alone in the hills

now that you’ve found the road
how does it feel?
and now that you’ve smelled the oleander trees
how does it feel?
between those walls of stone and history
and the grey leaves of olive groves
in the torrid silence of high noon
in the empire of the lizard
when the sun, and oh, the sun!
and pines and cypress alleys
and vinery
does it ever make you think of tomorrow?
or does it ever make you think of things past?

i’ve seen the valleys and the hills
and oceans on the horizon
solemn faces of alabaster
and Mary, Goddess of the hills
her breasts lying bare
and fertile
to feed her children
Etruscans, they say
who needs walls to worship
your kingdom?

SONY DSC SONY DSC SONY DSC SONY DSC SONY DSC SONY DSC

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lndn 5 am

finally, the roaring has stopped
sunrays fall silently on cold asphalt
adorned with blots of saliva
the first bus is hissing

an echo of last night’s tremendous crescendo
of that ever attacking and decaying symphony of noise
interspersed with the curses of staggering repatriates
a staccato of ‚fuck you fuckers fuck fuck you fuckers‘
and the desultory threats of pathetic hipster kids

in the first tangerine morning light
the city has almost regained its innocence
the blaring insults and evergreen trash
of ever repeating lucky daft punks

breathing the air heavy with waste-whatever
blinking against the sky after a night
in which the eye wanted to sleep
but the head was no mattress

lndn5

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Dresden

dresdenExiting the train
a mother has been gibbering
on asparagus and India and crime

eyes half open
I am entering a crowd
a procession downtown
leading me into the hell
of consumerism and
weekend shopping
a neverending mall

Dresden drains you

the old town still
crowded by bargain seekers
and soon I am surrounded by
a spring fair and market
a Bockwurst spectacle
of booze and purchase
marching bands playing „Guantanamera“
and the slight feeling of being confined to
an accoustic Guantanamo of German bad tastes

suppressing shriecking laughter

Drowning in Dresen

even your bowel movements are charged
no mall without paying for not peeing in public
the eldorado of capitalism has just opened its jaws
and aimed at swallowing me

on my way back to the station
another jaw opens next to the shoppers path,
a bomb crater, the relic of a long-forgotten past
the only site so far that has been spared
the consumerism marry-go-round
of recreational activities

I have to leave and take
the next train out of Dresden
before it drains me

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RECURRENT RESURRECTION

I saw you shivering on a blue velvet carpet, lying beneath the orchid fields.

While I was chanting my Mantras after the Goldrush and further.

Was it you, or was it me?

Time is useless!

But once upon a time, I knew, yes, it was you; breathless.

And once upon a time it was me, reckless; enchanting I knew.

As time goes by and who will know and why?

I saw you shivering. Underneath the golden blanket, wrapped around your toes.

While I was delivering flowers to the masses, you made shambles out of rose petals, silently.

So I counted Mantras again. Thrice and Twice. But my vision blurred.

Strange colours emerged from the bottom of our hearts.

What did you mention time was like?

A face is something untouchable outside of yours.

A face is not there. Like words not uttered, unspoken.

Will I ever know? Will you? Ever is a long word.

Finally, I close my eyes because my vision commences to fail. A dazzling haze befalls my senses.

Time is countless. Will I ever touch you? Ever is a long word for people longing! Time is endless.

Everything else is not. A mantra is endless. While I chant it, my vision recurs and all I see is

