Those dragons to burn you alive.
After those seven seconds an annoying thought
Made its way into my heart and started nagging
On my throbbing muscles.
What if you were right, mental doctor, what if
I did channel that melancholy, that fear, that
Oh so wonderful agony
And use it for mankind to bask in, for women folk
to understand the limits of failure and disappointment,
The moment a life collapses.
After yet another seven seconds I thought it didn’t matter
So I opened my lungs and inhaled that bitter sweet
Scent of electronic devices,
Thought about the archives in our brains and conjured
Up that moment when I dropped my mobile, let the
Voice on the other end fade away.
There was this earthly tune, touched by the force of
the unknown strength within myself when, at stealth speed,
I remembered the moment he let go.
June 14th, 2010
The Battle of Ayluii
She held fire in her hands,
With initiative to plan the haze
And the glory of the past was all that’s in her head
We’ve been dreaming of the world
As one big globe of celebration but the mob
Kept telling us there’s nothing we can change
She wanted to revisit the place
Where everything began, where the story started
to take shape, where her future manifested through the maze
“Coming back here, it’s all full of ghosts”,
she sighed and threw herself on the floor,
leaving us with silent mockery, disappointment, wanting more
“We’re all that’s to blame for”, she softly
lamented into the hands in front of her face,
“we somehow need to restart the bonfire in our hearts"
Anyhow, we thought, grabbed the guns
And swords of steel, the many silver bullets
In our palms and clad ourselves in grays and browns
Some of us took that invisible drug
To push us to the outer limits of ability,
While others relied purely on instinct and courage,
And so we’re standing on the wall,
Our gaze turned east, our senses heightened,
Waiting for the sun to shine for us, to greet us one last time
And before the ground is sprayed in red,
The air absorbs that taste of rust and salt,
And the souls of fallen heroes will linger for only a moment
But before the glory of the past turns into
The glory of the present, it cannot stay
in her head, but only in the palm of her hand.
for MJ and the little Blonde, 7/5/2010
With initiative to plan the haze
And the glory of the past was all that’s in her head
We’ve been dreaming of the world
As one big globe of celebration but the mob
Kept telling us there’s nothing we can change
She wanted to revisit the place
Where everything began, where the story started
to take shape, where her future manifested through the maze
“Coming back here, it’s all full of ghosts”,
she sighed and threw herself on the floor,
leaving us with silent mockery, disappointment, wanting more
“We’re all that’s to blame for”, she softly
lamented into the hands in front of her face,
“we somehow need to restart the bonfire in our hearts"
Anyhow, we thought, grabbed the guns
And swords of steel, the many silver bullets
In our palms and clad ourselves in grays and browns
Some of us took that invisible drug
To push us to the outer limits of ability,
While others relied purely on instinct and courage,
And so we’re standing on the wall,
Our gaze turned east, our senses heightened,
Waiting for the sun to shine for us, to greet us one last time
And before the ground is sprayed in red,
The air absorbs that taste of rust and salt,
And the souls of fallen heroes will linger for only a moment
But before the glory of the past turns into
The glory of the present, it cannot stay
in her head, but only in the palm of her hand.
for MJ and the little Blonde, 7/5/2010
Sunday, 20 June 2010
TRAIN OF THOUGHTNESS
You don’t wake up from slumber,
that divine sleep
that keeps you alive and breathing,
kept you throughout many years.
Now that you do wake up
like Snow White without her apple,
Sleeping Beauty without her spinning wheel,
me without my town - you are startled.
It’s half past eleven,
you’ve wasted so much time
to even get going;
so much time to find a boost,
a coffee of its own kind
to kick-start the afternoon.
