painfully clear

the life of a saint

unpredictability

all to the fact

that he is dead

i live on

against my will

great and selfish

sacrifice

my jazzy guilt

the trap hole

I slide my finger along the white table cloth. The rings from the whisky glass are getting darker. Spreading. Like the rings under my eyes. Spreading. I twist my wrist, a bad habit.
‘But who cares?’ I yell. My skinny voice absorbed by street noise blowing in from the open window.

‘Who cares? Life?’.

I hate when the melancholic self-hate takes over, leaving me shivering but untouched. I twist my wrist again, close the window.
‘I don’t care. It is my life’.

i used to call men

under a woman name

i don’t recall

sometimes we talked for hours

sometimes they yelled the phone dead

didn’t matter

what we said

soon forgotten

i never called the same man twice

to achieve

i need hands

a day at the hospital

the French scares me, rope in kitchen.
the German makes me smile, calls me a whore.
the Russian has friendly, positiv eyes, doped appearance, always ready for figth.
the Arabian lies, smiles, push us away until he lays completely still.
we are sorry but we had to.
the young girl, what is her shadow ? hysteria ?
she reminds me of Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.
there are lots of those here, Hamlet, Faust, Romeo, Magdalena.
name it.
there are looking for the drama to end.
but we all keep writing their tales.

she was so guillible
she went and threw herself right into the arms of people
who broke her
she would she danger and instead of avoiding it
like a person with sense she would walk behind its theth.

THERE ARE MANY ADVANTAGES TO A BROKEN MIND

and a washed brain

...

C O M MIT

M E N T

I take myself in the streams of thoughts
going nowhere but back
the pain ahead, I see it’s sun
shine, shine, shine
throwing shadows on the path I walk
I take myself in the stream of thoughts
I take myself in the stream of thoughts
it takes me longer than waves of love
convince myself this time is different
this time the skin will blossom
blossom and blead
I take myself in the streams of thoughts
loosing the value of salty tears
no taste, no tongue
run away like sweat, numb on skin
without a touch
nothing is on my mind
I take myself in the streams of thoughts
I take myself in the streams of thoughts
promise this will be the last
trying to try
the pain licks the back of my throat
the taste of sorrow arrives
I do so hope that one day
you will take me on the streams of thoughts
and make me mine.

my archive

consists

of secret scares

don’t worry
there are invisible
until we fall

together

I fall very selten
with someone
when we do
my archive

grows

a ceaseless carousel
a permanent

pain

©