tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66188149593302075872024-02-19T08:38:06.108+01:00recording ghostskhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.comBlogger294125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-88983269742074258522020-03-09T07:30:00.002+01:002020-03-09T07:30:54.457+01:00RainOh, I look forward<br />
to your poppy<br />
seeded forearms<br />
<br />
freckled and<br />
new in summer's<br />
golden glow.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-90859412383722185602020-01-25T18:07:00.001+01:002020-01-25T18:07:32.758+01:00Einzelheiten des Glücks<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
Honigbrot zum Küchenmorgen</div>
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Fliege, die blaue, zur Pasta</div>
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Nudelwasser in der Pfanne</div>
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der Seeweg am Morgen und dann</div>
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das Lippenstiftlachen bei dir</div>
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das Garn, das blaue, das immer</div>
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das Foto vom Bett, und von dir</div>
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das Fassen meiner klammen Hand</div>
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wenn ich ganz leise wurde und</div>
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das Halten bis</div>
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es sagbar war und</div>
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ungesagt sein durfte</div>
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bis hin zum</div>
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Moment</div>
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ohne Reim:</div>
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„Ich sah Dich glücklich“</div>
<br />khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-64547180136152523702018-09-15T09:48:00.002+02:002018-09-15T11:15:08.236+02:00seegrundals ob zu wiegen alle wüssten,<br />
werfen jene, die in liebe wohnen –<br />
achtlos beinah –<br />
vor die füße mir<br />
güter, schwer und leicht und blei,<br />
die am seegrund sachte glitzern,<br />
fern und tief und bleichkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-76643562659349242112017-11-14T10:00:00.001+01:002017-11-14T10:00:31.127+01:00spieluhrauf <br />
bald wird<br />
gebraucht sein<br />
was dir <br />
zugehört<br />
<br />
zu<br />
bald ward<br />
gemacht sein<br />
was dir<br />
aufgetan<br />
<br />
spiel<br />
uhr<br />
halt<br />
da<br />
gegenkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-29320653647599075562016-03-22T09:37:00.001+01:002016-03-22T09:37:21.550+01:00Am TopfrandEs liefen Einer und ich auf<br />
dem Weg nah dem Wald.<br />
Redeten, eitel und wild und hoch,<br />
vom Leben, vom Warten, vom Tod.<br />
<br />
Als Einer noch die Gedanken fand,<br />
liefen wir leiser. Jetzt rinnen sie<br />
heraus aus ihm, kohlendioxid-<br />
getränkte Luftfäden.<br />
<br />
Ein bisschen dachte ich:<br />
Wie Grießbrei kochen. Du rührst,<br />
dass es nicht klebt, es wird, es wird,<br />
groß und dick. Du isst.<br />
<br />
Und später dann rammt Dir die Masse,<br />
hart geworden, Teile ihrer selbst unter die <br />
Nagelhaut. So schnell kannst Du gar nicht<br />
gucken.<br />
<br />
Überall Blut am Topfrand.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-53144441398540268412016-03-17T12:55:00.000+01:002016-03-19T17:21:18.932+01:00Frühling, hierDa stehe ich: Krokuswald,<br />
Blaumeisenkinder, gurrende<br />
Flieger im Hinterhof. Der Himmel,<br />
blau und hell. Es riecht so.<br />
<br />
Bald befremdet wate ich,<br />
kalt ist es noch, wate ich<br />
hin, und merke - Jahre sind es, zwischen<br />
mir und dem letzten Frühling, hier.<br />
<br />
Alles wär’ noch neuer nun?<br />
Noch früher hieß es, dass der<br />
Lenz auch Hoffnung wäre.<br />
Gar nicht; die Distanz macht das klar.<br />
<br />
Also wate ich hin, und lache<br />
rein in den Wald mit den Vogelstimmen.<br />
Durch die Reihe von Reihern blicke ich<br />
