Friday, 16 February 2018

Four in the afternoon

Four in the afternoon
a rainy day in December
too dark to read on
you light the lamp
brew some tea
before returning to the book
you look through the window
on the block of flats opposite
where no light is burning
no one is reading
you shut the blinds
you are alone

Thursday, 8 February 2018

Not Yet Now

If death existed would we live
as though we were never to die?

The soul takes the shape of a vessel
warmth penetrates through the walls.

A dry handshake seems slippery
when the wet snow’s falling.

“The minstrels on muddy roads
sing like song thrushes.”

You say it not to me but to the sound of rain
the music of vocal cords and eardrums.

Wrinkles on water reflections in mirrors
the wind flowing across the leaky beds.

Not yet now skin by skin in the long grass
the lovely sadness of August.

Time leaves behind the broken clocks
they’re still ticking still making you tick.

You won’t die a natural death doesn’t exist.
Not yet now it’s just the beginning

the cut by a new razor you don’t feel
pain comes later as well as bleeding

when it can’t be stopped.
But you’re already wounded

by the world broken like glass
ice cubes rattle in the goblet.

The swollen river calm on the surface
a face after a long cry.

Friday, 2 February 2018

A Lonely Patient

The night sky sparkles with bats’ guano
the mountain hides its face of the deepest dye
in the light scarf of a feathery cloud.

His eyelids close and open
as if blinking was a conscious act
demanding serious decision taking.

When you see it all
ultraviolet of day
infrared of night.

Holding his breath in the foam of dandelions
he watches the change with bated breath
the world turns blue
a moment before being blown off.

In a low voice the therapist ends his tale of dying
lends colour to the autumn
slips on rotten leaves
and curses loudly.

Torn threads of the worn-out sweater
tremble like damaged nerves
the diagnosis chases its own shadow
as a shadow runs after him the woman
whose bag he pulled out of her hip
all of a sudden

contours varnished with light flash
the sky drags on a cigarette
the blue stays inside
outside the white smoke and steam.

Long ago he stopped praying
to the holy image of himself
a confirmed iconoclast.

Thursday, 25 January 2018

The Scar

On the golden arm
a light scar after vaccination
as if someone pressed a silver coin
heads or tails.

The shrugging of shoulders in response
the only kind of thrill.
One can still take cover
from the sadness of parting
under the spring shower.

In the past everything was better
especially the future
there came and went
late autumn early winter
rain cut the dry grass
in time of haying.

The juicy blue of a damselfly hanging weightlessly
in the honey-laden air of midday
over the black pupil of a round pond
covered by a green lid of duckweed.

On the night lamp little moths
cast great shadows
impressions lightly tread on the wall.

In broad daylight the house is haunted
by an image of a man loved by those
who love to hate
his hair the colour of urine
of a dehydrated camel
as someone would put it
another way.

Thursday, 18 January 2018

End of Summer

Flies hitting their heads against the window
as if they wanted to kill themselves.

You burst in September like an air bubble
on the surface of a lake in the rain.

The soul evaporated
the body dissolved.

If you opened your eyes in the coffin you’d see
the heaven painted on the ceiling by Angelo.

That village girl is you decorating a cow pie with daisies.
You weren’t dead yet it’s the funeral that killed you.

Birds don’t die in flight because they’d fall
they give up the ghost when they aren’t alive.

The dark secret of the body spilled every month
you locked yourself up in yourself

smelling from outside like a garden
in the wind of early autumn.

On the hands there remained a scent of metal railings
copper trunks of beech trees rain covered with verdigris.

That oak had been dying longer than the whole life lasted
standing dead among the passing seasons.

You can’t accustom yourself to death just by living
only those who’ve died at least once can get used to it.

Not always.

Friday, 5 January 2018

On An Express Train

She sits on an express train
from nowhere to nowhere.

A cream complexion
platinum hair of a dry autumn
brownish green trousers of a country pond
black hobnailed high-heel shoes
a cornflower thin wool jumper.

Her index finger
with dark blue varnish on the nail
brushes a touch screen
the fingertip with a unique fingerprint
taps on the names
of those to whom she talks
about nothing in particular
killing the time of the journey
from nowhere to nowhere.

A slightly aquiline nose
prolonged eyelashes
violet lipstick
delicate rouge on the cheeks.

A mental dromedary
she can do without a drop
of what I could not live without.

But still
rods of the red sun
on her October legs.

A bumpy path in the foothills
trodden in the hollow of the spine
descends to the bottom of the valley
cut between two cultivated knolls
where from under decaying leaves
a bitter spring flows.

That deserted road
to senility and death
is obscured by melancholic views
through the window of an express train
from nowhere to nowhere
that rocks like a mother
carrying a child.

Dusk is falling
somnolence cuddles us.

Thursday, 28 December 2017


And then I set my eyes
on the bookshelf of painting albums.
Caspar David Friedrich,
perhaps tomorrow
I’ll feel like him, too.
Now I reach for the French
rococo painting.
Pastoral genre pictures
by a brook
or boudoir scenes.
Nobody like Boucher
can paint a woman’s
fat bottom.