Domestic Violence

Today, I hit you on the head again.
Without warning, just like that.
Just because you reminded me
as I had asked you.
But I didn't like the message
and you just wouldn't shut up.

I didn't even look at you.
I took a swing and hit you.
Like I didn't care
like you couldn't feel pain.
And your little hands
you held up in defense
didn't help at all.

This was not the first time, I know.
And I know apologies won't help
because every time it happens
you don't listen anymore
you just fall into silent reproach.

Maybe it's your fault, too.
There need to be two for this:
One to hit and one to be hit.
But you just take it, every time.
And one day, you'll break
and I will need to get a new
alarm clock.

The Bullock

Since food is a major topic these days, a gentle reminder of one of life's most vaulable lessons:

Once upon a time there lived a bullock at a farmer’s farm. The bullock suffered for the work he had to do was hard and many a day the bullock had not gotten anything to eat for refusing to work. The bullock lived in a huge barn and chained up he slept on old and misty straw and no one except for a few mice came and talked to him.

One day a hitherto unknown animal appeared in the barn and the mice were never seen again.

The animal was a small snake with colourful skin and sharp green eyes.

“Hullo,” the bullock said, “Who art thou, little fellow?”

“Have thou never heard of me before,” the snake replied astounded, “or are thy eyes that bad?” (And she couldn’t help but think about the meals of bullock meat she would have from soon on.)

“I can see thy face quite well, dear fellow. But may I humbly dare to ask for thy help?“ the bullock said.

“Mayhap, mayhap… but what could a rather small animal like me do for such a gigantic beast like thee?”

“Alas,” said the bullock and his eyes grew bigger in excitement, “I am held captive and I am punished by a fierce and vicious farmer living over there in the red building. I strongly suffer from his tyranny.”

“I understand thy misery, brother,” the snake hissed and her eyes grew bigger in excitement, “What shall I do?”

“I surely can see thy thin tongue darting in and out thy mouth and I can also see those sharp teeth of thee… And so, methinks, thou art quite apt at using thy sharp teeth on the farmer who hath been hitting me all my life long?”

“Sure I am,” said the snake and she quickly glided out of the barn and into the house and bit the farmer. Suffocating from the snake’s poison, the farmer dropped from his chair by the kitchen table and died.

When the snake was back in the barn, she proudly said, “I did what thou asked for, master. Have thou got any further instructions?”

“Ay,” said the bullock kindly. “I told thee about thy beautiful thin tongue that is darting in and out thy mouth. So, as a last service, wouldst thou be so kind to slid thy tongue into the padlock and open my iron chains?”

The snake skilfully used her tongue to open the padlock and slowly the gigantic bullock moved. When he had gotten up – just one second before the snake could bite into the bullock’s left leg, the bullock lifted one of his huge feet – and simply stamped the snake to death.

Moral: Thou shalt not play with thy food…

Becoming a Writer: Picture One

He was one of those experimental writers who have once been hit on the forehead by Hunter S. Thompson and constantly find themselves in the weirdest situations struggling to press at least the tiniest bit of prose from them ever since.

He needed to take a bath, a nap and a meal for about as long as a week but kept running from conferences to cinemas to zoos to schoolyards – always frantically waving his little notebook and pencil around. From time to time he stopped at the stationer’s to buy new pencils since he kept losing them during the course of his trip.

He could have been thirty but maintained himself on a steady 25-year-old-level, always on the safe side. He had wasted away two girlfriends. That was ten years ago. Today, his best friends were his collection of white shirts in his closet along with dark-blue jeans and brown leather shoes. Someone should have told him that brown shoes don’t make it but apparently hadn’t.

The door was open; the typical, boring, deafening music that was usually played at those cocktail-parties to keep people from exchanging too much information worthy to remember any fact of after waking up the next morning poured into the hallway. A drunk, freshly connected couple, giggling and spitting out obscene bits of language to each other rushed past him, stumbled, fell to the floor, crashed down the stairs to the first floor and then apparently started the giggling and spitting again, moving forward and out of the house.

He decided not to put that down. Too weird. Which was weird, as he was actually out to find the weird.

He moved into the flat, instantly trying out several types of grins and smiles, fumbling out the cigarettes he had bought on the other side of the street to hide his nervousness. He took a cocktail of undeterminable sort from a table still full of them and stepped to a bunch of people, who were chattering gaily and consuming large quantities of alcoholic drinks – none of them had a cocktail; it was all whisky, Tequila, and other stuff.

“How’re doin’?” he shouted at them, exchanging his cigarette between mouth and left hand, right hand and mouth, dropping the cocktail, putting the cigarette back to his left hand and up to his – well, he was actually hitting his nose with it. Unfortunately, everybody had seen both the dropping and hitting. Nobody laughed. All eyes on him. These were definitely the wrong people to have a casual conversation with.

“Great. Who are you?” a 45 year old giant moustache asked.

Snow White

It's Christmas, I'm told, and so I remembered  that I had written a piece that at least had Snow in it somewhere. So here goes:

My name does not matter. Also, I will not give you any other names or telephone numbers. – Nah, stop! Stop it. Please shut down that camera. I don’t want that. OK. Now I can speak. What I have to tell you is going to be hard to believe, but it’s true. By god it is. Well, the girl you call “Snow White” was on H and Crack. Heavily. During the time she stayed with us in our house, she received her dose every day from a messenger, an old woman. Aw, those pushers are so ugly. I seen them when I had to go back to the house to fetch a lamp while my men were out to work. From the moment I saw that she bought drugs from that whore, I observed them every day. In the end, she nearly died from an overdose. She broke down, anorexic and white-skinned as she was, and fell into a coma. We all thought that she was dead, though. So we put her into that huge tupper-ware box we used to put our hunted animals in and carried it to the graveyard. One of us stumbled and so we crashed the whole thing onto the ground. Some pervert sprang from the bushes to get a glimpse at the corpse. But she wasn’t dead after all. She woke up and was dragged away by the pervert. Actually, it’s much nicer at home since that drug addict doesn’t sell all the furniture anymore…

An end of nothing

I took a walk through the furniture of boredom.

above a crow cried "harm!" as fog horns led us astray

and I know: it's all been so long.

(Ich gehe als heiliger Hund durch:

geh her

komm weg)

now I can sit meaningfully at the bottom of 

my urbanly confused heart:

this judgemental mammal speaking of infinites

but unable to talk to you.

This antediluvian geologist

This antediluvian geologist has left his circus tent
to seek companionship.
The Fellaheen of Cape Fear await him
to flash mob his distant past.

In the morning he awakens
and finds he has crossed a perilous bridge
and that he has shot his love
with love
and that this enemy
cannot be fought with cutlery
nor politics.

All he wanted was her
and since she was not available
he chose trouble.

O.

When your train pulled into the station
I should have known: you never intended to stop:

You break things you never wanted to buy
You threaten to look at me with unsure eyes
ready to accuse me of accusing you
but I couldn't wait to have my heart broken, could I?

You were the noise in the attic of my heart at night.
I thought there was something.

But there was nothing.

Ambient (rhythmical)

So there we are
late
meeting under large clocks
and having fun on staircases.

We learn a lot.
Like how old we are
and what we like
and that Craig Daniel shits standing up.

I didn't see your train coming
but I sure did hear you pull into the station.