(for rt, jd, sv)

More schizophrenic than the text
I'm stumbling from one word to the next
and I cannot write as fast as
these pictures are raging through my mind
of feelings, of visions
I'd rather be blind
than suffer these storms inside
which leave me shaken
and stirred and askew
If I could tame them
I'd use them
for my voice,
for my rage,
for my poem
- which is you.

Inhaling all your words
I lose my peace
they cannot ease
the hunger.
They feed the fire and the heat
that tells my heart which way to beat
that tells my longing where to flow
that tells my feet which way to go.
And I wish I could go with you
- gleichauf -
but all I do is follow you
carefully, in your footsteps;
sinking in and wishing
I might find a word, a sound, a touch
you left behind:
something that fell out of your heart.
And while I'm going
my collection's growing
and (maybe someday)
will it be art?
 

It's strange how I can be
not by your side
but nonetheless close to you.
And I can feel it now:
every breath charged with significance
and I'm almost ashamed to say
that this is the feeling that
I want to die, too.
Spontaneous combustion
and always the question:
will it suffice?
You cannot write with tears
you can only write with ink
- but I have neither now.
I only have this wordwide wish
to melt into
whatever is
a you.
 

I'd give my heart
if I could make you feel
the way that
you make me -
the more I know of you
the more I want to become
what you are
because you are
everything
I ever want to be.
I'm getting lost ...
Will you remember me?
 

Waking up this morning
the panic came again
and I was not prepared this time.
So it took me
and it shook me
and turned my bones to ice.
When the mad people have left
when the bad people are gone
there's just me
and this clear vision,
this cruel vision,
this clear cut vision of what will be -
or will be not.
Clear cut.
And I did not loose my mind!
My mind lost me.
Don't try to stop my heart it's doing it again
the acids in my heart
make pain makes words make pain makes words.
The tireless watcher is the tireless catcher
of my mind and
in my mind.
I'm read!
Therefore I am,
and yet I want to crawl
inside of me...
 

ICH BIN EINE TEXTMASCHINE
Und doch:
all the words will not suffice
to tell you all the words there are
and all the tears will not suffice
to wash your footsteps from my being.
These ridiculous lines
form a short circuit
a feedback loop
ringing in my ears -
they are here for a reason:
"remember the living!"
a sonic imprint of my fears.
I wish you would rest so I could
catch up with you
finally
you are
fast and faster
I am
falling behind
I'm getting lost
with this lack of words
for all that hurts
it's only a matter of time
What will be then?
Will you turn back and see?
Will you
remember me?
 

A new day - a new mourning
- good lines are still a matter of chance -
because there is no song
terrible enough
to meet the loss which made
my life explode so quietly.
Every time I think of you
I'm losing you anew.
Where are you in me?
I want to hear you,
I've been silent all this time
have been perceptive and waiting -
but I cannot hear you
who has become
the Old Nobody:
too much to deal with,
too much to write down,
too much and way too dead,
not here and closer
than you could ever get.
And there is nothing left.
Nothing that isn't hurting.
There's nothing left,
no word, no sound, no touch
 now that you're always where I'm not
- it's as simple as that -
and how strange that anything that simple
can hurt anyone that much.
And this is the saddest part
I DON'T KNOW HOW TO HEAL YOUR HEART
I know you'll leave like others left before
left me without a clue
of what I am supposed to do
I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE YOUR HEART
I wish that "I" would rhyme with "you"
I DON'T KNOW HOW TO WIN YOUR HEART
and going
without knowing
where to go is as scary as
writing without knowing
what to write.
I've lost count of what went wrong,
I freeze, my fingers feel like ice
so does my tongue.
I breathe in
- my eyes wide
with the nervous buzzing of the words
as I approach their hive-
and your voice
- like a slide -
projected on
my life.
And Language
is what other people call

a knife