You feel your heart thumping,
your head spinning, those stars dancing,
and you take a step back,
get yourself into low gear,
never set your level too high,
and the minutes and years
pass, leave a shadow on your face,
a barrier to lower your ideals to;
and you go back to bed half a time later,
much more tired than ever before,
and your lids fold over your eyes,
that shade of green you’ve been
trying to hide for so long,
that bag under your eyes, under your bed to hide your secrets,
and you walk to the water to let
that valuable energy down the drain,
You toss that gold in exchange
for earthly possessions,
while you’re drugged to the bone,
cut-off from all sentiments;
All empathy gone with your youth,
all skin folding down your neck,
all creams in the world to protect you
as you le the water run through
your system, your personal desert.
You grab your seven belongings
and your fifteen thoughts,
slam the door in many faces,
leave your mascara and perfume behind
to stand your ground in yesterday’s clothes,
in last year’s shoes;
and in your imagination
this is a scenario you’ve feared to
become much more than a glimpse,
a flicker of the eye,
and as you are selling your soul,
betraying your morals.
All you can think of now is that
soft pillow, that mattress to hide your world in,
that stream of consciousness not
even a galleon of caffeine
could save from your morning breath.
And the boy next to you moans
and for a second,
you are back in reality,
down to earth,
while the next daydream will reveal
more of your unknown galaxy
than you’d like to get a glimpse of.
MJ 16th june 2010
that divine sleep
that keeps you alive and breathing,
kept you throughout many years.
Now that you do wake up
like Snow White without her apple,
Sleeping Beauty without her spinning wheel,
me without my town - you are startled.
It’s half past eleven,
you’ve wasted so much time
to even get going;
so much time to find a boost,
a coffee of its own kind
to kick-start the afternoon.
You feel your heart thumping,
your head spinning, those stars dancing,
and you take a step back,
get yourself into low gear,
never set your level too high,
and the minutes and years
pass, leave a shadow on your face,
a barrier to lower your ideals to;
and you go back to bed half a time later,
much more tired than ever before,
and your lids fold over your eyes,
that shade of green you’ve been
trying to hide for so long,
that bag under your eyes, under your bed to hide your secrets,
and you walk to the water to let
that valuable energy down the drain,
You toss that gold in exchange
for earthly possessions,
while you’re drugged to the bone,
cut-off from all sentiments;
All empathy gone with your youth,
all skin folding down your neck,
all creams in the world to protect you
as you le the water run through
your system, your personal desert.
You grab your seven belongings
and your fifteen thoughts,
slam the door in many faces,
leave your mascara and perfume behind
to stand your ground in yesterday’s clothes,
in last year’s shoes;
and in your imagination
this is a scenario you’ve feared to
become much more than a glimpse,
a flicker of the eye,
and as you are selling your soul,
betraying your morals.
All you can think of now is that
soft pillow, that mattress to hide your world in,
that stream of consciousness not
even a galleon of caffeine
could save from your morning breath.
And the boy next to you moans
and for a second,
you are back in reality,
down to earth,
while the next daydream will reveal
more of your unknown galaxy
than you’d like to get a glimpse of.
MJ 16th june 2010
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Indecisive Bitch
Indecisive bitch, lean over the table and kiss me
Your hesitant air seemed pleasing at first,
Now I just want to reach out, grab you by your shoulders,
And shake you alive, open your eyes, wake up
From this dreamless sleep you’ve been ignoring.
It makes me throw up, that self-sufficient air
That female silence I’m longing to tear up,
To increase your value to others and even others
I mean, you’ve made up your mind a long time ago,
Haven’t you? Of course, that free-will shit is just
A looming ghost, get over it, accept it, refute it!
Do you think that train-ride was pleasant?
Do you keep your breath inhaled, your eyes dry?
I met the saddest girl on a Tuesday afternoon
And you were sitting next to her, with her,
But no, you wouldn’t be touched by her air.
I can promise you one thing, wonderful slapper,
You proceed, you don’t change anyhow, there’s
Nothing in this god damn world you think
Wasn’t influenced by you, but your pride and mockery
Will be your downfall, because it was you who wasn’t moved.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Your hesitant air seemed pleasing at first,
Now I just want to reach out, grab you by your shoulders,
And shake you alive, open your eyes, wake up
From this dreamless sleep you’ve been ignoring.
