nachtstück

heut nacht begegnete mir ein anderer geselle

grau-schwarz und geringelten schwanzes

kiebitzt er um die ecke als ich 

gedankenverloren und zigarillo-rauch umschwaded

gegen das gestänge lehne.

sein gesichtsausdruck zeugt von fehlender leidenschaft und interesse

aber wem wollte man das schon übelnehmen?

ich bin froh - wenn auch auf den boden der tatsachen zurückgestoßen

als er sich nach zehntelsekunden lustlosen inspizierens

wieder in die büsche schlägt.

mir bleibt der weg 'up'

zwei treppen ins himmelreich

'the only way is up, baby, for you and me-e-e now

the only way is up..'

in die leere meines konservendosen-studios

einem aschgrauen morgen harrend

nachtflug - voonocturno

neste canto meu, tens um mundo que é só teu...

amazing...

wow, da is mir was begegnet!!!

now really for inge:

falls das video nicht läuft, dann vielleicht hier.

this is not america ...

encore für inge ...

my snug little world

wiped out by a single blow
all the ridiculous attempts of organizing your life,
of setting up a structure that is supposed to last,
a future that can be kept in a cardboard-box.
looking back, it seems so absurd, all those efforts and
the tiny moments of philistine joy – actually, what a shame!

now once more tabula rasa, everything to be invented anew
all questions, and especially those that torture your mind the most,
to be raised again and again.
i am tired, so sick of all this.

a sunny new morning brings no relief, nor the cardinal’s tweet or
the astonishing play of shadows on the wall.
the ocean is not only far, but meaningless
all motion vanity.

it would be time to read seneca again or this ominous
persian wise man, Omar Khayyam, that Pessoa is talkin about
but I have no time and even reading does not make any sense.
instead these turning turbulences of violent emptiness in my head, pressing against the inside of my skull, trembling to burst out
into the outside world and to dash everything on it’s way.

it gets better at night
when the light is gone and darkness lays itself upon the world
like cold poultice on the eyes of a feverish man.
six more hours, seven more hours till the sun sets…