Tag Archives: moralist

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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The Skies Shed Blood in Blobs

There is no return, only now.

To be born and cut into halves.

 

Like pierced clouds we live

with heads being topped up

as hearts back slowly out.

 

Take sanded paths of grovelled expectations.

On floured changing tables kneaded,

rolled-out, risen, asked

‘Would you like another slice?’

 

Have padded hearts dipped into the jaws

then pulled back up again,

curled under, still red,

still without claws.

 

The skies shed blood in blobs

for yet another while, whilst

people run with buckets full

to paint another wall:

 

‘Rumour has it another heart

splashed over cement.’ ‘Again?’

 

And red wine stains the pain.

The pain, the pain, the pain.

 

As cotton-wool-clouds sink down

to rest for us on Dewdrop Mountains.

There is no return, only now.

 

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In cubic air

 

An illusionist is enclosed

In a block of ice

In the middle of Times Square

For three days

Around him men sit

Throwing rugby balls

At each other’s heads.

 

I watch them from a distance

And have to deal with that

Writing is theft, and that

Also Dylan is a moralist

Without any escape.

 

One day I will drive

A motorcycle

Straight through them

Go nowhere

And for that year

Say nothing.

 

Severely wounded Sage

Can I bring you some hope?

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The Devil Lived in a Doomed Mood

 

No body can strap body parts together as he can.

He is a reward-drawer who believes in smart-trams

and draws you spam-maps.

 

He fools you into straw-eating warts and when you scream

for more he is the one who brings you plate after plate of more

erecting with his left hand columns, castles.

 

He knits and stinks and peels sleep off you

when you need it the most. A pubic hair falls

off his finger and starts its fight with feathers.

 

He is a redivider, a petrifier and he speaks backwards.

But maybe one day we will see through and sum up:

 

The devil lived in a doomed mood

That we can do without. We fooled him

with sensuousnes(s) or stayed forever quiet.

Anger? ’tis safe never. Bar it! Use love

(or: Evoles ut ira breve nefas sit; regna

Which means more or less the same).

 

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You and I

heart fluttering

racing bubbles

up

naked tongues

in the mood

sweet, not crude

crumbling fractures one by one

 

liquid steaming

blowing bubbles

up

corners none

picking petals one by one

 

mouth watering

touching bubbles

up

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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