Grass

Grass

Green grass

breaks up

concrete

A bird sings,

then

silence

It is cold

but the signs of spring

glare all around

Another night,

a cigarette,

lost words

The doors

closed.

Skin too tight.

My blood

sings

to nobody.

When

will you come

on your

steed

and sing to me?

Small animals far away

Small animals far away

Sometimes I thought

the gods play-

they throw human guts,

excrements,

spurt our blood

across the skies

I thought they hide

in clouds

enjoy the torture

make a game

of suffering

Maybe they do.

Or they are not

there at all.

But poets do

and neighbours.

Politicians.

We are small animals

far away

stumbling on a chessboard.

But we can fight

and together

we can tear and bite

and gnaw like rats

at the flesh of gods

and neighbours

and politicians.

We should.

Visions

Visions

I walk a  line

between and inbetween,

enhance the shadows

violate the light

There is blood,

it is my blood.

There is spirit,

it is my spirit

There is strength.

I don’t know

how to use it.

I walk , I breathe.

Turtles kiss my face

and lions lick my nose.

I smell death, decay.

I cannot heal.

I live in a jungle,

noise, voices,

I find a path.

I live in the air

dance on a string,

stare at the sea

My eyes are blind

but I see

dark lakes ,

silent swans.

I come back

to myself,

but I don’t know

who I am,

where

I tried to talk

but I get

misunderstood

journey and game

all my life i have seen this my existence as a journey and adult life just as another game, deadly serious and still full of joy,. often i have felt like sitting in a train, watching time pass and clouds and meadows and sadness and expectations,sitting next to myself and wondering what it will all be about... looking at the stars in a clear night i kind of know where my journey started but i don't know where it will end. one thing i know: i won't tell children easily "it's just a game", i would rather phrase it "it is a game, (one of many)"

astral shield II , for revision, notes september 2013

my astral shield is bomb -shelled,

things, faces passing through.

i am a post-office,

transport letters,

thorns of promisses

sometimes i need drugs

to close the gates,

for shelter,

for rest.

the u-bahn shrieks,

squeals, screeches

to a halt,

then rumbles on,

thunder underground

from far a wailing child,

a dog barking down the tunnels.

this is one stage of bardo,

transition, dissolution

the astonishment to find

silence

amidst 

noise.

white paper

being filled with letters,

paint, colour, signs,

symbols, figures,

trainloads of people

in a cloud of voices

long after Babel

running

away

or 

somewhere

they carry wishes

and sorrows

and i hope

they would see

and live now

because now

is tomorrow too late

and yesterday gone

their own monsters

 will shake them

and

only with the fear of death

they will awake

into their lives

i open my eyes

and i see

a sword in my hand.

i will not need

a shield anymore