It makes me throw up, that self-sufficient air
That female silence I’m longing to tear up,
To increase your value to others and even others
I mean, you’ve made up your mind a long time ago,
Haven’t you? Of course, that free-will shit is just
A looming ghost, get over it, accept it, refute it!
Do you think that train-ride was pleasant?
Do you keep your breath inhaled, your eyes dry?
I met the saddest girl on a Tuesday afternoon
And you were sitting next to her, with her,
But no, you wouldn’t be touched by her air.
I can promise you one thing, wonderful slapper,
You proceed, you don’t change anyhow, there’s
Nothing in this god damn world you think
Wasn’t influenced by you, but your pride and mockery
Will be your downfall, because it was you who wasn’t moved.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Saturday, 12 June 2010
Der Trost
Das Potential der Hilfe, die wir vom Nachbarn kriegen
Wird niemals die Möglichkeit ausschliessen, unser Eigen zu sein,
denn welchen Nutzen zieh ich aus einer Sprache, die ich nicht verstehe?
welche Seiten werd’ ich lesen, die mir ins Auge springen werden?
Der Trost, den dir durch und mit und in einem kalten,
klaren Glas Wasser geschenkt wird, kann an einem
schwülen Sommertag alle Lust durch und mit und in Konversation ersetzen.
Ein solches Geschenk, wie gegeben, würden Idioten,
Narzissten und Unabhängigkeitstiere in den Wind schiessen,
ins Maul spucken und in den Arsch treten, doch nicht ich
Denn wir alle werden von Asche zu Asche treten, von unseren
Herzen Abschied nehmen, die vom Skelett eingeschlossen
an unser Fleisch und Blut gebunden sind und welches aus Ton entstand
als die Erde noch nicht im Kalender gefunden wurde.
Der Trost, den dir ein müdes Lächeln deines Gegenüber geben kann
Wird manchmal als mitleidige Geste betrachtet, doch nicht von mir
Denn es bedarf bemerkt werden, welche Konsequenzen mein Spiel
Mit der Landkarte, der Sprache, mit dem Feuer, mit sich bringen kann.
Du sagtest, wir würden uns am Ecken neben dem Gemüse treffen, dort,
wo ich vor einiger Zeit stand und verloren war in meinem eigenen Selbstmitleid,
bis mich deine Stimme aber nicht der Schatten hinter deiner Sonnenbrille erquickte.
Was soll ein Besetzzeichen vernommen durch mein Telefon bedeuten,
wenn der Anrufbeantworter zwei Mal pro Woche entleert wird und wir uns
von all den wunderbaren Gedanken für unser mentales Gegenüber befreien?
Und ich wusste mir nicht zu helfen, ausser mich an deine Stimme zu halten,
Und deine Lippen sangen ein Lied voller Schönheit und Schmerz
Ein Lied, dessen Harmonien von keiner Dissonanz durchtränkt
Und keine Antworten durch unerklärliche Fragen gestört wurden.
2. Entwurf, Herbst 2008
Wird niemals die Möglichkeit ausschliessen, unser Eigen zu sein,
denn welchen Nutzen zieh ich aus einer Sprache, die ich nicht verstehe?
welche Seiten werd’ ich lesen, die mir ins Auge springen werden?
Der Trost, den dir durch und mit und in einem kalten,
klaren Glas Wasser geschenkt wird, kann an einem
schwülen Sommertag alle Lust durch und mit und in Konversation ersetzen.
Ein solches Geschenk, wie gegeben, würden Idioten,
Narzissten und Unabhängigkeitstiere in den Wind schiessen,
ins Maul spucken und in den Arsch treten, doch nicht ich
Denn wir alle werden von Asche zu Asche treten, von unseren
Herzen Abschied nehmen, die vom Skelett eingeschlossen
an unser Fleisch und Blut gebunden sind und welches aus Ton entstand
als die Erde noch nicht im Kalender gefunden wurde.
