cast my dreams to an incoming storm as though I were the wind with nothing to
remember or forget
Keine Erinnerung
An Tagen, die enden, indem die Sonne den Horizont
mit einem karmesinroten Leuchten überschüttet,
habe an dich gedacht.
Das Meer ist gesättigt von Salz und der
Sand ist übersäht von gebrochenen
Wellenmustern.
Ich bin nur noch Dunkelheit und Licht.
Ich öffne unser Andenken, geschlossene Türen,
mit Schwertern und Seufzern,
die hellsten Sterne zu beleben;
so kannst du mich finden, zwischen windumtosten Segeln.
Das Meer ist mondlichtbeschienene Offenbarung, und
bei der geringsten Möglichkeit, dass du es bist, der kommt, verwandelte ich
meine Träume in einen heranziehenden Sturm, als sei ich
Regen, der weder Erinnerung bietet
noch Vergessen.
Last year in the end of Dezember, Serge Gurkski celebrated his fiftieth birthday. He did not see the future coming and taking him away. He was full of esprit and thoughts. I never did forget him. I enjoy reading his articles and poems.
Our meeting was just a small track in time. But in four dimensions it will last forever.
American woman, stay away from me
American woman, mama let me be
Don’t come hanging around my door
I don’t want to see your face no more
I got more important things to do
Than spend my time growin’ old with you
Now woman, stay away
American woman, listen what I say
American woman, get away from me
American woman, mama let me be
Don’t come knocking around my door
I don’t want to see your shadow no more
Colored lights can hypnotize
Sparkle someone else’s eyes
Now woman, get away
American woman, listen what I say
American woman, I said get away
American woman, listen what I say
Don’t come hanging around my door
Don’t want to see your face no more
I don’t need your war machines
I don’t need your ghetto scenes
Colored lights can hypnotize
Sparkle someone else’s eyes
Now woman, get away
American woman, listen what I say
American woman, stay away from me
American woman, mama let me be
I gotta go
I gotta getta away
Babe I gotta go
I wanna fly away
I’m gonna leave you woman
I’m gonna leave you woman
I’m gonna leave you woman
I’m gonna leave you woman
Bye bye, bye bye…
Bye bye, bye bye
American woman…..
And you’re no good for me
And I’m no good for you
I look you right straight in the eye
And tell you what I’m gonna do
I’m gonna leave you woman
You know I gotta go
I’m gonna leave you woman
I gotta go
I gotta go
I have changed
my most preferred
four letter word
from love to hope.
Some kinds of love
are elusive. These
are the most intense
for some time. But
they don’t prevail.
They lack stamina.
Those that are subtly latent,
those that evoke
understanding smiles
after years of
supposed intentional neglect
are those that persist
until …
hope outdated itself.
To cope with losses
I made up a mantra
for myself: Let go!
I still hope,
outdating myself,
for love again.
serge in (love) hope
Suddenly the phone rang
on that night past christmas,
the presumed festival
of love, that had been
so totally without it.
On that cold night
she would call me
reminding me of
all the warmth she
had been, she had
given to me. No
time for regrets: too
close instantly after
one long year of
silence and confusion.
I was too puzzled
to make sense
to her, of her,
to and of myself, of it,
but later she said that
I am the only one
she can talk to.
She simply knows how to
get and take me
like no other does.
Love is unfair
to me.
call it vanilla
Vanilla is my Blues
What I already wrote
and what I am going to
will unavoidably hurt
some precious one.
I tried to find
a way around
but find none.
Yet.
Talked to a friend; they said:
Don’t you ever meet her again. Let go.
Look for someone else.
I complied and lied at very same moment because
next thing I did after SHE left was this:
I’m breakin my oaths first second I see you.
So far for honesty.
Towards my friends
who’d advised me better.
I’m the king of my life for sure.
Yeah, I am a winner, no doubts.
Winning what exactly?
Mainly most of the same
that already almost killed
me yesterday? I’m doing good.
I hate my friends
when they act like
I make no sense,
when I’m perfectly fine
creating a new mess
all by myself and yeah,
of course; by her too.
They just don’t get it.
They don’t see our bonds
or are jaded enough
for me. They simply refuse to
want to see where
I am heading at.
They tell me to take a walk
so I take one at night
with no one watching
and I think, which is
not prescribed for
me in my state.
By far too much
reminiscing. No,
wrong track. Start again!
Which I do. „I understand you“,
so she. Telling me that,
when I don’t get myself.
Under those mounds of roses
I started to loose myself completely
and I reappeared as someone
I’d never seen before. A new
me, I was suddenly still there.
I put the blame on me,
the blame that I’m unloveable
unless you are a goddess.
the benzes
I’m on my way home, lilting this:
walking an icy path.
But then suddenly people appear in front of me.
It’s midnight: pitch dark. No visible moon up.
Only the snow on the lawns gives sparse light.
And when I am just two steps away from them,
they, those passers-by appearing from nowhere,
suddenly fall down and drop dead.
I feel so confused I call a cab to get out of this.
But I missed it.
Without human mirrors
I cannot see me.
So he, the cab man, hands over the reefer
he smoked for me
and I get talkative (miracle, miracle!)
in order to procrastinate because
tonight, after meeting her, Suzie in coconut balm , I feel
even more lonely than usual.
Don’t you ask me, how I made it home
because I simply blacked out in the middle of my walk.
And how could I miss the cab,
but smoke pot with the driver?
There are mysteries to this
and they lurk just around the corner.
So me in front of my door, looking for the right key
and just in a finger-snap
around the corner rolls another Benz
towards me. His intentions evil.
A Stephen King machine.
I now distrust Mercedesses.
They are sexy but can be lethal.
augustus I
Me in the eighth month of my life
longing for brown-eyed brunettes
but kissing green-eyed street princesses
instead, I kill time residing in a street café,
voyeurish me.
In my life’s august I check out life
or more precisely: its female aspects.
My self is maelstroming into funky limbo
and I watch that too.
I have grown around a black hole.*
Never imagined. Heading violently
towards sleep eternal I still learn.
New stuff.
Good for …
?
Not a prelude to not a fugue
for a fine friend of mine
Calculating my return of investment
on the stock exchange of sweetest taboos.
I can proclaim (if not solemnly),
that I have been treated fairly so far.
Summing up the beatings I
may have deserved by my lovers
I still do well. (And the subconscious
sub in me was even delighted).
My heart has found a voice now:
It sings like Helen Folasade Adu
smoothing our messed-up Jazz
by turning it into
danceable delights.
It can be no crime to be
a hopeless lover of lovers of mine.
I don’t mind practising
Don Quichotteries
should there be a need to
make me please you
dithyrambs & ditties 