The Lunatic And The Moon

The Lunatic And The Moon
*
I submerge in the silvery flood
of the dark whisper in my blood
past’s poison floats to the surface
full in shape, the moon rises too
midst the sclera of midnight blue –
“Observing, my dear! Observing
your fate and redemption…”
*
All those tiny human things
I wished to lose, not to suffer,
not to hunger, nor to feel pain.
I´d give you my love, my hate,
my body, my pain, my thoughts,
my everything, just to be free.
-Free from my humanity.
*
She quietly observes, maybe pondering.
The enormous eye rests on a rooftop,
blinks eventually. Once… Twice…
“As you wish, my love.”
Night’s cold I don’t feel anymore
Power surges through my bones
Rises like water over volcanic stones.
*
Wounds on my skin all healed,
my soul’s grim just a bad dream.
Only hunger keeps me company.
I lick my muzzle starvingly,
scratch my ear, with a paw-
„WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”
But my scream’s just a howl…*

Money and Media

Money and Media

Money is one sinister god I used to prayed to

Me, the kid with the broken heart and  faulty hue

Struck by the currency of freedom and power,

It’s not my  conscience, but my hands I scour

That’s me, on the day I was born, with a black halo

eager to meet my  maker,  without value or credo

In the night, I dream of  ‚never enoughs‘

I dare you, try’n grab me by my scruff

My god grants, gives, takes and demands

I refused and he took me to the  bad lands

 

I’m praying to a different god now,

That’s me, giving her my cash cow –

Me, the sinister kid with the broken briefcase

Smiling, the lens sticking into my happy fat face

promises and cash spilling out, unto the masses

This is me laughing, crawling  to a party of chances

I can’t stop the itching, watch me rehearse bigotry

Media, my goddesses, free me from human dignity


Pic: iStockphoto

poems by my weird grandma

poems by my weird grandma

THE LITTLE THIS

 

a little this / a little that /my sweet parsley hat

big and bright / red and full with dread/

blood from a river / made into a muddy mushroom

come here lavender guest /  life always has room

 

a little this / a little that / my sweet parsley hat

sticks ’n stones / flesh ’n bones / fire  ’n fat

for the stars will  shine / nearby the rose  will chime

come here,  you boney lad / pay the ferryman the dime

 

a little this / a little that / my sweet parsley hat

cling unto the magic hour / cling like mad

song of black birds on leafs / rustling like a trick

cling unto the bright / my happy  little tick

 

a little this / a little that / my sweet parsley hat

empty that red bag / empty it from all the dead

twinkle my ivory tusk / I got  drunk on fairy mead

run faster / beat that heart / beat that snakehead

 

a little this / a little that

now I give you my parsley hat.


(This is a piece from my ongoing project, a short story, or better a bunch of short stories)

Love, isn’t it?

Love, isn’t it?

All deadly things possess cruel beauty.

For soul, a hungry fire, consuming duty-

for eyes, charcoal and diamonds,

for voice, a guttural growl, then silence.

For skin, a hot summer night ‘n bright stars.

Light headed music oozing from cheap bars…

All deadly things possess magnetic pull.

You bite trouble, poison just a mouthful,

better you nibble, or lick…. Kiss! Try’n inhale.

Immune to that rush? Don’t worry, you’ll fail.

Tingling under your fingers, a nervous tic,

Lips on lips, teeth meeting with a click…

All deadly things make you sincere…

So greedy, so wolfish, so ready to disappear.


Pic: Love is the Beast, by ROMANS

…old enough.

…old enough.

I’m old enough, to wake up with pain,

old enough to confess my love in vain;

old enough that my opinion doesn’t count,

that I worry, an irresponsible amount…

I’m old enough to wake up with regret,

with all the small things, that make me fret.

I’m old enough, I got graying hair,

old enough that I’m soaked in despair…

It carved wrinkles into my face,

under my skin,  it took all the space…

I’m old enough to hear my dreams dying sigh

I’m old enough, my tears have run dry…

things from hell

this what you get,

if you look for yourself.

this is what you get,

if you lost yourself.

only those should speak,

who were born in doubt,

fed by disgust, and

and nurtured by hate

don’t lose yourself…

not within others,

don’t search where

you’ve disappeared-

you’ll only find

the emptiness

in others eyes…

you’ll only find

hell in others minds.

a sunny day

Above warm stones

yellow leaves scattered

exhaled into the bleached blue

under the surface of today’s sky-

humans weren’t made to rule

only born and cursed to vanish

 

I lack this kind of faith –

I wasn’t made for loyalty

there’s no belief left in me,

not in days or nights,

not in dusks or  dawns

not in blood or flesh –

 

I’ll be awaited in the darkness

petrified by the eternal light

into the bleakness of body ´n soul.