Der Trost, den dir ein müdes Lächeln deines Gegenüber geben kann
Wird manchmal als mitleidige Geste betrachtet, doch nicht von mir
Denn es bedarf bemerkt werden, welche Konsequenzen mein Spiel
Mit der Landkarte, der Sprache, mit dem Feuer, mit sich bringen kann.
Du sagtest, wir würden uns am Ecken neben dem Gemüse treffen, dort,
wo ich vor einiger Zeit stand und verloren war in meinem eigenen Selbstmitleid,
bis mich deine Stimme aber nicht der Schatten hinter deiner Sonnenbrille erquickte.
Was soll ein Besetzzeichen vernommen durch mein Telefon bedeuten,
wenn der Anrufbeantworter zwei Mal pro Woche entleert wird und wir uns
von all den wunderbaren Gedanken für unser mentales Gegenüber befreien?
Und ich wusste mir nicht zu helfen, ausser mich an deine Stimme zu halten,
Und deine Lippen sangen ein Lied voller Schönheit und Schmerz
Ein Lied, dessen Harmonien von keiner Dissonanz durchtränkt
Und keine Antworten durch unerklärliche Fragen gestört wurden.
2. Entwurf, Herbst 2008
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Hopelessly Flawed
The rages of our craziness will not fade
even if we tried to hide our anger,
A shot of our common lives in your bedroom
Or in your kitchen next to the sink
Where do we sigh when all hope has ended
To cling to our flesh and bones?
Wen do we succumb to our deadly wishes
To climb the hill just to trip over the tip?
These walls, they are not mine
They are too thin to protect my skin
From the lion crouching behind the sun where
warmth is handed out, but not with mine
And the numbing noise in your head
That has been your driving force
Won’t let your weary head rest
Not for a second, a minute I guess
I will never hold you back, I promised
A thousand years ago, that when seven
Times four are forgiven, no one will recall
what they didn’t ask for in the first place
Although there is a thank you somewhere
In the back of my head, seriously, you
Simply turn your neck to me to
Let me read your 'fuck you' off your skin.
May, 24th 2010
even if we tried to hide our anger,
A shot of our common lives in your bedroom
Or in your kitchen next to the sink
Where do we sigh when all hope has ended
To cling to our flesh and bones?
Wen do we succumb to our deadly wishes
To climb the hill just to trip over the tip?
These walls, they are not mine
They are too thin to protect my skin
From the lion crouching behind the sun where
warmth is handed out, but not with mine
And the numbing noise in your head
That has been your driving force
Won’t let your weary head rest
Not for a second, a minute I guess
I will never hold you back, I promised
A thousand years ago, that when seven
Times four are forgiven, no one will recall
what they didn’t ask for in the first place
Although there is a thank you somewhere
In the back of my head, seriously, you
Simply turn your neck to me to
Let me read your 'fuck you' off your skin.
May, 24th 2010
Monday, 24 May 2010
After
Do you enjoy the pain and the agony
that a simple moment of your life can create?
It happens when you’re not paying attention,
you focus on something completely different
And it drags you down, down,
and the path stops meandering in your footsteps
And if you did have a wish, only one wish
To succumb your bones to your flesh
To your senses, would you, moment,
Would you leave a message before surrendering?
What if you could reach into your innermost
Parts of your trembling heart, and just for a second
Make it stop shaking, make it feel okay again
Because you simply cannot forget the time
When all was new, all was real,
Still you are trapped in good old brave new world
Of your own memory, what were you
Most likely to erase from your harddisk
Your ideas that keep coming back
And your passion makes you so numbingly sick
The real hazard starts as soon as you let
The teeny-tiny ray of hope into your life
You try to focus on something completely different
But the sadness drags you down, down
Hardship can be endured in so many ways
But you don’t read the signs and bang into walls
What you are really looking forward to
Is to let yourself go and finally find that
Little spark, that flame that burns and will not
Let you break down while you are dying
Dying to hear what I have got to say about
All the tantrum, the mayhem my words create
But of course the noise will drown out all your fears
And will eventually let you fall into silence you deserve
March 14 2009
that a simple moment of your life can create?
