The Lights From The Town


You see the lights
from the town
vanishing in nights.
The clocks counting down
all your lost fights.
You, kissing the ground
until you go wild.


Snowflakes in June


We sat there until the stars came out. First there were only a few. But then the entire sky was blinking and glittering and the moon lit up the world – or at least our tiny part of the world.
I was smelling of suncream and lime icetea and you were tasting like suncream and lime icetea.
Birch leaves came falling down on us, swiftly and softly, like snowflakes in june.
Wind was blowing and I was looking for my jacket, not finding it, but never admitting that I was cold.
Then: my skin lit up as your fingers touched my arm, swiftly and softly, like snowflakes in june.

How to make yourself invisible


  • Spill ink only into the ocean,
    the waves won’t hear you weep
  • Drive backwards in the alley
    that is never lightened at night
  • Cry out loud
    only in forests where no one can hear you
    except the birds and the leaves
    and the fox that hides even better than you do
  • Move your hands and your fingers
    in small circles and pretend
    to always hold a cup of tea
  • Scratch open all your scars and bruises
    only when you are drowning
    in a sea of crimson paintings
  • Find a pullover that is as good
    as an invisibility cloak
  • never look up, into other people’s eyes,
    if you can’t see them, they can’t see you
  • Realize that all existency is just made
    of light & reflexions
  • And finally stop taking everything
    and especially yourself
    so seriously
  • It is just part of another story

A stranger


She fell in love with a stranger.
He had seen her heart.
At least, that’s what I think.

Honestly, she shouldn’t call him stranger.
He knows her.
He knows her heart.
It’s just…
She is far too concentrated on surviving,
She simply can’t know him.
No chance.
She doesn’t even know herself.

But he knows her.
And he worships her.
It feels horrible.
And beautiful.

She is in love.

Firestorms in our ribcages


It began where the sky is wide open,
in pink and vanishing light.
Ghosts sitting in my mouth,
singing a hooray to spring.
Today we speak the language of birds,
bathing in puddles,
from heaven’s grief
for long gone times,
when there were battles to fight,
that could be won
with a sword.

Eat my heart entirely,
blood, the colour of a pomegrenade,
drips from your lips
in the lake  of fear.
Drip – drop.
Doveboy swings
on a graveyard,
the moment of flying destroyed,
spearheads in his back,
nailing his coffin.
Just learned the ABC.
A. Atomar
B. Biological
C. Chemical
26 letters for war.
Count backwards
but it does not end with Zero.

Backyard apocalypses,
courtyard apocalypses,
where stones fly
and words.
Lights between your lips
and in the centre
of this rackety figure
rain of sparks and fire
and flames and ashes,
falling loudly onto the streets,
underneath them: our dignity,
buried erect.
Sirens sing elegies
to never-happend secrets.
Look into the past,
see the future.

Your insides, they cry,
desperate for safety,
doubting, teethbaring
like this one wolf
full of fear and fascination
of fire.
Open your eyes
and your chest,
before your heart jumps out
and flutters and flutters,
like a bird
in a cage, not golden
but out of dread,
of tension and fear
of death.
Of other people’s
and your own.

Bombs shine brighter than suns,
firestorms in our ribcages,
closer to your heart
than your lover
who with his poetry killed you slowly.
Every battlecry carves you,
you and your spinal cord,
and all the space between your shoulderblades,
where a hand touched you
to bring you down.

Next stop: the bottom of cliffs
or the sea
whose foam
is far too hard to lie above waves.
Or a desert,
whose sand
resembles polished glass too much,
in whose reflection Death laughs
about the attempt
to hear time or to win the war.
Death is the only victor
that follows our battlecries,
knife whetting.
And weeping.