An icon of decay

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un*celibate

‚Double-check! Always double-check‘, he said, before drifting away into one of his semi-scholarly monologues.
I sat silently without moving.
My head was empty like a cracked nut, a shell bereft of its core. His words lay down on the bottom of it for a couple of seconds, before they flew away again; like dry leaves in the first breeze of spring.
It was the only time we had left together. The only time that allowed room for us, both of us and only us. The rest of my time was occupied by HER.
She was very jealous. And unhappy. She took him away from me. But not only HIM, also the others who could have possibly touched my heart. She wanted to make me her possession. So she strangled all the emotions that grew inside me. Like flowers that you forget to water for a very long time. She drained the life inside me before it could start to grow a will of its own. ‚Don’t trust them‘, she said. ‚They will never love you like I do. And look at you. Who should ever love you like I do?‘, she said. She was very jealous. And unhappy.
So he slowly withdrew from me. He gave in, more and more and more. So that we all could be unhappy together. Aligned in unhappiness. Like figures in a gloomy gothic tale, heading towards the Moebius strip of madness.
So he left me to my fate. A fate that was spun by her and not by myself. I buried all my pain about losing him deep deep down in a dark place, until I could not feel it anymore. But it did not rest there, where I buried it. It began to haunt me. Like a gloomy curse in a gothic tale.
I never resented him but her. I never blamed him but her. Until I hated him but not her. But the yearning for his love began to eat me up. Like a disease without a cure. He could sense this growing disease in me. And because he had also learned to famish his emotions like flowers in the desert, a long time ago, he started to revile me. In order to drive me away from him. He just couldn’t handle me any more.
But it only brought me nearer to him. I started searching for others like him. Who insulted me, abused me and left me to my fate. Which was not my fate, but a narrative, a story, the ominous tale of my life, created by her.

Why am I still telling this story to myself? When I lie awake at night, when I am asleep, when I count to zero on the train, when I count the leaves of trees on a summer day.
I want this story to end. I want it to end now. I want to erase its letters and words from my mind. I want to burn its pages and light the dark places of my soul. I want this story to end, which is not mine. I want to start telling a new one. Mine. With a new beginning.

Until I can live, happily ever after…

 

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celibacy

I’ve chosen
made my choice
choosing you
choosing me

I’ve tried to melt the iceberg
inside
but I’ve locked out spring
and the sun
and I’ve knocked myself
unconscious
now I forgot completely
your face

the smell of your cushions haunts me in my sleep
‚till I see you on the matress, throwing pillows
I’m handing you devoted birthday presents
searching for the song I want to play for you
in my dad’s vinyl collection
I’m visiting the town of your childhood
and get lost in the corridors of a church
then, stealing from your plate in Venice
losing my path in London
tumbling throug a maze
in search for you

I’ve become a statue
made of stone
I’ve become a portrayal
of Virgin Mary
I’ve become a silent worshipper
of sacrifice

I’ve chosen
made my choice
choosing you
choosing me

 

 

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prey

er drückte mir ein gewehr in die hand. rauchschwaden bedeckten die zerklüfteten grade, auf denen sich einst üppige laubwälder befunden hatten. wir kauerten uns an die felsen, um die lage zu besprechen. die luft lag schwül und drückend über unseren stimmen, über den sätzen, die wir mühsam und schweißdurchdränkt in unsere angsterfüllten gesichter flüsterten. ich hatte noch nie auf menschen geschossen. würde es heute das erste mal sein?

vor dem einsatz stärkten sich die jäger. sie nahmen riesige brocken rohen fleisches aus ihren proviantsäcken, eingewickelt in jutestoff, blutdurchtränkt. rob drückte mir ein stück davon in die hand. ich fühlte die feuchte, muskulöse konsistenz, betrachtete das purpurne rot und die sanften linien der fasern. mein hals schnürte sich zusammen, mein mund blieb verschlossen.
rob hielt mir eine pistole an die schläfe. „du musst essen! du kannst nicht hungrig auf die jagd ziehen! glaub mir mädchen, ich schieß dir eine kugel durch den kopf wenn du nichts isst.“ langsam setzte ich den rohen fleischklumpen an meine lippen. meine zunge schmeckte das blut, das kalte leblose gewebe, zäh kämpften sich meine zähne und kauwerkzeuge durch das fleisch. mir wurde übel. die konsitenz des fleischbreis in meinem mund wurde immer klobiger und mein hals wollte sich vom würgen nicht zum schlucken öffnen. langsam schließlich, ronn das zerkaute meine speiseröhre hinab. bald würde ich mich übergeben. rob nahm die waffe von meinem kopf und lehnte sich hämisch grinsend zurück.

