after a manic morning
a disastrous afternoon
came flying in
giving me its deadly kiss
on the 4head
cold, I feel it
stigmatized
with nothing left
2 brace myself
but the knowledge
that time will wear away
all the wounds
even the ones that aren’t
leaving / leaving
only scars
that aren’t / that aren’t
leaving me / leaving me
with nothing left
but the suffering.

Like an illness, an incurable disease
even without a remedy
2 remove the pain
of unknown extent & uncertain cause
like a virus
art thou / are U
leaving me
with nothing
but -
not even having left me
with -
the knowledge of who
U are / U are
like a virus.

(24.03.05)

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Weisheiten, Wahrheiten. Erklärungen. Eine Gebrauchsanweisung für's Leben, in kryptischen Zeichen.
Ein Geheimcode, der Schlüssel zur Lösung aller Probleme. Der Fehldruck meines Computers. Eine Problemstellung mit integrierter Lösung, die nur darauf wartet, dechiffriert zu werden. Als handle es sich um eine verborgene Weisheit, einen allmächtigen Zauberspruch, ein Gebet in einer fremden Sprache, Om mani padme hum.
Und immer noch will es Morgen werden.

I forgot my name
standing in the middle of the street
looking at the thing leaping at me
staring at it
trying to remember
desperately
who it was that was thinking and
what it had come here for
A truck
I finally remembered
and then it hit me
I forgot my name

There was this guy who
wrote non-stop
words on a little notepad
in a scribbly, scrawny handwriting that nobody could read
almost like an obsession.
Nobody
knew what he was writing.
Nobody
was allowed to the treasures of his folly.
So
when he died, all died with him
all of his nonsensual wisdoms and illegible truths.
Who knows
maybe his stupor could have saved the world
maybe he lied about it all.
Who knows
a nobody

I left to get me some cigarettes
and happened never to come back.

I'm sorry.

But while on my way, I remembered
that I'd quit smoking long time ago.
So there was no reason to leave.
And therefore no way to return.

I'm sorry.

(Preliminary warning: everything before the 'but' is shit)
It's all crap
I'm all messed up
something's fucked with my brain
and made it feel horrible.
Something raped my brain
leaving it fucked up for good
and myself incapable
of giving birth to a straight sentence
to deliver words in an orderly row.
I wanna ask you a question
and it comes out like an order.
Got all my question-marks flattened into exclamations
and my help-cries muffled into feeble warnings
barely audible
not made to be noticed.
Not meant to be heard.
I'm all fucked up.
It's all but
crap.
(Remember the warning)

half baked
half nakedly baked
halves
of pears
of pearls
of pearly peaches
sweet
with soft skin
working their way through mine
seemingly innocent
sweet, soft, satin
satanic peaches
breaching hulls
breaking skulls
penetrating with inappropriate
associations of skins and juices
wrong in space and time
and gender.
(I'll get im-peached on that one!)

My nonsensual nature
calls its tribute
either way
its wrong
way, stomped dead-tracked
down with pleasure
in between
righteous rigor
focussing on anything
but
crap, is all that's left
when all else has
faded into
reasoning.

A bloody exit
a bloody delivery
bloodiness, I delivered
on demand
like a faithful servant
to an eager slave
clinging to bloodiness and exit-ing deliveries.
How exiting!
Slavery for that
slavery for you
that is
your
bloody
exit
over and over
and over and
out

I fill my lungs with testosterone
or whatever organ you need
to beckon at young, well-built TWX
to cum 4th and share my borrowed needs
emanating from the boredom of desires
feeding my pleasure to be
someone else
who sees it
all right
through his/her lungs: Bodies!
Nice and lean
well-defined muscles stuffed under smooth skin
ready to consume
whatever I need to offer
in my manliness, hazardously found
like a bomb-shell
between my legs is not
what should be
in my lungs.