To reflects on yesterday’s observation Today:

The first lesson I learned in my 6th live:
Words have meaning.
The first I learned in my 7th:
They don’t have to make sense.

When I first learned writing,
In socialism,
I was thought to write proper.This was a state priding itself in being a state of farmers and workers.
Where the intelligencia does not thwart the simple people.But in school I was taught in best Prussian style to be quite, to listen, to use words properly.
My father comes from a working class family.
I know their language, their words, their curses.
But that language was ripped out of my blood. Drained.

Later in life, when the workers had fortified their state to be workless,
I taught those western working class kids from immigrant families German words.
Not to drain their language, but to enrich them or so I believed.

In reality they taught me the value of working class language.
The truth of simply speaking what you know.
But when I wrote poetry I went for romantics.
Used words of higher intellect.
Constructed higher meaning.
Hid feelings behind formalities.
That was my 3rd and 4th and 5th live.

Now I write in a language learned later in life.
And only now do I have the freedom to write as I please.
Name feelings as such.And enjoy poetry speaking of dirt.
Writing of fucking around.
Name things as they are.

My words don’t have to make sense anymore.
My writing does not have to achieve a goal anymore.
I don’t seek to impress you anymore.
But if I get you today,
I’m happy.
I got you.