It happens when you’re not paying attention,
you focus on something completely different
And it drags you down, down,
and the path stops meandering in your footsteps
And if you did have a wish, only one wish
To succumb your bones to your flesh
To your senses, would you, moment,
Would you leave a message before surrendering?
What if you could reach into your innermost
Parts of your trembling heart, and just for a second
Make it stop shaking, make it feel okay again
Because you simply cannot forget the time
When all was new, all was real,
Still you are trapped in good old brave new world
Of your own memory, what were you
Most likely to erase from your harddisk
Your ideas that keep coming back
And your passion makes you so numbingly sick
The real hazard starts as soon as you let
The teeny-tiny ray of hope into your life
You try to focus on something completely different
But the sadness drags you down, down
Hardship can be endured in so many ways
But you don’t read the signs and bang into walls
What you are really looking forward to
Is to let yourself go and finally find that
Little spark, that flame that burns and will not
Let you break down while you are dying
Dying to hear what I have got to say about
All the tantrum, the mayhem my words create
But of course the noise will drown out all your fears
And will eventually let you fall into silence you deserve
March 14 2009
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Untitled
This is an old one. But I remember thinking about Lord of the Rings when I wrote it back in 2008, November 1st that is...
Untitled
Oh, life.
It has a wonderful way of telling you there's still beauty.
It opens your eyes whenever you fear the dark creepin’ in.
It shows you all the possibilities you’re afraid of even considering.
It makes you stop dead for a second, makes you breathe in again.
It doesn’t always lead you along the right path, but
Then again,
roadsides are often misleading any ways.
It can hit you in a moment you thought was immune to sentiments,
A moment you were completely absorbed in your work,
your everyday chores, when you were following a train of thought.
So you stop dead again, if only for another second of your life.
You’re reminded that there is something out there that,
unexpectedly, lets you draw breath again, even though you surrendered.
This feeling might pass in no time at all,
but the memory lingers on
and lets you keep holding on.
Untitled
Oh, life.
It has a wonderful way of telling you there's still beauty.
It opens your eyes whenever you fear the dark creepin’ in.
It shows you all the possibilities you’re afraid of even considering.
It makes you stop dead for a second, makes you breathe in again.
It doesn’t always lead you along the right path, but
Then again,
roadsides are often misleading any ways.
It can hit you in a moment you thought was immune to sentiments,
A moment you were completely absorbed in your work,
your everyday chores, when you were following a train of thought.
So you stop dead again, if only for another second of your life.
You’re reminded that there is something out there that,
unexpectedly, lets you draw breath again, even though you surrendered.
This feeling might pass in no time at all,
but the memory lingers on
and lets you keep holding on.
They know when and where you broke down
They know when and where you broke down.
They don't need worry why.
They see you sitting on the threshold with your dog in your arms.
They don’t wonder why, they'd never offer you their hand to help you up.
They beat you down once again you’re regaining your strength.
They are dangerous.
They are not mice.
They are not mice in your food and store and storage.
They are them.
They are us.
They are us.
They are where?
They are there they are us.
And they were us back then.
They still won't help your arm up.
They are us.
And you are us too.
They don't need worry why.
They see you sitting on the threshold with your dog in your arms.
They don’t wonder why, they'd never offer you their hand to help you up.
They beat you down once again you’re regaining your strength.
They are dangerous.
They are not mice.
They are not mice in your food and store and storage.
They are them.
They are us.
They are us.
They are where?
They are there they are us.
And they were us back then.
They still won't help your arm up.
They are us.
And you are us too.
Friday, 7 May 2010
A Jack of all Trades, a Queen of none at all
As you’re wiping out these memories of all your failures, you remember one particular bit when you were stock-car racing at a thousand miles per hour, when you realise that all those years ago, you gave up the joy for life.
