dis-jointed

you break ‘em open as if they are enemies
and i say “jazz sometimes makes me sick”. the
sun‘s not shining and we leave the path, take

the conversation and–
place it somewhere else, put it like a bridge
on troubled streams or neat as nightgowns in a drawer, fragments
of us, blue and black and everything between
until it is– forgotten
„i don‘t really think that‘s bad“

i watch you eating mussels and the sea hangs on your lips,
wanna lick the ocean from your tongue – don‘t say it, i just
want to but— stay silent
and your mouth stays closed.

„Why is it“ you ask carefully between two bites – „the jazz thing“
but we got no answers & the light is flickering.

there’s beer foam on your upper lip

„Maybe it‘s too close or it‘s not close enough“
„You‘re talking about jazz now?“ i‘m not sure– outside howls
the wind, heaps of empty shells pile on the table &
i beat them like a drum stick but the rhythm is just mine–

You shake your head, some questions weigh
heavier than steel and for the most,
there are no easy answers,

so you slowly wipe your lips
& your hands glisten, wet with oil

.

it’s my pleasure to tend the dVerse Poets Poetics bar today…and it’s all about conversation… we’re in good company there by the way – with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe plus Candy Dulfer & Dave Stewart for example…curious…? the prompt will go up at 3pm EST and i’m looking forward to a chatty night.. 

Meeting the Bar: notes on conflation

he has no sheet to score the piece, trembling he
unbuttons– takes off his shirt, dots notes, spills
heavily vibrating tunes on fair-trade cotton ‘til his hands
stop shaking, breath gets stable and the walls
fall from him, wrapped

in black – Lausanne, a small café, skinny figure
in the corner, just a shade, bent atop paper, pencil stub &
scribbles, scribbles tiny gnomes, grimaces & skulls, black, BLACK &
SMALLprint, it’s– LSD they say, he didn’t make it back, etching
angst on tables, ceiling ‘til his pain is emptied and my fingers

caught, curled in your chest hair, squeezing into you on fine
carved lines, eyes restless under flickering lids, i’m tracing
trickles of wet ink, achingly de-script  those mural marks, burnt
by hand on flowstone cave walls and my screams break primal
as you’re wading deep

.

Emmett Wheatfall has cooked up quite a challenging Critique and Craft prompt over at the dVerse Poets Pub and is raising the bar high tonight… gates open 3pm EST..

spaceships, seagulls, words & math

i stabilize my life with words like freaky spaceship
operators do with math, each an individual & found
in rain pipes, kennels and in smoky pubs,

i’m filling gaps with them like dentists fill
your teeth with amalgam and who can say if
they’re toxic and how long they gonna make it

yesterday i found a word, just one, silky soft and warm
under your tongue, i took it, dripping wet
with your saliva & i held it for a while,
felt the warmth and rhythmic pulsing on
my palm but then it died before i found a place to
store it and your eyes went dark with pain,

a shade like ripe, black cherries and I thought of
times we sat on branches, drunken with new wine
and bravely riding in the storm– soon

i‘ll be where gulls screech in my ears, where
wind blows seasalt in my face to search
for clues between the pebbled beach and
english beer and pace the pier at night, gather

spume-sprayed seashells & write letters in the wind
with new words, built on wide-spread space & scented
with the ocean, those that shattered in the storm
i fix with duct tape, pack them into tiny parcels, hide ‘em
in my coat and smuggle them on board, pass

through security & customs like a robber, always
one hand on them to make sure they stay silent and
in case i’m caught, i’ll deny everything,
tell ‘em about spaceships on their way to save
the world or– tiny parts of it.
You think this is theatric?

