&i’m still wondering where the 9th floor elevator button leads to actually



this poem’s full of fish
/the striped flat orange ones that live in the amazon usually
&motor bikes
a whole garage full

i– pink toenails
against cool grey asphalt

it will rain soon
&the clouds are heavy trucks
a well built highway
fish for dinner
&the view is marvelous

“she’s exactly like my best friend when he was a boy still”
&i often see someone i knew in–

it will see the fish i think
from where it hangs
&maybe on the nights they talk
’bout this and that
the slow&shy way that will grow
into a relationship
of some sort

stories of a wild, big river
&a funny boy who sold snacks
on a train once

maybe they won’t talk for days
maybe it’s just unheard signals
winks, a glimpse, misunderstood sometimes
cause they speak different languages

“when i change the water they stay close together,
stressed// flat on their sides” he says
“close to the ground”
i nod “i get this”

&navigate my car back on the highway
one hand on the wheel
one on the iPhone screen, tracing a tiny dot
that promises to take me home
if i would trust
its guidance

maybe the superpower’s in the hair &no one knows //about the secrets of —



i grow my armpit hair now, planA
dye ‘em pink —
or green? planB still in the making, see//
the thing

with frames is
that they ship them detached
in  a cardboard box across a thousand bridges, canyons, hills,

i’ve made their bed
in our living room
a hammer next to them, two towels 2quench the blow
‘til someone finds–

a piece of canvas
“this huge10 meter roll is in the way of EveryThing”
&he is right

i take the staple gun
feathers stRETch &sNaP bacK
within seconds TacKtACKtaCk
&sweat runs down my legs

what’s so wrong with growing armpit hair i think, even in pink
“it’s not aesthetic”
&the canvas goes soft as i rub his forehead (very gently)

i’ve lost all fear of handling fragile surfaces
cause that is what it is
a giant frame
a giant something stretched across it

&i take and carry it into the garden, bump it at the doorframe/twice
put it up against a fence
&paint the backside

the idea is,
i’ve read once
that the canvas spans/ tigHTens
as the paint dries
&will stay there
all their life

if no one comes to rescue.


i hear the train in clear nights in my bed

“i’m loaded with thick clouds of rain” says its
metal scented lips, high voltage

&the wind whisks
over half-closed blinds

in the distance barks a dog

&bats fly
round the streetlamp
right in front my window

it’s still hot

“tell me” i plead

“the stories of each passenger that rides you
half-asleep to Amsterdam–
heads sunk on the chest as
landscape fragments cLakClacKcLakClak by”

“i am almost noiseless” says the train
“oh, it’s the wind–
if it heads in my direction i can hear you”

&he nods// bows// just enough to fit
under the bridge
my newest painting,
leaning against the wall yawns
silently in the next room,
stretches limbs
against the wooden frame

“pssshhh” i say “it’s almost midnite”

&a balmy breeze blows
travel songs across a thirsty landscape


we’re writing trains at dVerse

my philosophy of cutting elephants into tiny slices

they come
across the thames, nile, spree, mekong, the rhine
giant elephants, ears huge like towers, scraping noses on the sky

&grey like raindays

building forts inside the mind “you caNNot”
voices like a dove, a fox, an 8V car, the tocKing of a keyboard
&with thumbs like that of fat mafia dons
press the aorta that runs along neck&stomach

they talk a lot
smart like Phileas Fogg
smooth like a McDonald’s shake
believe it // not,
they even paint their toenails red (just so that you would underestimate-)&

often there’s an honest core
a page scribbled in smallprint in a wise man’s script
to get to it

you have to sliCe them (sorry but–)
any kitchen knife will do
fresh peppermint (cause they don’t like the taste)
honey, hidden in a bear’s cave (hey — be brave!)
pomegranate seeds(and even if you have to pay 3,99 for one piece)
black/pink pepper corns, crushed in a granite mortar
in the full moon
naked (nah//i’m kidding)

once they realize you’re not (or just a little bit) afraid
they will cooperate
purr like a cat (ok, almost)
and lick the pomegranate from your hands
cause in the end
it all depends
on how you feed them


for dVerse

had a surgery on my left hand yesterday and cannot type well… luckily the poem was written already. my comments though will be a bit/much shorter than usually…smiles


there’s few things that you cannot paint on actually



i’d paint music onto trashbins (pentatonic&chromatic licks//riffs)
and on all the fences, hashtags, toilet seats

if people let me, free–

in the presence of good friends (eating eggplants
with a yogurt pomegranate topping from my newest cook book)
in speech, penciling pink nailpolish

onto the tiniest canvas // “doN’t get stuck within a frame” said someone once//
early morning& i ride to work
*lock the bike*pull out the earplugs*undress in the checkroom*

(&even after showering)find cerulean paint splashed across knees &wrists
when putting on my office dress —in the weirdest way it matches the day

&makes me smile//as i badge in


for dVerse and my words are…  paint, music, bike(rides to work) and free(dom), good friends, pink nailpolish
all packed into 12 lines.. oy

trust me, it’s a nightmare for some paintings to hang in a sterile, air-conditioned space

my visit at the bruno bischofberger gallery in zürich -- painting-wise and word-wise...

my visit at the bruno bischofberger gallery in zürich & an afternoon at the lake of zürich — painting-wise and word-wise…

the poet’s in a painting/ in a cage
“can you touch me?”
“nope– i’m not supposed to”

he’s stretched
across a wooden skeleton that bends
under the weight
two hinges hold the middle part in place– call it the core&
somewhat sloppy but–

the gallery’s a fort
“surveillance cams i trust?” i shrug
my shoulders

“you’re not allowed to photograph”
a lady says&

i don’t want to but just rub his chest to warm–

“you knew that– right?
life’s hot breath on the asphalt, cement–

“city streets” he says, “a pub, the mud club
or a beach, that’s–”

&the sidewalks smeared with ketchup stains
which in a way is art
too– realness versus perfect
maybe one excludes the other

&the lake embraces me with wet,
cool arms as snow-capped alps sink slowly in its lap

&every wave
carries another question


you know – the gallery was great and a perfect frame for warhol and the others – just i felt a bit sad for the basquiat paintings as there’s so much energy and life in them – and i thought they just need to be somewhat closer to where life happens…

i always dreamed of being a vessel for a pile of lime seeds



they attack us from the branches by the pool
soft linden seeds//headfirst
on a survival mission
&he takes&piles ‘em in my navel

across the lawn an old man smokes gauloises
his giant belly like a pale whale
up towards the sky
he could fly if gravity would let him

i paint in my underwear these days
&sweat runs down my back as i stretch a real big piece of canvas
on a self-made  wooden skeleton
“let’s see if this works”
i’m talking to myself, the artist with the craftsman with the voice that asks me
why i’m doing things&often– (here’s the wild-card
for the flying part, the 2 king shadow thing that–)

later we spit cherry pits into a dried out landscape
windows down&headwind in our face,
the car purrs like a lazy cat

“it’s never going to cool down again” i sigh (dramatically)
the path ahead is scattered seeds

maybe they will root
maybe a tree will grow
&birds will build their nest in spring//make love
&feed fat worms and insects to their kids

what was the bird’s name someone mentioned at the party yesterday, i ponder
“here’s one– see//he’s such a lousy flyer” a guy with austrian accent said

i jump up//it is too late though
&the sky
already empty in itself//a weird flag of blue

with something vital missing