You sink back into depression, hope for a bit of sympathy, because you are a comedian while at the same time you know no amount of help or warmth will help you crawl out of that abyss.
You pick up a guitar, start jotting down ideas, when you remember performing on stage, but all your visions circle round your insecurities, all you remember is the moments on stage when you were startled, when your deficiencies showed.
So you smash the guitar, try to calm down by reading a Spanish magazine, all the while
thinking about the unfinished papers lying on the brim of your desk.
So you continue smashing your brains, you proceed in wasting your time.
And you’re too tired to continue hating yourself, so you grab your pillow and try to drown out premonition, hope and aspiration.
04/21/2010
Friday, 30 April 2010
It could be
It could be worse.
It could be worst.
It could be stuck in a hotel-room with you.
It could eat out your heart, tear it in chunks, lick your blood and slowly chew it from one side to the other,
Turning it in its mouth, waiting for you to cringe.
It could be yesterday.
It could be tomorrow
It could be in five seconds when you let those pulsating, throbbing images of the world outside go and focus on the universe within.
It couldn’t be happening.
It couldn’t happen to you.
Sleeping with the lights on, the telly in the background to drown out the noise from the city you’re hostage to.
It could be worse.
It could be testing your perseverance, your will to linger to escape that brilliant darkness.
It could not be worse
It is the worst.
It is letting go of your invisible friend when you were fourteen
It could be never recovering.
It could be a broken spirit, a mind and soul that is not ready for the world outside, which at the same time dreads the shadows in her room.
It could be temptation.
It could be to others.
It could be a coping-meachanism, to always be right, to always feel sure, to always judge yourself and to destroy yourself whenever danger’s ahead.
It could be automatic.
It could be a trigger.
It could be the mirror you’re trying to smash, the mirror that should lie to you, but bias never works in the aftermath, so you should know.
It could be made of wood.
It could be made of flesh.
It certainly couldn’t be worse than that.
It could be money.
It could be flowers in your path
It could be all those things but nothing at all
Nothing at all that would unleash the saw to break it even.
Nothing at all to make things even, smooth as you run your fingers over its surface,
Smooth as you turn off your telly to let the song repeat in your head.
It could be worse.
It could be worse to be stuck.
It could be worse to leap over faith.
It could be worse to remember your friend’s girlfriend’s brother who’s miles away,
Who will have given you his heart to replace yours that’s shred to bits
It could be worse.
It could be still believing in palmistry, a premonition years ago.
It could be waiting for work.
It could be waiting for lifelines on your forehead.
It could be passing by while you’re afraid to pin down the window, still stuck in a loop with and by and through your thoughts, your spinning head that won’t stop.
It could be unavoidable.
It could be the Boss.
It could be Mexico.
It could be at where you’re stuck.
It could be wasting life while waiting for it to pass to be wasted.
It could be worse.
It could be a verbal fight that’s taking place in your head
It could be unspoken words that make you bitter, your face look old,
It could be green with envy
It could be the 90s
It could be sixteen or seventy-three
It could be finally taking responsibility
It could be finding a new religion, a leader for a new generation next to the best thing
It could be trying new ways of life
It could be hungry, so hungry it makes your stomach cramp
It could be a tent in black and white and you its only inhabitant
It could be a world to decide which sex
It could be beauty (but it isn’t)
It could be unleashed potential
It could be danger and you its fire
It could be driven with petrol
It could be trains that hit you with thoughts
It could be a girl and a boy
It could be sharing a language you don’t need
It could be a journey as sisters in agony
It could be old
It could be magnifying
It could be looking for a word while you’re trying out other options
It could be an overuse
It could be a misuse
It could be money that you don’t own
It could be a lifestyle not made for you
It could be friends and updates you don’t need
It could be a glimpse into the past
It could be finding yourself going in circles.
It could be worse.
It could be overpowering and it could be time,
It could be good to you and it could be trying,
It could be a chance and it could mean change.
It could mean life.
It could be light, it could be peace
It could be acceptance
It could be you.
