Fynn and the Windmills
Deep inside me
lives Fynn .
Fynn, with two watering-can-hands,
which water with letters
in the mind’s gardens.
Fynn, from whose eyes streams
the four cardinal points.
Fynn, whose soul
is striated with veins,
from the living rivers of words.
Words, with whose DNA
you can trace back
your family tree,
all the way back
to the firstborn roots
of the world,
where me, you and Fynn
gathering the harvest of winds
and tie in sheaves
who grind our souls
into fine flour, with which
five minutes before
the end of the world
we will knead
our best poems.
I miss you
Immerse myself in amber of sunset
then dreaming with open eyes
not you – I walk along the edge of your absence,
wonder of your look and touch,
a few skipped heart beats.
I dream of the heaviness in my stomach,
my eyes, saying that I love you
your hands which carried me like a child,
how light my steps were, the laughter
and how I was crazy crazy crazy,
how I drank your skin and breathed with your lips,
and how you loved me – not just like that –
you loved me as in the sweetest love novel,
you loved me with every cell in your body,
with your eyes, your hands, your words
you loved me to exhaustion –
until the last drop,
until the last word,
until you conquered every moment of my consciousness,
until you flowed in my veins instead of blood.
I miss you like a breath of air
I miss you now –
in the warmth of the most sorrowful sunset.
I miss you in the realization –
that I’m hopelessly in love
and tomorrow scares me –
the memories sink into time
like a drop of dew in the desert,
I can touch very tangibly
the empty space by my shoulder,
the missing breath of your lips
still burning my skin
and only you know who I am..
I miss you
not because I love you,
not because the sunrises won’t be yours,
not because I will never kiss you.
I miss you
because I’m afraid to once again
be cold, indifferent, and loveless,
and banality to waste my days.
I miss you ….
God, how I miss you …
Good night, Mister
I listen to you in wonderment-
the cars, the money, the fame,
your tale is so fascinating,
that I am trapped by your face,
where in place of your eyes
there are two large black holes,
in which you lose entirely yourself,
your smile, the white teeth
flashing with a freezing radiance,
the suit, your polished nails…
You charm me…
you’ve mistaken the game,
this one, that you play,
is as old as life itself,
you’ve forgotten its name
or have never known it,
we used to play it in our childhood –
which kid is stronger,
better looking, has more decals
or marbles, or a nicer diary.
You probably used to collect comics
and you’ve traded them for friendship
and have been gorgeous, awesome, big?
back then I collected bruises.
Later I gathered shabby sheets,
broken hearts, the remains of my soul,
betrayals, dreams, good words
and bad words, with which I fed my anger,
worn out shoes, blisters,
ice, which watered down too quickly
my hopes for salvation of the the human race,
wolf howls, faith and moans of love.
I can show you my scars,
my thin ankles, bitten by dogs,
my back, furrowed by passion,
my breasts, heavy with milk,
the knots on my hams
from the thousands of miles walked,
to find myself…
Something strange happened to your eyes, Mister…
and to your charming smile…
You’re leaving already?
You have an appointment early in the morning?
Good night, Mister…
Blossoms of Saguaro
Before your hands
I were but state of substance,
thin cactus needles
carving the cellular core
that poured suffering
into the circulation of blood
and after the tenderness
in the blossoms on the top of Saguaro,
where I woke up
burning with fever,
swimming in sweat
near the sun,
where you branded me
with sheer promises from one love,
which wrote them with tongue
over my body,
before to escape of radiation.
And then –
the pain of thorns
on which I descend
for too long
down from the heaven,
my entire life
which detonated in your eyes,
and fear in the wings of a bird,
frightened without light
and without blossoms of Saguaro,
whose fruits to spread through the desert.
and then –
does it matter
in an excessively long
The matches of hope
If I close my eyes –
two butterflies in a jar,
bathed in the honey sunset,
and if I let my thoughts descend
in the bottomless tunnels of disbelief –
I will quietly fall asleep,
like the little match-seller,
dreaming of a beautiful future.