Wait until you see me swing onto the custom’s desk,
dangling legs, imagined steering stick in hand– and I take off
before they’re getting hold of me

.

so in case you own a spaceship, even if it is an imagined one…you should head towards the dVersePoets pub and join us for another OpenLinkNight …it will be brian miller on the steering stick today and we got lots of space for your poetry… you gonna fly with us..? we’re taking off at 3pm EST

mad bum’s tube song

it is legs & feet and
dingle-dangle of the coins
landing like ea-sy bullets in my cap,
face-less pace, heels &
heavy boots, Grande concerto
and I! am the Maestro, by

their steps I am un-Rrriddling, true
they got no clue how much
I see through the grit, fee-verishly
shining lids, i am invisible, a
thief, private pirate, entering your ship, attack

from dirt-messed riffs without
even moving, Don’t! Move_moved
to the edge, laced tissues turned to rags– Haha

ACidly warm, down my throat, spilling (shhh– orry..)
wettening my coat, float, no
music but I’m dancing, DanCing
still, mad marching soldiers on a
battled hill, time-cleft and– I’m left
to Wwwarn them, so I shout- a-Loud (yeah, they
Izzze me silent with their gaze) but
i can’t, oh can’t see ‘em, just Legs, just Le-le-legs

& music, spinnin’, singin’ uuh- ‘Tis
is getting cold, rolled empty i– neatly fold
between shoes and Oh-no_No faces– Shot! by
copper coins (you– hey! you here_Hear..?), Ding-
dingle, dang, Sweeeet sound
from the ground of –
…somewhere

.
now bet that makes you curious what Mark Kerstetter has in the dVerse Poetics box today… there might be some magic powder swaying through the pub and suddenly….you may look at the world with someone else’s eyes… see you at 3pm EST..

still burning

the
softness
of the night still
clings
to me with
    all its scents–    
 skin
.

warm on mine and
you light candles for
our breakfast on an

average thursday
morning – 5 am, You
don’t talk much– just
uphold the matchbox
for a “yes” and shake

your head for “no”, Today
is yes– & us is yes, the
kitchen smells of firewood,
my macbook susurrates on
stand-by and your train–
.
waits outside in the shade

.

hope you’re in good shape today…as you see..mine is a bit..well… abstract…smiles. Gay provides another cool FormForAll prompt at the dVerse Pub…Gates open 3pm EST

open links

hooded sweater pulled deep in my face, heavy
space falls on me with galaxies exploding
in the black part of my eye, pacing dirt-dipped
streets for fresh air, care-less thoughts, search for
the grit, feel like shit & zero fits together 2day- heavily
blurry, i‘m too weary to type these lines, but they
shout, form riots in my mind, resurrections from
what i thought was long dead, i freeze, bind

them on trees like pale, smutted soldiers,
hanged in wars no one talks about
any more and with hollow gaze they’re staring
at me, eye close my i’s, don‘t want to see how
ugly this world can get, breathless at the

cigarettes and vomit puddles at my feet
spit by fourteen something girls on bad nights, that
when they‘re lucky end up in hospital at my
friend‘s station with a diaper and an infusion
and someone who at least physically cares, not

pushed in the bed of some slobbery guy who
shoots, then fucks them ‘til something dies and they
wince, whine but never make the escape
& with greasy needles shame etches deep into them,
branding like brute, bruised & crashed in

piss lakes of what happens next and if you
can‘t swim this is where you drown in, Get
the first shot for free and we‘ll see further,
only there is no other day just night and

the light is swallowed by these corpses on
the tube floor, they still move as a proof of what?
just don‘t tell me it‘s life, so i seek– you &
weep, binding your pain on thick branches between
the tree’s broken spine, next to mine, next to
the hanged, the damned but who

carries them, my back– an aching mess, forgot
how cold this wind can get but be sure, i‘ve NOT
given up yet

.

my good friend joe hesch will be tending the dVerse Bar tonight…he’ll be ready to pour you some of the finest verse in town at 3pm EST..would be great to see you there..

on building

you’re building church with both hands in the dirt,
rusty nails scratch blood streaks in your skin,
dust from demolished brickwalls hangs like
powdery mildew in your hair

i’m passing in the car on the way home,
it’s just a humble shack so far but somehow

this is also how it started, so i blow the horn and wave,
you throw a milli-second smile, grab the rock drill & work on–
i’m falling silent

Later we stand in the kitchen,
its already dark outside, i’m
leaned against the fridge

you feed me bread crumbs and swiss cheese,
pull me closer and your lips find mine,
they’re coarse and dry, you smell of sweat, hard work,
of forest mushrooms and of thunderstorms,

i say “Love me on the lawn”
but it’s too wet already and you’re reasonable

so i search the garden hut for last year’s seeds,
toss ‘em on the bed while you are in the shower, water
with the spring rain i saved in my trouser pockets–

With the rising moon, they slowly start to bud
as you press hard against me, i’m drinkin’ in
holy communion from your sanctuary and
with my lips, still warm and wet with milky
semen, i kiss the blood streaks off your skin

.

it’s saturday again and Poetics is on its way… this week, Kellie Elmore has cooked up a brave poetics prompt for us…or wait…was it that we should be brave..? best is you jump over to the dVerse pub at 3pm EST and have a look..

