Send me to Mars

bloody moon

A house, never built,
a place for thieves,
the place where we killed
all memories.
A thief came near,
saw us fall apart,
all he could hear
was my beating heart.

Flying from clocks,
flying to Mars,
halfway I stop
counting my scars.
Too many to stay,
too less to die.
‚Wait‘ you say
and ‚Run!‘ I cry.

The tear on my face
is blood on my tongue,
but all I can taste
is blood in my lung.
Send sparks to the Moon,
send sparks to the Sun
it’s over, too soon,
that’s how it’d begun.

So send me to Mars,
alone in the dark,
just counting the scars
on my beating heart.

 

Firestorms in our ribcages

DSC01607

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,
blood-red
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.