murban-voices

silence between the sheets
useless words have been wasted
and no room left for new ones
we have found no language to share
the world as mirrored in our thoughts
we lacked the vocabulary of mutual understanding
have lost the things we wanted to say in translations
taken from a dictionary of dysfunctional communication

the gap between our pillows grew wider
and swallowed what finally remained of our minds
and our embraces found no way to bridge it

but what is it that is left, if we don’t share our thoughts and hearts?

… it’s the bed honey, just the bed …

white foam, dancing on the top of waves
splashes of water on my skin
warm sand, softly caressing
my salty toes

before me, the sea of memories
kisses and passion, long gone

there’s an old rock by the ocean
haunted by ancient ghosts and devils
mourning their losses, the passing of time
befalling all living creatures strolling by
with mortal longings in their hearts

after the fog’s clearing, my soul lightens up and
wide like the ocean it melts with the horizon
forming a wish with invisible lips,
a heretic prayer to reach you
while I’m bound
to this island

beyond all limits of the sky
in the realm of the unseen
my soul meets yours to share:
THE WOE OF BEING

[isle of wight, july 2012]

me wishes I was a ballet dancer,
dancing on the shore.
in a tiny dress, unveiling my legs,
those plump limbs made of flesh and bone.

me wishes I was your princess then,
all pale and shy and lost.
twirling, whirling clumsy pirouettes,
on the sandy ground of hopeless dreams.

if only I were a ballet dancer,
I’d  dance over the waters of the channel.
like Jesus I could walk,
like Mary I’d remain untouched.
I’d rather drown in the cold waves of the ocean,
than taste the joys of lust, of words unspoken.

I am your princess of Calais,
a bitter duck that’s hiding.
I’ve torn my dress inside the reeds ,
I’ve lost my balance on the dunes.

me wishes I was a swan
so I could just fly over
to you my love, to you!

http://vimeo.com/39285569

silent whispers through the snow
do not wake
the snowdrops sleeping
underneath the white sheets
while you’re playing

step by step
we’re scrunching through the woods
breaking the foggy hush of this haunted land
with our pitter-patter
over dazzling pillows

sedate landscapes
filled with bowwows and their echoes
the joy and love
with which you forebode nature’s awakening
somewhen after thaw

patiently I wait
until your wet paws
and snowy snouts
tell me to go home

… for Nina and the ‚girls‘ …

three and a half, and both of us
makes three still,
as three equals you
and me

there is no aftermath,
no argument that outnumbers
the million insults of you,
or the billion ways I tried
to leave you

the three, always between
the you and me
a barrier that leaves us
with nothing left
but bleak misconceive

at last,
I’ve learned how to run
from the pain
you caused me
and where there once was three
I just got me

[poem dedicated to Mister S., @Cuntra, December 2011]

Photo Copyright Julia Melcher

ich vernehme dich
wie endloses echo
meiner selbst
nehme dich
wahr
in mir
wie fernen sternenregen
so greifbar weit entfernt
von meiner hand
mir

zwischen uns nachthimmel
äonen wolken endloses schwarz
weit-weit-weit-weit
fort

in dunklen träumen ist die hand zum greifen nah
und kummervolles seufzen
tropft von meinen lippen
wie der morgendliche tau
im morgengrauen
ein letzter blick
und mund an mund
die süße der nacht

ich höre deinen herzschlag
weit-weit-weit-weit:
beep ….. beep ….. beep ….. beep ….. beep …… beep ….. beep ….. beep …… beep …… beep ….

[sonifications/steirischer herbst 9.10. 2011/ESC im labor//jogi hofmüller, reni hofmüller, venus-weger, norbert math]

Photo Copyright Julia Melcher

September 18th …

Photo Copyright Julia Melcher

welche narrative hat die stadt? und welche werden ihr vorgegeben? wo
sind die gegenstimmen? urbanes leben erzählt viele geschichten.
erzählungen stiften identität, eine subjektive wahrheit, die berichtet
von zusammenhängen und widerständen.
die (auto-)biografie einer stadt ist die summe ihre vielzähligen, differenzierten stimmen.