But I am awake.
With two hands, furrowed
with the veins of compassion,
I could hug the world.
I could light the matches of hope –
so transitory in the wind.
With the love – the imperishable one,
I could raise
a motley Luna park from the pains.
I could shelter in my heart
the tattered wanderers –
thirsty for love
on the dusty roads of disbelief
and to embrace the drowning.
Do not fall asleep,
my sad hope,
shivering in the loneliness
of the indifferent streets.
Here – I present you my hands,
filled with matches,
enough to wake the world.
I know you must – you can go…
I just want to whisper one last „Hello“
to sink into your eyes with the color of a summer whiff,
to shelter in your arms with a bitter taste
and dance one last quiet blues with your hands.
To deny for a moment that there is a tomorrow
with closed eyes to chase away the sadness,
to gather all the memories in a single tear
and with the first sunbeam to shed it like a drop of dew.
Then, I know you must – you can go.
Do not forget the sun, worthless after you,
do not forget the birds, cruelly laughing.
Take my nights, deeply carved into your life
and take my mornings, so trivial without you.
And you’ll need my hands to gently tuck you in,
my lips you’ll need to return the sweet blissfulness,
my feet you’ll need, to walk with you through the darkness,
and take my breath, to melt away the sorrow.
The men I know
invite their chosen ones
to lustrous night clubs
their favorites – to fancy restaurants.
They send hundred-dollar bouquets
of long-stem roses
with no thorns, in cardboard boxes,
padded with silky soft
red paper – like in coffins.
They choose Argentinian wines
to pour in crystal glasses,
property of the penthouses
of the most luxurious hotels.
They have elevated conversations
about ratings, stocks,
marketing, and lots more nonsense.
They travels thousands of miles,
to buy their shirts.
They collect cigars, soaked
with the sweat of miserable Cubans
and wave their ecobags
from the back seats of their Mercedes
like flags for their virtues.
And you’re offering me a Kit Kat,
which doesn’t match at all
with my Versace dress,
in your worn-out jeans,
which you don’t care for,
and I suspect, that you don’t care
for my Manolo Blahnik shoes either,
and your offer me to share it
on the bench in the park.
You tell me: I like your dimples
and your cat-like eyes,
and the ocean in your pupils.
Then, very casually
you speak about the weather,
about the heat waves, the rain,
about the fog, which you like,
about the postman,
who makes you laugh with jokes,
about the beggar outside your door.
You naturally swipe
the Kit Kat crumbs off my lap,
laughing, wipe the chocolate from my lips,
serve me a kiss
in in the bar „Under the Stars“
and I just suddenly
find the happiness
in an empty,
from a Kit Kat
I love the holiday chaos of the kitchen,
the aroma of freshly baked bread
and fresh onion,
the melted butter, which flows down
and cures my wounded soul,
the bells of the mixer
dancing with eggs,
the little fingers,
licking the cream from the bowls,
which snows snows snows
and your laughter, singing:
You’re the guardian of the hearth,
a Fairy of the stuffing
and the spirit in my cup
with Cognac and egg nog,
my winter warmth,
Ooh la la.
God counts the tears of women
it’s not bad enough,
nor well enough
I’m stuck in the nothingness
searching in the stalemate
for a thousand reasons
to not perish,
the world shrinks
between two impossible borders
and becomes more ruthless
than a stone desert.
And better don’t talk to me-
I can stand your presence
but not your words,
than the frozen soil
under my threshold.
Better don’t look at me –
I can stand your breath,
but not your eyes,
greedier than an Egyptian hawker.
Better don’t touch my hands,
clinging to the last hope
that yesterday will come again
and nothing has happened.
And better instead of diminishing
all limits to absurdity
with your madness-
save my eyes from the sorrow,
before the last drops of love