04/21/2010
It could be worst.
It could be stuck in a hotel-room with you.
It could eat out your heart, tear it in chunks, lick your blood and slowly chew it from one side to the other,
Turning it in its mouth, waiting for you to cringe.
It could be yesterday.
It could be tomorrow
It could be in five seconds when you let those pulsating, throbbing images of the world outside go and focus on the universe within.
It couldn’t be happening.
It couldn’t happen to you.
Sleeping with the lights on, the telly in the background to drown out the noise from the city you’re hostage to.
It could be worse.
It could be testing your perseverance, your will to linger to escape that brilliant darkness.
It could not be worse
It is the worst.
It is letting go of your invisible friend when you were fourteen
It could be never recovering.
It could be a broken spirit, a mind and soul that is not ready for the world outside, which at the same time dreads the shadows in her room.
It could be temptation.
It could be to others.
It could be a coping-meachanism, to always be right, to always feel sure, to always judge yourself and to destroy yourself whenever danger’s ahead.
It could be automatic.
It could be a trigger.
It could be the mirror you’re trying to smash, the mirror that should lie to you, but bias never works in the aftermath, so you should know.
It could be made of wood.
It could be made of flesh.
It certainly couldn’t be worse than that.
It could be money.
It could be flowers in your path
It could be all those things but nothing at all
Nothing at all that would unleash the saw to break it even.
Nothing at all to make things even, smooth as you run your fingers over its surface,
Smooth as you turn off your telly to let the song repeat in your head.
It could be worse.
It could be worse to be stuck.
It could be worse to leap over faith.
It could be worse to remember your friend’s girlfriend’s brother who’s miles away,
Who will have given you his heart to replace yours that’s shred to bits
It could be worse.
It could be still believing in palmistry, a premonition years ago.
It could be waiting for work.
It could be waiting for lifelines on your forehead.
It could be passing by while you’re afraid to pin down the window, still stuck in a loop with and by and through your thoughts, your spinning head that won’t stop.
It could be unavoidable.
It could be the Boss.
It could be Mexico.
It could be at where you’re stuck.
It could be wasting life while waiting for it to pass to be wasted.
It could be worse.
It could be a verbal fight that’s taking place in your head
It could be unspoken words that make you bitter, your face look old,
It could be green with envy
It could be the 90s
It could be sixteen or seventy-three
It could be finally taking responsibility
It could be finding a new religion, a leader for a new generation next to the best thing
It could be trying new ways of life
It could be hungry, so hungry it makes your stomach cramp
It could be a tent in black and white and you its only inhabitant
It could be a world to decide which sex
It could be beauty (but it isn’t)
It could be unleashed potential
It could be danger and you its fire
It could be driven with petrol
It could be trains that hit you with thoughts
It could be a girl and a boy
It could be sharing a language you don’t need
It could be a journey as sisters in agony
It could be old
It could be magnifying
It could be looking for a word while you’re trying out other options
It could be an overuse
It could be a misuse
It could be money that you don’t own
It could be a lifestyle not made for you
It could be friends and updates you don’t need
It could be a glimpse into the past
It could be finding yourself going in circles.
It could be worse.
It could be overpowering and it could be time,
It could be good to you and it could be trying,
It could be a chance and it could mean change.
It could mean life.
It could be light, it could be peace
It could be acceptance
It could be you.
04/21/2010
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Hello People of the World!
So there I am... creating my blog-page, writing my very first blog entry ever.
Kinda exciting.
What else...
Hm. Let me think.
Nope, nothing yet.
Then again, this is called The Chaos Chronicles, so be prepared for some chaos, damaged images I need to digest by jotting them down in virtual reality, for each and every one of you voyeurs to help me digest.
Kinda exciting.
What else...
Hm. Let me think.
Nope, nothing yet.
Then again, this is called The Chaos Chronicles, so be prepared for some chaos, damaged images I need to digest by jotting them down in virtual reality, for each and every one of you voyeurs to help me digest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)