Sehnsucht

Sehnsucht
ist ein scheußliches Monster
das dich am hellichten Tag überfällt
dich zum willenlosen Sklaven seiner
willkürlichen Phantastereien macht
und dich mit seinem todbringenden
Atem zu ersticken versucht.
Du gehst zugrunde-
mit einem Lächeln im Gesicht.

Syllable

Sometimes life feels like a voiceless consonant:
You obstruct the air and wonder why you can't breathe.
That friend of yours has become
a militant interdental fricative
and the music that's supposed to cheer you up
sounds like an arbitrary row of stridents.
Your thoughts behave like glottal stops: hardly important!
Or are just as non-existent as a postalveolar nasal.

Suddenly, you get kissed by a vowel
or fly high
make a tour through the sky
with a diphtong and realize:
all you're longing for
is life as a sensible
wise and meaningful
syllable.

Rain

"You and me
that's not gonna be
a good idea." you said and smiled.

I left the room and it started to rain
the street that I'm on is a street paved with pain.

And you feel the rain
burning holes in your clothes,
your skin, your flesh, your bones,
your heart
until everything you once were
is scattered on the path
you once walked
to find home.

Marshmellow

My most beloved Marshmellow
Your soft and white skin
has trapped my thoughts
I enjoy your softness
while piercing your
substanceless being

You consist of sweetness
that turns into poison
as soon as I digest
You create a soulless,
short and sweet high,
that disappears with daylight.

Cheap pleasure
is what you were made for
and no expectation
for deep and juicy conversation
should be exerted on your
weak and pillowy existence.

Plagiarism

I hope that one day
when you attend the funeral of what could have been love
your  façade crumbles down.

I felt good
when I imagined this blue-and-yellow future
between rhythm, rhyme and whatever rumbles in your ear

But your dramatic lack of enlightement
has broken, not braked the storm
and its talkative eye emptied so soon.

You could have been my hero
I would have been your home, your castle
As sure as he can raise the dead
you could simply take place by my side
and tell me the next line.

Well, cowboy, that angel's mark is gone
I'm only somebody you should have known
but I will not return.

What's left in the end?
It's to wonder that I can take your words to express my thoughts
and that there is no such thing as

plagiarism.

Invitation

Not long ago
I decided to become my own home:
I will not depend on circumstances but be at home
in who I am

Here's a lot of space
right in the corner of my heart
you'll find the most wonderful places on earth
walk in, sit down

If you have pictures
I have rooms with high empty walls
and corridors that long to be filled with the sound
of your soft slippers

Don't worry
it's home, it's not the prison you're afraid of
I need to tell you this one thing: I would love
to have you around

I  long to see
your hand let go of the handle
of your old and shabby suitcase and tell you:
Welcome home.

My mind these days

Every now and then my mind gets lost in the library.
A library provides enough books, ideas and dark corners
to think of, at least, a dozen dirty academic adventures.
Odysseus might find what he's looking for after all,
Chomsky could come across some very basic
syntactic constructions, think of subject movement,
verb raising, dig deep in unknown functional categories,
Postcolonial Theory could revise its standing
on matters of submission and queer studies...
well, well, we don't have to go into that.
I often feel like I lose my mind, these days.
But at least I know where to look for it.