eigene lyrik

potato peel hands / kartoffelschalen hände

the hands of the kitchen maid, in this little
in hungary are fleshy and coarse
how she peeled potatoes
and her hands became potato peels,
wooden was also the scent
the trees in the courtyard seek admiration,
dry like in our place;
at home – there were home is a hill and the lake is near
– could at the peak of summer
ignite the half green with a cigarette butt.
here was a smoking ban,
i thought we wanted to bathe further inland
where all is innate and everything devouring self
searching for the close
we never left this place.

(original in german)

die hände der küchenfrau in diesem kleinen
in ungarn sind fleischig und rau
wie sie die kartoffeln schälte
und ihre hände kartoffelschalen wurden,
hölzern war auch der duft
gefallsüchtig die bäume im hof
trocken wie bei uns
zu hause – da wo zu hause ein hügel und der badesee nicht weit ist
– könnte man zur hochsaison
das ganze halb-grün mit einer kippe entzünden.
hier war aber rauchverbot,
ich dachte wir wollten noch in dem landes innere baden
wo alles innen ist und sich nach nähe suchend verschlingt
wir gingen nie weg von hier.

eigene lyrik, poetry

i give my hunter peonies

full of lower case letters: me, me,
while you are, what i only whisper,
as if hunted by epilogues, by primal tides
and things that rule more my night than day

my daughter speaks of i and mine
concluding that all eyes rest on her,
i give her peonies, the ones
a past eastern wind lets grow
and has left to tied knots under the earth,
where some wayward roots have thirstily spread out

and there again is the hunter in my child
with green eyes of a river bearing a trout,
waiting only for i to tell me the story of her.

eigene lyrik, englische lyrik

that slow motion tucking of a spring roll

the illicit is tucking a spring roll
into the corners of her mouth
almost like a fucking on freshly mown lawn
i regret leaving portlands perennial rain
impregnating me with the laughter of an
apocalyptical flood, while zapping you-
tube for the vid. of miniscule cooking/
something very tiny very,
i await / that
they dissect & cook a swine head
and i reached a new level.

eigene lyrik, poetry

of a morn’s gust folding – ein windstoß immer wieder wieder immer

it is 9 am,
the sun that has left its traces on the lamellar of the venetian blinds
it does not lie, the light is just what it is, the time too.
dust settles in mid air, maybe it wants to pause
or be rustled up by the gust just a bit more.
at 9 am, measured by the leak of light and the smell of a fled night,
limbs have been lying too long,
have left traces; streams in the bedsheets
everything holds on to the fringe of things
and has gotten out of shape
these songs, which hum supple;
setting the tone as if this day today is at amends
are a contant and always constantly always and always
a wrestle for my inner peace.


es ist 9 uhr
die sonne die ihre spuren auf den lamellen der jalousie hinterlässt,
lügt nicht, das licht das ist einfach so. die uhrzeit ist auch.
der staub strandet in der luft. vielleicht möchte er anhalten
oder bei jedem windstoß ein stückchen wieder auftreiben.
um 9 uhr, gemessen nach diesem licht-
einfall und dem geruch der geflohenen nacht,
sind die glieder schon zu lange gelegen,
haben spuren, rinnen in laken hinterlassen
alles hält sich am saum fest
und ist aus der form geraten.
solche lieder welche weich summend
den ton angeben, als ob der tag, heute ein trostpreis sei
es ist ein immer und wieder immer wieder immer wieder wieder immer
für den inneren frieden reden.


Orignal text written in German

eigene lyrik, englische lyrik

there goes a nothing, there is to the ellipse: a toad made me cry

i tried to tell you that the moon looked like
the mark my coffee cup leaves on the nut-colored tablecloth
and i tell you that there is sticker on the pen
that says – if the ink dries keep writing
but you bit the lower part of your lip to a frayed mandarin
long before / so i stayed breathing to a rust dotted outside
beneath the gone leaf, the branch the limb the tree the air,
the sky, the nothing surrounding me
trying to in a moment of stifled fear or wish-
ing – i don’t recall, to not fraud the past
but you do you do do look at me
out of too lit up eyes, that were beheaded ornaments
that belonged to what was a field the crop a grain to seed.