Eisreste, die der See noch trägt.<br />
<br />
Ja, frühmorgens leben wir noch ohne Not.<br />
Mittags schon kann das Herz <br />
gebrochen<br />
sein.<br />
<br />
Und die Gurrer fliegen hin,<br />
ohne Laut.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-21932823417340498052015-12-02T12:34:00.000+01:002015-12-02T12:35:22.993+01:00Szene einer EheIrgendwas musst Du gesagt haben.<br />
Sonst würde ich nicht<br />
heulen hier, und liegen.<br />
Wahrscheinlich aber hast Du nichts<br />
gesagt.<br />
Sondern ich hab mir was dabei<br />
gedacht.<br />
<br />
Unter der Decke schummere ich.<br />
Fünf Membranen weg <br />
vom Himmelston:<br />
Der Staub draußen<br />
Die Fenstergitter<br />
Das Neonlicht<br />
Das Laken Deiner Worte<br />
Die Decke<br />
<br />
Kommst du wieder:<br />
Hinknien ist Dir niemals<br />
ein romantischer Vorgang<br />
gewesen.<br />
Eher wie dem Kind den Schuh<br />
schnüren.<br />
Muss halt.<br />
<br />
Ich liege in Rosa,<br />
bestimmt nicht der Himmelston.<br />
Es hallt die Stimme Israels,<br />
so nah und näher.<br />
So wie dem Kind die Welt<br />
erklären.<br />
Muss halt.<br />
<br />
Aber nein, dort, im Rosa und<br />
Getön des Neuen<br />
offenbarst Du, was Liebe Dir<br />
ist.<br />
Dein Radio an meinem Ohr<br />
erhöre ich unser hilfloses<br />
Lieben.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-34829045657087225832015-09-15T08:30:00.001+02:002015-09-15T08:30:56.797+02:00staub, goldender eine wind,<br />
in dem wir lagen<br />
mit stirn und fuß<br />
an dir mir<br />
<br />
ein teufel kam<br />
im wind<br />
und stäubte gold<br />
die augen zu<br />
mir dir<br />
<br />
ein paradies wie<br />
höllenhell<br />
von gold<br />
beinahe echt,<br />
von dauer<br />
<br />
nachts, wenn<br />
allein ich liege,<br />
fliegt deine hand<br />
im traumwind meiner<br />
stirn noch zu<br />
<br />
dein goldfinger<br />
stäubt warm noch<br />
den trost mir in<br />
die seele.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-77150004683908844752015-09-05T14:38:00.001+02:002015-09-05T16:35:05.286+02:00Herz, nicht Dunkel<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IpLzvTwc3Kbq9t9DmHNfuTNVYJ49me8KkXUWiykvfnjNVHvrdeUdhQKhQLO3mlB70sy2ZQDhxdITSchff3q7-YrT0PkqA0Vbi79jvOnePXXwwKL8oBTnkkhwO3VSF35cjuvyXA1HLGtb/s640/blogger-image--537795130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8IpLzvTwc3Kbq9t9DmHNfuTNVYJ49me8KkXUWiykvfnjNVHvrdeUdhQKhQLO3mlB70sy2ZQDhxdITSchff3q7-YrT0PkqA0Vbi79jvOnePXXwwKL8oBTnkkhwO3VSF35cjuvyXA1HLGtb/s640/blogger-image--537795130.jpg" /></a></div>
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Noch die Fragen,</div>
die mich nicht treffen,<br />
dahin, wo Du zielst.<br />
Vermisse ich Dich,<br />
ist mir wenig wohl,<br />
ohne Dich.<br />
So geht das, was sie<br />
nennen: "Angst essen<br />
Seele auf."<br />
Seele zu.<br />
Meine Dir.<br />
<br />
Und ich blicke auf:<br />
Hunger in Auge,<br />
Hunger in Herz,<br />
Hunger in Gedanken, und das,<br />
was sie klagen: "Was nützt<br />
die Liebe in Gedanken".<br />
<br />
Sie frisst mich auf.<br />
Jedes Mal im Schlag<br />
des Kranzes feiner Haare<br />
um Dein Licht,<br />
was ich nicht zu nennen<br />
wage: Kein Wort in diesem<br />
Schlag vor Ort, was nennen<br />
kann und andernorts heißt:<br />
"whimper", das schmerzhaft<br />
süße Klagen in mir, das ganz<br />
ohne mich weilt,<br />
weil Du ganz mich verzehrst.<br />
<br />
Verloren<br />
weiß ich Alles.<br />
<br />
Und Schatten<br />
werfen Farbe auf mein<br />
Herz, nicht Dunkel<br />
nur.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-82722038056019868002015-06-16T15:02:00.003+02:002015-06-16T15:02:56.231+02:00Unexceptionally Lovely Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Friday, noon, S. and J. are sitting in The Valley heat, waiting for H. to pass the border into The Land.* Several text messages and about three hours later they take The Yellow Plated Car and leave without H., who was not allowed to enter The Land via The Bridge. The Bridge that day was crowded and functioning normally, efficiently. Two female officers – talking Russian amongst themselves – accuse H. of lying and check The Big Machine and their Secret Files. Entry denied.</div>