in der alten stadt verstecken wir uns in den ruinen verlassener einkaufszentren und kinos. die geisterhaften überbleibsel ehemaliger konsumtempel boten uns genug deckung, um uns auf den angriff der herden vorzubereiten. zunächst hörten wir nichts als unseren eigenen atem, der langsam und zischend in gespannter erwartung immer wieder innehielt. nach ungefähr einer stunde, doch ich hatte mein zeitgefühl bereits verloren, hörten wir es: lautes tosen und donnern in der ferne, das langsam aber unwiderbringlich immer lauter wurde und auf uns zurollte, wie eine flutwelle aus lärm.

sie hatten die alten kriegsmaschinen für ihre zwecke umgebaut. große, ächzende computerfahrzeuge, gesteuert mit einer künstlichen intelligenz, die unablässig feuersalven in die luft schossen, indem sie die giftigen gase aus der luft fitlerten und verbrannten. die herden hatten sich zwischen ihnen zusammen gekauert und so setzten sie umgeben von den lärmenden ungetümen ihre unablässige suche nach essbarem fort.
als ein paar von ihnen aus der gruppe ausbrachen, um in den zerstörten lebensmittelläden nach nahrung zu suchen, eröffneten die jäger das feuer. ein paar individuen aus der herde brachen zusammen, andere stoben fluchtartig auseinander, die gruppe jedoch setzte den weg fort.
ein paar der jäger stürmten wild um sich schießend auf die maschinen zu, doch fanden die meisten von ihnen einen grausamen feuertod. die luft schien zu kochen. ich schloss mich der gruppe an, die die herden versuchte in einem alten kino zusammen zu treiben und hielt mich von den flammen fern. die aufgabe unseres trupps war es, die unachtsame beute im kino zu umzingeln, zu packen wer nicht schnell genug war und fort von der gruppe zu zerren.

ich griff ein mädchen, dem es nicht gelungen war, anschluss zu den anderen zu wahren und brachte sie zu rob. doch als rob ihr gesicht sah, riss er mir die beute aus der hand und drehte sie brutal zu mir herum indem er sie an den haaren packte. „siehst du das? dieses mädchen ist entstellt! diese beute nehmen wir nicht. wir essen keine entstellten, das risiko ist viel zu hoch!“
jetzt erst erkannte ich, dass das mädchen an der unheilbaren krankheit litt, die es seit dem biologischen krieg gab. ihre gesichtszüge waren verzerrt und ihr leerer ahnungsloser blick erzählte von der geistigen verwirrung, die es ihr unmöglich machte zu erahnen, in welch bedrohlicher situation sie sich noch bis vor kurzem befunden hatte. rob ließ sie gehen. um uns herum die verzweifelten schreie derer, die vertsanden hatten, dass es mit ihnen bald zu ende gehen würde.

trotz all der technischen errungenschaften der letzten jahrhunderte, waren die menschen immer noch abergläubisch geblieben. deshalb war es tabu für die jäger, das fleisch von kranken zu essen, so wie es für die herden tabu war, menschen zu jagen. sie ernährten sich stattdessen von schimmligem reis und anderen vorräten, die sie in den verlassenen städten noch finden konnten.
seit dem einsatz der chemischen waffen wuchsen kaum noch pflanzen auf dem land und die meisten essbaren tierarten waren ausgestorben. viele menschen verhungerten auf der suche nach nahrung, wenn sie nicht an den krankheiten starben, gegen die sich das menschliche immunsystem erst mit der zeit zu verteidigen gelernt hatte. vor vielen jahren hat der hunger ein paar menschen so verzweifelt gemacht, dass sie begonnen hatten, ihresgleichen wie vieh abzuschlachten. ich hatte mich nun bei ihnen eingeschlichen, um ihr verhalten zu studieren.

doch nun, da ich mich mit den jägern tatsächlich mitten unter den herden befand, konnte ich den menschen um mich herum nicht mehr ins gesicht sehen. mein forschungsprojekt hatte sich einem kritischen punkt genähert. die vielen unschuldigen kinder, die eine viel zu leichte beute waren. die emotionslosigkeit mit der sich sowohl jäger, als auch herden ihrem schiksal ergaben. so als hätte es niemals menschlichkeit gegeben auf diesem planeten. so als wären unsere seelen gemeinsam mit den kulturen untergegangen, die der krieg dem erdboden gleich gemacht hat. es gab nicht einmal mehr götter, die ich um vergebung für meine grausamen taten bitten konnte. wir alle kämpften  nur noch darum, weiter zu leben, in einer welt, die wir für uns selbst unbewohnbar gemacht hatten.

