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“In order to write about life first you must live it.” – Ernest Hemingway

  • Farewell my friend

    Farewell my friend

    I see your bronze bust
    on this burning spot

    from talent to star to dust
    sucked up close to the people

    I smell my friend’s sweat, your scent
    lost on the back of stardom

    I hear children cheering with delight
    I hear a mother shouting: “No—stop!”

    The smoke of beefburgers as I descend
    not far from here, the City of Angels
    and stories of yesterday and today

    I still see you driving
    fast
    -off that cliff
    into the abyss

    I feel staggering, again
    sluggish with impressions, too much
    I left behind

    • for you, my friend

    (you pull me away
    you tell me what you don’t think
    you do to me what you don’t say)

    I feel myself vanishing,
    too little moisture, too much reason
    holding my breath

    • wait for me

    I who recognize you, the rebel
    the fighter for the young skin,

    I taste the silver
    on my lips
    just a moment longer –
    I fall
    I taste the stench
    that drives me,
    that keeps me upright, my friend
    and you who shouts:
    “Drink, drink as much as you can!”

    Leave me alone, just like him,
    I don’t want to go back,
    you who say: “Hang in there.”

    I who think – you filthy bastard,
    I love you, but now it’s enough,

    I can still see myself driving
    into the abyss
    fast

    • from that cliff

    smiling like Brando and Dean
    farewell, my friend.

    For Dean @griffithobservatory

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  • Resistance

    There they stood
    arm in arm
    as if it had always been that way

    this Tristan and Isolde
    she, mother and father
    the one 10 years older

    when the virus came
    and he saw the world change
    even before egos decided

    that war is necessary, that people
    are cattle for slaughter, ‘cause machines
    must roar, weapons must clatter

    and turn blood into gold, silver
    words from those who see through the charade, 
    lie still, he grew a decade older

    now they are standing there,
    different from when I was a child, 
    hand in hand, hand in hand.

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  • How do you keep going on?

    How do you keep going on?

    I cross the street, iron monsters surround me, throwing their poisonous gases into my eyes and filling my lungs, heavy as lead. That’s how I feel now, I want to get away, away from the grind, away from the smell of everyday life, let me write, writing is not dying, writing is wanting to live, but not out here? 

    I ask the old man next to me at the bus stop: “How do you keep going, how can you live in this world, or do you even realize you’re alive, maybe you forgot that long ago? Forgetting, is that the solution?”

    He looks at me as if I asked him where the bakery is, shrugs his shoulders, and continues reading his newspaper. 

    So that’s how it should be done, you just ignore the fact that you exist. Ignore the fact what is happening and just, eat, work, sleep…

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  • The Visit

    The Visit

    He told me that this pill would initially intensify the symptoms, but that I would definitely feel better afterwards. Yes, I felt very chaotic in my head, doubted everything I thought or read, and felt like I had constant hug boners.

    But then again, that was already the case for several years, I had to do something, didn’t I? Still, to be on the safe side, I locked myself in my student room to kick the habit, because if I had to go out on the street, I would jump on every female creature like a gel-spitting zombie and AAAAH!

    Ding dong. The doorbell rang?

    What should I do in this state, stay calm and go and see who it is? Yes, that seemed like a good idea.

    Sweat beaded on my body and was sucked into the floor by the strong pull of gravity, where it immediately evaporated into an animalistic smell. I slunk downstairs and opened the door of the student house. There she stood, a beautiful female Jehovah’s Witness, and I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to cure her.

    I led her up the stairs, steaming with lust, straight to my room. She paused for a moment in front of my door, looking frantically at the Fellini poster, on which a naked woman with six breasts and as many nipples was crawling on all fours, kissing my desires. She decided to come in after all.

    The sun had just set and a night-red glow made sure I didn’t need to worry about the mood lighting and could start the game right away. I told her, in a slightly forced friendly tone, to sit down. She took out her religious books and stared suspiciously at the idolatrous figurines, provocative movie posters, and free-spirited sayings that adorned the room.

    She was strangely quiet and didn’t know what to do with her beautiful smooth legs, hands, and lips, fidgeting a lot, probably thinking that she still had a lot of work to do here and that her task now was to save this lost sheep by herding it into a stable full of dead people.

    Then she bit her lips with her two front teeth and began to hiss with her tongue.

    A torrent of powerfully spiced words washed through my sacred space and she started talking to me about how faith has become taboo, wildly waving articles around – yes, I understood her and nay, this clashed with my ideas. I wanted to interrupt her – but she just kept rattling on. Fortunately, I still had my search history open on my laptop. I just had to click and hahaha, this would stop her.

    Meanwhile, cautiously and looking her sweetly in the eyes, the images from my viewing box started. Shaved skin flickered across the screen.

    She paused. Her eyeballs popped out and her chin fell to the floor, after which I, in an irresistible urge, raised my pride (my poetry collection, duh), shouting: “And this, is this also taboo, this body of fear, flesh, and senses!”

    The foam stuck in the corners of my mouth and my eyes were like two little jumping atomic bombs: “And this, is this also taboo, this body of fear, flesh, and senses!”