Meeting the Bar: aimlessly

i recognize them by their eyes–
they sit in cars or bus stops
and have emptied into silence

leaned against black holes,
they’re blowing smoke-rings in the air
and watch them ride into the wind head-on

they ask for nothing
& nothing asks for them

despite the sunshine, i put on my coat,
heading for the station –
Basel SBB at 5 pm

a house of tiny ants, crawling aimless on the floor
before the wind starts howling but

it makes no difference
and I feel their weariness

standing at the stop light, bent
into concrete pillars, trying hard to hold myself
I watch them carrying huge blue whales

in tiny rucksacks,
crocodiles with razor teeth, stuffed tight in laptop bags

between is silence, and i hear their moaning
breathing birth pain, pale-blue, smeared,
umbilical cord still wrapped around their neck,

they’re leaving bloody traces on the black tiled floor
& their voice gets slowly swallowed

by the shrieking of the trains

.
victoria is raising the dVerse bar tonight and it’s about imitating the well-known poets and learn from them but without losing our own voice…my choice fell on charles bukowski and I had his poem “dreamlessly” in mind when writing this…not sure though if I sound like bukowski at all…smiles – If you want to join us – pub opens at 3pm EST. by the way – the reason why i love bukowski is that he saw the people around him… and makes me see them as well..

and on another note..i recently met jens schönlau on twitter and he asked me if he could feature my bumper sticker poem on his fiftyfifty blog. jens writes poems and short stories in german – so for my german speaking friends i can highly recommend a visit

A2 /monday morning



the king, wrapped in a crimson cloak
and i at 6 a.m. on a swiss highway, (i’m–
wrapped in weakness by the way) and oh,
he knows,

rain pours down, i’m weary &
frayed heavily on thin-worn hems,
seems odd somehow, the week

seeps into me, an infusion,
freezing cold & i feel small between

the mountains, windscreen wipers and the
heavy breathing of my soul (actually it’s
the heater)

so i frown & feverishly

knead my lips, search for a song to
cut the night but there’s just silence, dripping
slowly from my tongue, along my hands, runs

down my arms, forms tiny rills amidst
the droplets on the rainy pane and finally ends up
between the glistening puddles on the road–

the street lights gleam like fen fires in the mist
& i’m alone, i–

check the rear view mirror but–
just shining lines of cars behind me and i smile,
what else did i expect

.

are you up for another OpenLinkNight at dVerse Poets Pub? today the wonderful hedgewitch will tend the bar for us – OpenLInkNight means a pub full of cool people and wonderful poetry…so hope to see you there when we push the doors open at 3 pm EST

i’m limited & we need men with vision

 

i recently discovered that
i know no monk and not one single person
who actually drives my favorite car,
this made me think somehow,
seems like i’m limited to saxo players,
physicist, odd students, poets and yes – iPhone users
(honestly i cried when i heard Steve is dead)

so i could print a bumper sticker for my car
which says “i’m limited & we need men with vision”
on the other hand, most of my friends
suspected anyway– so rotting in the traffic jam

behind you, i know all your kids by name (and be-
lieve you’re making love not war), in a minute
i will get out of my car, knock gently on your window,
ask you for their birth dates & write ‘em greeting cards
each year until they’re old enough to drive

a car themselves just like my son and– my
mom is desperate for someone to translate
the english slogan, spreading on the back pane
of his Opel… no one does &

this is why i’ll print from now on
all the stickers in my life cyrillic cause
when you come up behind me on that road,
high gear, lights up, speed and all,
i want to be unriddled slowly (& seldom
drive on russian highways anyway)

.

are you curious what brian miller has cooked up for us for poetics over at the pub today…? stop by for pint of home-brew verse at 3 pm EST – oh – and we’re not a drive-in, but you can bring your car, your cat and your convictions…smiles