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Later, S. and J. and M. go drink a drink and play cards to release aggression about H. not being there. Hitting a table with Aces and Queens is not immediately satisfactory.</div>
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Saturday, the early morning, J. is sitting on a small bus that drives through The Big Checkpoint. J. looks at a blond chubby male soldier. This Soldier gets on the bus. J. hands him The Privileged Passport after “Guten Morgen, kann ich bitte Ihren Pass sehen” crosses the lips of The Soldier without any hint of German not being his mother tongue. Flipping through the pages: “Sie reisen aber viel.” “Ja.” The Soldier hands back The Privileged Passport, smilingly wishing J. “Einen schönen Tag noch!”</div>
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J. is shaking her head all the way from The Big Checkpoint to The Holy. In The Eastern Holy, J. is meeting P., and together they walk to The Western Holy. There, they meet The White Citizen Y. and The Black Infiltrator M. and their Yellow Plated Car.** Together, they now form The Holy Group, and travel south to The Other Border. The desert is blooming, The People Who Used To Have Camels drive on dune buggies, and The Holy Group has coffee in a gas station (the last one?) somewhere still on Road 40 or Road 211 (if you use The Big Machine, you will know where they went!).</div>
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In the car, Y. explains everything she knows about refugees and asylum seekers, her work for the undocumented people with uncertain and/or illegal status, the asylum seekers who are being smuggled into The Land via the land border with The Peninsula. M. explains about his life in The Prison, his reasons for leaving His Country, the one where they butcher and butcher The People and where The Leader is Wanted by the ICC and only changes location via countries where the ICC has no say, and butchers and butchers.</div>
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J. wonders how and why P. must discuss The Other Elephant on the way to The Prison with such vigour. Perhaps J. has had too many discussions about The Other Elephant in small spaces like Yellow Plated Cars in The Land and fears (… is sure of …) their futility. The Prison, however, is but a Katzensprung away from The Other Prison where The Other Elephant enjoys hundreds of cells for detention and torture, too.</div>
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So yes, everything connects to and within The Fucking Shit Reality.</div>
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One element of The Fucking Shit Reality is The Theatre. The Theatre also happens in The Prison, which is why J. and P. came. They arrived early. The Prison, which to all eyes J. has, is a fenced in concentration camp in the middle of nowhere in The Fucking Shit Reality, is off limits to visitors, but The Inmates in This Open Prison are – of course – allowed to leave, and 24 hours even, and only after 48 hours can they be arrested. But once back, they will be sent into The Other Prison a Katzensprung away for punishment. The privilege of The Prison over The Other Prison is that they only have to sign in three times a day. And that they can take the bus northwards ho. Besides that, they can walk to The Big Wall South, which is only two kilometres away, and they can sit outside in the sun. All eyes J. has see a lot of men lounging outside, some cook, some sit and talk. There are benches and shade and some kind of boat sculpture made of wine bottles.</div>
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The Fucking Shit Reality gets interrupted by things like The Theatre. People come and talk to The Inmates and suddenly their stories are being heard, by people like J. with The Privileged Passport, and by The Media, and Other White Citizens, who all come, in cars and air-conditioned busses. Three spoken languages, bodies that talk eloquently, voices and movements of desolation: A group of ten performers, the majority are Inmates, tell their stories, speak of their oppression and experiences in the language of The Theatre Of The Oppressed.</div>