(nach einem traum – 9.10.2012)

 

 

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hairdo memoir

she took me by the hand as she always did, and I trusted her. I was used to her tall body, leading me the ways through life and unknown places. every step she took, I took with her. but this time it lead us astray. it parted us, not physically but in our minds and in the way we both feel about ourselves.
we took a step inside a moist room, smelling of shampoo and hairspray, which was filled by the flicking noises of scissors and the barking of blow dryers. I was lifted into a huge chair and a plastic cloth was wrapped around my neck. the familiar reflection in the mirror was me: big eyes, filled with fear and expectation, a bulbous nose and cherry cheeks, red and fresh from the walk in cold air.
she instructed the woman with the scissors in her hand and the woman started to cut. I smiled at her, as I have learned to do. be nice and good. because until then, I had not realized what the sentence meant that was now passed on me. children have no voice in the world of grown ups and so it was too late for me to start screaming.
merciless, the hairdresser started cutting it off. everything. all my beatiful hazel hair. she took, as my mother had instructed her, all the girlishness away from me: snap, snap, snap … and down it fell. I got a strange feeling in my stomach, the beginning of grief, as I saw my curls falling down, one after the other. but the worst part was yet to come.

after this unbelievable woman had finished the work of Satan – and his work it surely was – I had to look up, into the mirror. a boy was looking back at me. a boy with my eyes and my cheeks and my nose. hello stranger!

I needed years and years and decades to forgive my mum, and actually, I think I have never really done so. after a while I started wrapping myself in scarves and neckties and pretended that they were the hair that had formerly protected my neck from feeling cold. I felt bereft of my femininity, my girlhood. I was a fucking boy in a skirt!  – but why?

because my mum says long hair is old-fashioned.
because she has hers cut short as well.
because she wants me to be like her, an extension of her.
because she and my dad think that girls who look like boys look cute.
because they presume that they are always right and know everything better.
because how I feel about my body does not count.
because my body does not belong to me.
because other people decide what should be done to this „thing“ that is supposed to be my body, me, myself.

I think this was about the time when I started to feel fat and had fantasies about cutting the fat out of my body with scissors. the fat on my thighs and arms and stomach. all should have been cut out with scissors. like my hair. like my femininity. like the girl I wanted to be.

the hair grew back, after some time. time during which I missed looking like all the princesses in fairy tailes, and the princesses in my class, whose mothers did not force them to look like princes! honestly, which prince would love and embrace a princess that looked like him? it was a real dilemma.
during that time I stopped trusting the decisions of adults. because sometimes, their decisions might be pretty stupid, even if they mean well. sometimes they just mean well for themselves. because washing, combing, drying and braiding the hair of a little princess is just a waste of time …

 

 

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Nachtalb

 

 

 

 

 

When the nightmare’s shining
lucidly above our heads
and it’s impossible to
close our eyes and sleep

I’m gonna breathe through your mouth
the tastes of fear and love
… so sweet,
the tastes of insecurity!

Our nakedness spread out
against each other
and the soft moans
escaping from our chests
are vainly covering our doubts
each touch a frantic grip
against the risk of drowning

I’m drowning in your arms, my love
and you’re in mine

but would it make a difference, really?
if we weren’t dreaming?

 

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last exit

I built walls against you
soaring into the sky
like a tower made of stone
and I sat on it’s merlon
hiding from the world

and I cut my hair short
wrecking every possible exit
but in the end I jumped down
and  broke myself into pieces –
it was the only way to reach you

bones are breaking, like hearts
and I couldn’t wait for my hair to grow
and I couldn’t wait for you to climb
and I missed you

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