49 Doors



under the surface listening

to compact water-silence


in the wake of a boat


up on a shore.


He wouldn’t have put it that way

it was put there for him:

49 Doors all made

for a persons particular shape

and mood

at the moment of death.


His head is the dot

of a questionmark,

a nest of dry grass

in the middle of wet souls

– a cage of glimmering light –

metallic shapes blow by,

a soft voice, rusty velvet.


Flowers standing along

roads: hot, steamy heatwaves and

dead animals (big dogs)

is what he sees

wherever he turns

big mistakes

were made

once, twice, …

he cannot even remember


but crisp suits

golden cars

and apricots with scars.


Now removed foreskins

hide under oaktrees

and smile with leaves

left in dirt, and men sit

behind stones, facing nothing.



was it, he thinks,

that I was running to go?


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One thought on “49 Doors

  1. elscorten says:

    walking into a parallel world, images painted by words, there is no time here anymore and how that would feel, is beautifuly created here. this poem is perfect.

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