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Big discussion and applause. J. and P. agree it was great, it was interesting. Really. The Fucking Shit Reality continues to be shitty, but they witnessed a group of proud Inmates, who spoke their truth to an audience, who, hopefully, listened.</div>
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J. and P. part ways. In one of the air-conditioned busses J. travels to the Spring Hill and in The Black Garden – that is where People Like The Inmates, that is: The Black Infiltrators, gather day and night with nothing but time to kill – meets her friend B. in her Yellow Plated Car around midnight. B. takes J. home. Home is place of The Goodbye Party for the young Q. who is an element of The Other Elephant. His home is a walled in part of An Area of The Other Elephant and Q., who likes to jump on walls, decided he must leave The Other Elephant and The Land of The Yellow Plated Cars and Privileged White Citizens and Soldiers Who Speak All Languages.</div>
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Little Q. will travel to the land of J., which once knew division, but is now Clearly An Exceptionally Lovely Country With No Real Problems. Someone told J. that they are bringing corpses now, corpses of The Infiltrators to the Cooperation of Exceptionally Lovely Countries, and that – much like with The Theatre that gives a stage to The Inmates – they will bury them to make a point.</div>
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They call it Political Beauty.</div>
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The Fucking Shit Reality couldn’t give a shit and continues to be shitty.</div>
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J. takes a train. Trains in The Land have Wifi and you can connect to The Big Machine and verify all sorts of things, whilst riding through the ruins that everyone here loves, because they have such charm and they look so old. On the way back to The Holy, big fires consume the greens in a Wadi along the Line Dividing The Elephants.</div>
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All that smoke and fire made the smell of shit disappear for a while.</div>
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* For reasons of international, interpersonal and individual security all names and places are anonymized and pseudonymized beyond recognition to anyone other than an informed and involved party.</div>
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** In The Land and everywhere else, we must name all legally qualifying names correctly, obviously, because those are the names, and they sound best.</div>
khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-19408544209438229772015-02-16T11:34:00.001+01:002015-02-16T11:34:54.964+01:00Laken<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
mein Lager umgarnt</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
von Schichten aus Salz</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
und Haut und Augen</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
und Haar</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
es sammelt das Laken</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
und wächst sich klein</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
den Elendsberg hinauf</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
nun eine Lake beinah</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
einst: Ich, und weit</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
wie nah dem Kokon</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
und noch mehr Salz</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
wähnendes Dunkel</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
die Augen fallen</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
herab bricht die Haut</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
es tropfen die Haare</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