    The foam stuck in the corners of my mouth and my eyes were like two little jumping atomic bombs: “I am what I am, a man of flesh and blood, with a very strong desire!”

    She looked at me with a grin, something clicked, she sat up straight and in a flash she rushed at me, her skin rough and hard, her fangs bared, she would convert me here and now to eternity!

    I pushed her away and ran down the stairs, cursing and ranting that she herself was the devil. She stormed after me and forgot her books. I ran into the night, no one heard me, the streets were empty, she was faster and grabbed me by my belt.

    A scream pierced the night.

    Pressed against a wall covered in ugly graffiti, she ripped my clothes off and sucked the shit out of me until I sank to my knees and begged for forgiveness.

    I woke up.

    Now I sat there with a half-erection and a strange kind of guilt. Did I do something wrong, had I become an artifact in this world, an unwanted substance, or was this because of the pill from this homeopath?

    It was time to get up, take a shower, a long shower, and make peace with the young man I am and the old man I can become, and maybe I should hang up different posters, those of Fellini and Polanski, Bitter Moon, replaced by one about the sea and dolphins and things that don’t scare women away or make them angry, and maybe in the future I should first look out the window to see who was at my door, and maybe…

    Maybe I shouldn’t think too much about all that bullshit anymore, and just take one pill a day and live it.

    Screenshot
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  • Total Loss

    Total Loss

    and then the end was here
    I saw these patterns of years 
    repeating useless fears

    and then I put it away
    like old cornflakes in a locker 
    they didn’t taste 

    it was a total loss
    ready to hit its wing 
    in an empty street 

    this dream of you and me
    no regret, nor a final tear
    just a heavy stone, flushed

    by a final bottle of beer

    Poem out of my poetry cycle: Total Loss.
    If you want to support, you can buy it on: Amazon and Bol

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  • Breathing

    Breathing

    I feel so sluggish and tired that even breathing is an immense effort, my eyes are constantly pulled downwards and breathing in and out feels short and tense, as if I am in a state of chronic hyper-ventilation. Outside, there is no sun, no moon, no stars to be seen, everything is gray and dreary. It is exhausting in that emptiness, even my hard-won consciousness, which is supposed to keep me from falling into it, is beginning to crack and fade, not knowing what to do. But that is only on the surface, a temporary blackout, a momentary numbness in my existence.


    Soon it will be better, I have been given a homeopathic miracle pill, something that should make me more stable. Is stability possible in a space that has been sucked into a vacuum? If only I could achieve a certain self-control over my emotions, like a Vulcan, searching for the logic behind things and constantly questioning existential truths, adjusting my own principles if they prove to be wrong, without overthinking things. It has to remain a gut feeling, as they say— if you truly dare to listen and feel that inner voice. Apart from that turmoil, I mainly want to cry out for freedom of identity and a will to live.

    Still, everything feels heavy and far away from who I am. Why can’t I just stop for a moment? Why is simply breathing, just breathing deeply, sometimes so damn difficult? Maybe you first have to knock the impurities out of your lungs, bite, cough, cry, in order to be able to breathe more freely.

    That’s absurd. Do I really have to be almost dying before to breathe fully again? Maybe the solution lies in changing the rhythm of my breathing, changing it every now and then. Just like music, like good poetry.

    That’s all I ask: let me choose the rhythm I want to breathe.

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  • The girl next door

    She was standing in the street, shouting, ‘You bastard! Yes, just leave now like a cowardly dog with your tail between your legs and leave me alone, forever!’

    That’s how I found her, completely upset and crying, wearing only a kimono with nothing underneath, a pink top peeking out onto the street. I walked towards her. She started snapping hysterically, I don’t know what she was saying, but I got down on my knees, looked this strange creature in the eyes, she froze, I placed my hand on her trembling fingers.

    A gentle breeze opened her kimono. I placed my lips between her thighs and kissed what was no longer hidden, her hysteria subsided, all the way down. I picked her up and carried her inside, to love the girl next door. She in the window opposite me, once and for all.

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  • Brief encounter 2

    Brief encounter 2

    She stood next to me. Her beauty was felt throughout my entire body, like blood that began to flow faster and faster every time I looked at her. I wished I would merge with her, wished that by closing my eyes I could escape from my shell and feel what she felt. All I felt was the train I was waiting for. I hate waiting, always waiting. I got on, she sat down in front of me. It was the only place left. 

    Other than that, I felt a noise in my head, a feeling of not being there, filled with little powder boxes stuffed with unpleasant emotions. I opened my eyes again. She was sitting as still as before, staring out the window. She didn’t seem to be from here.

    She made small, quick movements: her eyes blinking, her smile hidden behind a stern gaze, her blonde hair kept falling in front of her eyes, which she tried to wave back. Meanwhile, she tried to maintain her posture, straight and static, until she sank into herself again. There she sat, elegantly dressed, surrounded by golden mirrors that sang softly to her, but she didn’t hear. She didn’t belong here. Just like me.

    I wanted to tell her about life, about the pure existence of life, about a consciousness that reaches deeper than the reflections of the water, about that game of feelings, feelings transformed into vibrations, into endless frictions between two connected souls. 

