Tag Archives: man

Not a Question

She shows her self                                    To those who will listen

She talks                                                       To those who will see

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The boulevards that are life


Without gazing further

than the next shop-window

walking down the street

along the boulevard that is life


Sobbing in restrooms

of cities without names

picking garments on sale

along the boulevards that are life


Hanging paper over holes

in the walls and

pounding on a nail for the hostage

driver of a hijacked bus

and the zebra crossings

are black and black only

and deep

between the boulevards that are life


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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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You and I

heart fluttering

racing bubbles


naked tongues

in the mood

sweet, not crude

crumbling fractures one by one


liquid steaming

blowing bubbles


corners none

picking petals one by one


mouth watering

touching bubbles


creamy clouds

in the nude

sweet, not rude

breathing heavens one by one

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Without Armour

A tin soldier lies in my bed, the last man standing

On a crusade; Denying flesh and blood,

But if f I am white then he is red.

I throw down-duvet over, not to divide,

I creep under as well, it is a cold night and

The boiler is bust but we are two.

Muscles are what he claims to be,

Well, at least it is better than steel

And I still drink that smell of sweat.

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In the chapel of lost and found

She tries to lean her face against
a silky velvet chiffon scarf
but it is taken by the wind, although

there is no breeze no more
for this face, this flame. For this face
needs no breeze no more,
nor chewed almond kisses.

With bleeding hands she scrawls
hymns on the black board whilst
the cross stands silent witness.

She writes: When I return as a man
you might mistake me for a woman,
then sings that song before
wooden empty benches.

And the silence then, the silence
is so lonesome, longing
in all nights for a fragrance.

And the fragrance is the closest then,
so closed and silent.

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