Deine Hand verknotet</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
die Knochen mir</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
die bleiben</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
zu spinnen</div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">ein Laken aus Blau</span>khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-73767246142295691782015-01-21T12:37:00.000+01:002015-01-21T12:37:18.807+01:00„du hast recht, ich liebe dich, das veröffentlicht sich nicht, ich sollte das nicht ausposaunen“<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">du bist am grausten, wenn ich die,
neben denen du stehst, so betrachte. genau genommen bist du grau, ganz grau,
ein bisschen rau und ein bisschen grau und ein bisschen, was man schwarz nennen
müsste, hast du auf dir. beinahe neben dir ist nur eines schwarz-weiß, selbst
wenn das, was schwarz-weiß ist, vielleicht auch besser grau wäre, ein anderes
als du, aber sicher nicht schwarz-weiß.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">du bist zu mir gekommen und das, was
ich dir antun muss, mein gott, was ich dir antun muss, habe ich nie jemandem
angetan und ich weiß nicht, ob es daran liegt, dass du es bist, aber
vielleicht, wer weiß, deswegen tut es mir nicht weh, dass ich dir weh tue, weil
du es so offensichtlich nicht nicht willst, sondern eben ganz offensiv deine
verletzlichkeit ausstellst in deinem grau und fast schon zu mir zu sprechen
scheinst, so mit einem stummen „komm schon du musst dir mühe geben, du musst
das, was ich mit absicht verberge, enthüllen, nimm ein messer und schneide
präzise schnitte, schneide, was das zeug hält und öffne mich, damit das, was
ich in mir habe, dich erreichen kann“ – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">es ist wie mit einer postkarte, die
ich an dich senden würde. denn wie meine karte dich nicht erreichen kann, wenn
ich dich nicht öffne, seziere sozusagen, muss auch ich eine art briefkasten
einrichten und vielleicht einen kleinen nicht-hegelianischen zettelkasten,
einen postkartenkasten, in dem das, was du mir sagst, gesammelt werden kann, auch
wenn ich nicht derjenige bin, der nicht schreibt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">du in deinem grau könntest (kein)
platon sein, denke ich bei mir. (k)eine graue wolke inmitten eines blühenden
frühlingsmorgens, einem bunten feld von rücken, die du gar nicht beachten
kannst, weil sie nach dir, lange nach dir gekommen sein werden oder in
kinderschuhen steckten, als du ganze lager voller schuhe zu de-denken
versuchtest. solange ich nicht an dir seziere, exzerziere, kannst du nicht
sein, was du sein kannst.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">also nehme ich dich wahr und seziere
dich. dass ich dabei ein meist zu wenig präzises instrument nutze, schmerzt
mich mehr als dich, zumindest ist offensichtlich, dass du trotz der schmerzen,
die ich dir zufügen muss und will und deretwegen ich mich winde, nicht du dich,
sprichst zu mir.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">wenn ich dich ganz zerschnitten habe
und erst dann – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">wenn ich dich ganz zerschnitten habe,
werde ich danach sagen können, „niemals habe ich so gesponnen / ich verlier die
stimme, dich zu rufen, sprich mir, sag mir die wahrheit“? oder wird eine
postkarte ihren adressaten (nicht) gefunden haben? wird der, der nicht
schreibt, schreiben und das, was geschrieben gewesen sein wird, mein herz
zerissen haben –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">werden deine getrockneten tränen
tränen, oder werden die dann trocken blickenden augen nie feucht gewesen sein?
wird das haar, welches der finger auch hinters ohr klemmen könnte, dir weiter
ins auge wehn und dich wirken lassen wie das graus(was macht ein „ams“ aus
dir?)te buch in meiner sammlung?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">wird nicht das, was gewesen sein
wird, dein tod und das andere sein?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">jacques
derrida: <b>die postkarte. von sokrates bis an freud und jenseits. 1. lieferung</b>.
