2.

I got a feeling.
Emotional state really.
Some cognitive processes
under my fingertips.
I know how it works
and what happens next
and why it feels
so sad.
But the air is itching,
spring springs out of me
and I let it scream.
Trees bloom
on my palms
out of my mouth.
Against the wall
in the parks
and in the beds.
Spring springs.

4.

Am Rand der bodenlosen Tasse
ertranken meine Zweifeln

meine Erinnerungen. Gefressen von 

gnadenlosen Dementia.

Wir sitzen an einem Tisch

unter der gleichen Lampe

das Licht stopft den ganzen Raum voll.

Unsere Tiger schlafen.

Unsere Schlangen 

schlingen sich um unsere Füße

unsere Adler schleifen die Kralen

unsere Kaninchen suchen nach Versteck.

Wir sitzen hier

mit grauen Blicken

und gebundenen Stimmen.

Die Zeit flieht davon.

Streichelt die erdbeerigen Wünsche.

7.

There is this silence
short after midnight
hanging in the ink
out there.
There are no cars. No stars.
No popes (haha). Time stops.
There is this silence
spreading the ice.
No teachers and
no one to be taught.
On the pavements no cats.
In fact
there are no pavements nor cats at all.
It's dark
and soft and heavy of...
There is this silence
right after midnight.
Let's go out.
Burn bridges.
Close the door.

8.

The days were getting
lazy slow
and the clouds
ran down your face.
For three songs and a cherry
I bought a ticket to the carousel.
In my head.
The seats are fixed to my hair.
I spin and watch your face
changing expressions
and shapes.
The guard told me
to get off
but the spinning has never stopped.
I turned three round behind your lips
and came back.
The carousel has never stopped
but the grass started growing fast.
Grew over my watch
and in my hair
on my dress.
I bought an other round
to remember the taste.

9.

Mother
told me: grow up, child!
and passed me a sugar coated apple.
In too big rain-shoes
still running through the puddles.
Behave like a lady.
I really am trying.
sometimes.
She's absolutely right
I think.
And choose to forget.
Free fall
and than turn left.
Right under your watch.
Deep. Still bouncing off.
My mother told me to grow up.
It must be a trap.

10.

The days have lived out
strawberries in red and the sun
in yellow. The clouds
in a foamy grey-ish
white.
The time ran away
on a very short leash,
teardropped under my watch.
An other blue person
over the coffee cup
lived out on my lips
somewhere behind the left corner
of the neverland.

It tastes like Sunday.

Pale faces and sunday breakfasts.

No rush.

Time tastes like strawberries

catching up on the slurped sips,

caramel coated bites.

In moccha cups we soak our

saturday fevers and so much

laziness.

We stare at the pancakes

as soon as

the sun melts down the closed

windows.

I turn into the sugary foam

on your upper

lip.

The days have lived

green and blue and I burst

into noises on the pillows

under the bed.

My head is heavy of all the blackberries

and raspberries

runing down my fingers.

Oxygen and salt.

I could be the foam

on the edge

where I do not belong.

Anymore.

Time

Nothing'll ever happen twice.
We were born
we live, we'll die.
Dirty habits, no routine.
All the moments
happened once.
I've rewinded clocks and watches
learned to loop the time.
All the seconds'll have to wither.
For the popes, prostitutes, giraffs
some flies.
Even if they hurt like hell,
giggle while passing us by.
Bewitchingly incorrect.
Intoxicating.
Domesticated.
Mine.

On the roofs

February. Get inked.
Get soiled. Coffe darken lips.
And all the sparklings
and all the ticking.
Colours burst
under my watch
into familiar fragrance.
The spring is sneaking up.
On us.
Crushing into my walls
into my bed.
I can feel her blooming
on the streets
and on the short dresses.
Stay here
white heavy snow. Here
and now, stay.
On the roofs and on the palms.
Don't bloom
yet.