    I leaned toward her, with the nonverbal behavior of: I would like to ask you something. Her eyes looked right through me. I backed away, took a book, and did hide behind the black and white printed words. Stories of others, without daring to make them come true myself.

  • Ettelbruck

    Ettelbruck

    Ettelbruck station, the train stops and I get out and call my parents to tell them where I am, their place, back when everything was still fine. I shouldn’t have called, they told me not to run away, but to talk. But I don’t want to discuss with them, I already know what’s going on, I just want some peace.

    I simply long to be in nature; that connection with earth is what keeps me going, what makes me feel alive and free, at least for a while.

    A beautiful young woman dressed in dark brown and black stands in front of me at the coffee bar in the station, she shakes her hair and gives me her most beautiful look. Tight, a little arrogant, but just enough that those lips can immediately break into a sweet smile. She pays her cup and disappears.

    A few bees buzz around my head, raindrops fall on my cracked leather jacket, and the heat and rain mingle on the road. I walk into the city, looking for the nearest hiking trail.

    It’s a pretty town and blends in nicely with the surrounding woods. I find a loop that’s about 7 kilometers long and set off at a brisk pace. In the middle of the forest, I let myself fall into the arms of the grasses. A rippling stream nearby provides the backing vocals for the singing wind. Peace and quiet, for a moment. As a fast food neo-romantic, it doesn’t last long. After the walk, I take the train back and end the day in an Irish bar in Brussels, with fish and chips and a Guinness to wash it all down.

    It felt good. The traveling itself is the best part, the desire to get somewhere, to be on the move and not stand still. The destination quickly turns out to be an illusion, because it is so short-lived. The restless soul in me moves on and longs for more, or less, but I didn’t knew that at the time.

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  • Away from the vampires

    On my way with who else, Jack Kerouac and Jean-Paul Sartre, I’m reading, dreaming and longing for freedom on the train. Away.

    The night before, I went out with Mr. K and Rusty. Mr. K is an eternal doubter and optimist rolled into one. He goes for what he wants like a Ferrari, but when the time comes, he questions everything, just like his numerous relationships. Very complex, in other words. He studies film to score with actresses, and while he clearly succeeds in convincing the women at the academy that he is super talented, things go wrong shortly after. But under that mask he is an incredible neurotic with a super soft core, which is why Rusty and I like him so much. At the same time we feel a little jealous of his adventures. But anyway, in response to the movie about Dracula by Robert Eggers, we wanted to see the original again, and it was playing at the film museum. This 1922 Nosferatu, a visually and frighteningly orgasmic gem, blew us away once again.

    After the movie we had to drown our thirst, if only to drink away the disappointment that 1) we wouldn’t be able to make something like that ourselves and 2) a director adapt now for the second time (counting Herzog) that early version to his own vision, before we could even think about it to do it ourselves. So last night we didn’t drank blood, but other juices. Still, I’ve had enough. I wanted something else. No alcohol, but real warmth, without the feeling that I would become addicted to the other person, like a vampire.

    Towards the end of the night, we ended up in a nurses’ faculty bar, thinking we would have a better chance of scoring some female beauty there. We were apparently not the only ones who thought so, because the party was mainly attended by men. I think the nurses were either already in bed or studying hard. The bass-heavy music pounded loudly and seemed to bombard my head like Molotov cocktails. I felt in a deep hole for several weeks and this didn’t help.

    The happy music clashed with my mood. Sexism crept in, misery reigned, old rituals were thriving. Until I had had enough of it and decided to continue the night alone. Mr. K stopped me from leaving and after a short but intense conversation with him, who apparently has some sort of depression killer in him, I went back into the ‘temple of doom’, pretending to have fun.

    Rusty was already lying ragged on the bar and sleeping off his drunkenness while pints of beer were passed over his head. I sat beside him for another hour. Mr. K managed meanwhile a hook up with one of the few nurses there and winked at me when I signaled that I was leaving. He understood, as long as he saw that I wouldn’t do anything stupid. He, who had processed a tragedy in his own way, made it clear to me, time over time again, how much he missed his brother and that he would beat me to death if I jumped.

    Indeed, it was pointless, even less pointless…

    On my way to the sea on the intercity. A place where I can find some peace. Trees glide by, with the occasional phallic symbol violating of the peaceful surroundings by gray mass in the earth.

    “It is now a quarter past one,” an old man with even thicker glasses than me talks to his watch, no, the thing talks to him. All the while a little monster is sitting in front of me, groping his girlfriend. She gently shakes her head ‘no’, he doesn’t look up, he listens to his loud techno music and continues to rub under her blouse, to the rhythm of the music. She now pushes him away roughly.

    I give him an angry look; he looks back with an ‘it’s-no-concern-of-yours’ expression. The man with the watch gives him a look too. He lets go of her, she takes out her cell phone and pretends nothing has happened.

    I close my eyes. I don’t feel like going into this any further. I wake up around noon. There is no one sitting in front of me anymore. Finally, alone, I can smell the sea. I take my backpack, inside my books, a swimsuit and a large towel. Away from the city. Seeking harmony in nature. I am the madman on the run. I send you my regards and hope for better weather.

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