berlin: brinkmann und bose 1982.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">im mai
2008<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-70436273416204680732014-11-12T22:22:00.000+01:002014-11-12T22:22:49.538+01:00levant<div>
in these lands</div>
<div>
the distance our toes</div>
<div>
had to gather:</div>
<div>
unlearned</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
t’embrasser</div>
<div>
and to cover</div>
<div>
the bridges with</div>
<div>
new yarn</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
to keep</div>
<div>
setting aflame</div>
<div>
those threads</div>
<div>
and pace</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
our arrivals</div>
<div>
exactly</div>
<div>
so that on soft ash</div>
<div>
we can rise</div>
khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-63207525855630949732014-08-14T01:03:00.000+02:002014-08-14T01:03:09.414+02:00the sealet me recall, my love<br />
the last time you were young<br />
it is not years nor<br />
years ago, your hand <br />
was holding mine<br />
and whispers us together<br />
<br />
let me recall, my love<br />
this last full time of youth<br />
and how it walked - from your<br />
heart into mine -<br />
on that island you took<br />
our whispers to, and me<br />
<br />
let me recall, my love<br />
the last time you were young<br />
your hand held all this power<br />
your face and all its promise<br />
your whispers, all this truth<br />
let me recall, my love<br />
<br />
how fast we ran, my love<br />
your hand, it fastened mine<br />
and then your voice, how it<br />
broke from whisper<br />
spoke and spoke and<br />
age was there to hear<br />
<br />
the island shook with<br />
all you thought to say -<br />
do you recall, my love? -<br />
the sediment of you and youth<br />
it carried far and drowned.<br />
and that same sea, it took me.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-52300961788578604782014-06-30T15:56:00.001+02:002014-06-30T16:11:18.025+02:00marter<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;">
trotzig sind die</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
flächen haut</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
geflossen in die</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
halbe hand</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
marter war</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
das halbe</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
mir</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
und lobte ich die</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
ungeduld</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
versonnt mir in</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
der not vor dir</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
marter war</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
das halbe</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
mir</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
dass die fläche</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
text blieb</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
textil die</div>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;">maschine der not</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-79163557092003677352013-12-13T01:21:00.004+01:002013-12-13T01:21:58.724+01:00KryptaSchlüssel in<br />
Nebel getaucht,<br />
Grabhöhlen:<br />
Märtyrerhaus.<br />
<br />
Ständig fort<br />
- Inzidenz - <br />
doch immer:<br />
Mensch sein.<br />
<br />
Manchmal mir<br />
- schattenarm -<br />
und weit:<br />
Dein Augenlicht.<br />
<br />
Unten auch,<br />
warm und<br />
sicher:<br />
Sternenstaub.<br />
<br />
Die Hand,<br />
die möchte ich<br />
Dir halten, da,<br />
sehr leise.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-8746462876422342612013-12-05T23:23:00.002+01:002013-12-05T23:23:22.113+01:00StundenDer See im Hof<br />
der Balken Stahl<br />
aus Deiner Hand<br />
die Stunde Wind<br />
<br />
die tausend alten<br />
Zeilen gelesen<br />
einmal noch und<br />
die Stunde Wind<br />
<br />
beweinen und<br />
dann nicht mehr<br />
viel Wind um<br />
die Stunde Wind<br />
<br />
nicht mehr traurig<br />
sein, dass die<br />
Liebe alles - schon<br />
wieder alles -<br />
<br />
richten<br />
wird<br />
müssen<br />
<br />
das pochend-<br />
kleine Leben<br />
<br />
Graphitstaubkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-31107051162669828132013-12-02T22:30:00.002+01:002013-12-02T22:30:28.079+01:00kalte Stundekalte Stunde<br />
fliegt davon<br />
ein Lachen<br />
dunkel<br />
das Dunkel<br />
von Dir und<br />
weg von da<br />
<br />
laufen wir<br />
im Süden<br />
und Prismen<br />
in der Luft<br />
Atemfäden<br />
steigen aus<br />
der Haut<br />
<br />
die Luft ist<br />
voll von<br />
Blau und<br />
nahem Eiskhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-3427322045392925952013-11-29T22:46:00.004+01:002013-11-29T22:46:50.956+01:00lichter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDg4d_Pb_Gr3h6B9-itJcx-2IaemSK_lqgPB_Ilmrcuc5BZb66tv4qx6KXwsxr-sR-UVXfxCA2XJ66tfp4Fdt82feQbT0RRXA1J-ejWEuFYCd_Cl_TKg3xauhRlr9lb9KXVMRbCyXivWC/s1600/IMG_1983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLDg4d_Pb_Gr3h6B9-itJcx-2IaemSK_lqgPB_Ilmrcuc5BZb66tv4qx6KXwsxr-sR-UVXfxCA2XJ66tfp4Fdt82feQbT0RRXA1J-ejWEuFYCd_Cl_TKg3xauhRlr9lb9KXVMRbCyXivWC/s640/IMG_1983.JPG" title="" width="640" /></a></div>
berlin<br />
november 2013khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-54649952714648499372013-11-16T11:59:00.003+01:002013-11-16T11:59:51.648+01:00weg bis -jede zelle in mir<br />
falsch gemacht<br />
und wachsen<br />
lassen<br />
<br />
weggesehen<br />
aus meinen<br />
augen<br />
die liebe<br />
<br />
wegwärts bist<br />
du gerollt<br />
über mich<br />
<br />
zerhackt hast<br />
du mich<br />
zerhaun<br />
<br />
und dein<br />
gift mir -<br />
<br />
alleskhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-30388124955725382792013-11-11T22:16:00.002+01:002013-11-11T22:17:20.981+01:00Vom GehenDie großartige Angst,<br />
sagt er,<br />
<br />
in mir<br />
zu mir<br />
mir nach.<br />
<br />
Die gewesene,<br />
das Gewesene,<br />
sagt er.<br />
<br />
Hastig werfen wir<br />
einander<br />
je Kugeln vor den<br />
Fuß.<br />
<br />
Papierne Kugeln,<br />
zerknüllte Träume.<br />
<br />
Wie Gewichte<br />
an den Füßen:<br />
das Papier.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-14036268678512502342013-11-05T14:25:00.000+01:002013-11-05T14:25:24.748+01:00FliesenDas schöne Kind,<br />
es legte Fliesen mit mir.<br />
<br />
Wir lagen so eng,<br />
die Fliesen, die Kanten<br />
<br />
und<br />
ich.<br />
<br />
Bald mehr Fliese <br />
und Fuge als Ich.<br />
<br />
Und<br />
sie.<br />
<br />
Ihre Haare woben sich<br />
als Mörtel mir um den Hals.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-86037833144112479132013-11-02T21:41:00.002+01:002013-11-03T09:04:29.606+01:00Was bleibtFingernägel<br />
in Deine Augen<br />
<br />
Damit Dir was bleibt<br />
<br />
Das Kratzgeräusch<br />
weicher als<br />
das Fell Deiner<br />
Katzen<br />
<br />
Sie blicken auf<br />
den Boden und<br />
die Nägel die Nägel<br />
in den Fingern<br />
bohren sich<br />
in weiß und rot<br />
und grau<br />
<br />
Viel rot<br />
und Japsen<br />
<br />
Endlich Ruhekhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-86401174566355627042013-10-31T23:39:00.000+01:002013-11-02T08:18:44.081+01:00Immer leiserImmer leiser werde ich<br />
schweigen<br />
in Deiner Lautheit<br />
zum Verschwiegenen werden<br />
<br />
Ich werde gehen<br />
und bleiben<br />
auf einem Haufen Worte<br />
mir die Hände wringen<br />
um das eine Wort<br />
<br />
Was ich nie erbat<br />
Die hohlen Buchstaben<br />
die Du blutend hortest<br />
und abschießt in Salven<br />
aus Deiner Festung<br />
<br />
Immer leiser werde ich<br />
Schweigen<br />
Die Fetzen sortieren<br />
die das Gefecht mir ließ<br />
<br />
Immer leiserkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6618814959330207587.post-19876330284181096992013-10-29T10:03:00.001+01:002013-10-29T14:51:30.624+01:00DannEs war einmal<br />
ein Regen, der nach oben fiel.<br />
Darin: Eine fliehende Zukunft<br />
der Eintracht eines Kauls<br />
und einer Quappe.<br />
<br />
Es ist einmal<br />
mehr so, dass der Hunger<br />
- Kaul und Quappe noch zwischen<br />
den Zähnen mahlend -<br />
über den ungeborenen Frosch lacht.<br />
<br />
Es wird einmal<br />
ein Lachen geben, das diesem grünen Tier an einer glasklaren Perlenschnur entrinnt und einen Schall aus Licht in den Regen hält und dort ein Bogen hallt, aus dessen Spannung sich der Pfeil löst, der sich der Unmöglichkeit ins Herz bohrt.<br />
<br />
Und dann wird es gut gewesen sein.khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12397013884993948753noreply@blogger.com0