automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, englische lyrik


2: 40 dripped a universal language by code; rain
cry or hiss of a fox housing on forests edge
his eyes are wilderness
are emeralds peering out
the suture of night,
sage growing exiled
traversing laments;
is to untie irony and chew on its endings –

indelible all is edible
so i hunt a cry that is this
lying next to my head almost touching my temples [i pretend to read his mind]
progress is heavy
gunfire fire [pause here]    fire
short in those checkered pyjamas
only worn in patchouli impregnated
nights radiating off a brittanica
clutching a map of summer and the flight routes of wasps

will be there
to assemble:
a wheel, a compass, book – talisman of change, repetition of melissa citron
to the subject of libertine that lives between the gaps of a cow like shaped cloud
the ego is vanilla pudding growing an exotic but constringent mold

still awake at 3:41 i note:
aligned orchards
full nihilists
mouth in nazis and beer and the ticking clock
spit out an idealist on a horse riding into a postcard
squinting eyes to decipher the imprint
– saudade –
i kill a beetle that is as small as the fingernail of a newborn
and breathe in the smell of karma
and the kerosine lamp
and mint bush
braiding a trail through sweaty childrens-hair

i am searching cupboards for the codeword of composition
to only grasp universals
where the nominative is an unhinged door.

automatisch geschrieben oder auch nur: übung, eigene lyrik

art. fingerhut woman

is not
the finger casket; hut
a nut fell or un
felt is covered with felt

art as the encyclopedia that ripens the month to a sum-

at july unaware of the month
a thumb makes halt at the yellow traffic light; blinking suggests
color; automotive motif –  not framed,
a stroller screams or the insides of the lining;
a bundle with a face
sucking intimacy / mother & breast
on that park bench in olive butter tone
[last year around this time there was
fern growing wild where the WOMAN now nursing stares at earth].

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, 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