In a perpetual fall sideways.

Looking for a pillow to catch my head.

But the fall is limitless.

34 degree of violent winds dancing on my skin.

Watching faces of centre flying by.

They promised warheads and gave nuclear families.

Kids asleep peacefully.

My generation was born with no future and we pass on no less.

Therefore I cannot sit straight.

Midcity feathers finally.

Perhaps there may just be, possibly a pillow waiting, inviting to finally endlessly sleep, with a cat on my face.

Who needs to breath.

I love to see people holding their hands
A little intimacy
Publicly served
Not showing off
Perhaps sharing
Not dominating
Just walking
I cannot be like them
On my own.
But I can enjoy watching them
Come and go

Destination less
A little park
No target
Just getting lost
In a sea a future
“Love yourself”
The cat said
As it curled itself up
A friend at night
So reassuring
Eyes wide open
To watch us sleep

I feel so warm.
What’s the temperature?
I feel so wholesome.
Who does surround you?
I feel so loved.


I like this feeling.
Gentle ebbing in.
Sunshine glistening.
Mutely speaking.
Words gain new meaning.
Shortening distances.
Gaining new names.
And I still prefer dancing where no one can see me.

Here is a little thing.
Don’t look back.
But don’t turn back.
Just turn.
I am looking forward to see you become yourself again.


Waves gushing, seagulls laughing.
Swimming, drowning, breathing.
Because we like the sea.
Levels rising.

Walking the concrete jungle, till night falls.
Looking into your eyes, reflecting street lights.
Because we once loved the future.
The old port has matured.


Nightlife in bright lights

Your appearance is an portal opening.

And no light escapes.

Left to wish to look behind the curtain.

And you hide your eyes behind lenses tinting your iris.

Your pachouli smell brings me home right away.

Oh hell I miss having long hair, for the first time in years.

Whipping them across the train, to the darkness creeping through my ear pieces.

As I did in Berlin, when I was still your age and not a vintage.

When I was despair unleashed upon my fellow travellers.

Yet, here we are and I look at you and only myself reflects back.

All silver and black.

My skirts were short too, but made of latex.

And desperately now, I want to explore what pains you.

To close my wounds a little while.

Outwardly I still smile, but I rip.

Pain’s still fun.

I gave someone goosebumps today.

Not with a story of mine.

But a reality I am helping to shape.

Their interest peaked my levels of attraction.

It’s killing me.

For all the words I want to say to you.
I cannot say.
Yet, perhaps.
Words to tear us apart.
Words to shape worlds.

Tiptoeing on ice.
I’m so hot I melt.
And what do you know.
Temporarily feel me.
Momentarily be me.

And let me be you.
For some eternity.

It is so good to know you found me.

Lurking in the dark.

In a history.


Throwing thoughts around.

You found me.

Where I tend to find.

I was found.

This just may be a first.


Find me.

All over again.

Inter Life/Inner Faith

My heart is moved with your changing mind.
Let me come in, please, and witness your prayer.
Thank you for your welcoming heart.
I rejoice in your warmth.
History we share.
Pain and joy we dealt.
Hope resides in these halls.
Love flowers within this walls.
We are still capable of endorsing life.
And within our severed faiths we speak a universal language.


After listening to a feature about Jewish life in Iran, it’s long long history and the fact that Iranians start to refuse to hate Israel. It’s a faint hope, but it is good to remember Jews, Christians and Moslems all pray to the same god and follow the same prophets. And it was fascinating to learn, that Iran culture had influences on Jewish, Christian and Buddhist faiths, even before the Prophet Muhammad walked the earth.

Why you

And why at this hour

All the poets

See a rebirth

At this hour








The possible is laid bare by the things we deem impossible.

And the impossible is a celebration of the things we do anyway.

1986, deeply into the East German province

A priest stands, smile, nods.

A friendly word here and there.

It’s Sunday. 4 hours earlier he woke to “Owner of a lonely heart”.

And woke the whole family.

I am 6 years old.

Running around.

Imagining what it’s like to be respected like this.

Not knowing the hate and fear flying in his face every day.

I imagine being like him.

Not knowing the fight he fights for my future.

Not yet understanding the brutalism of the regime we live in.

But soon I will be called pig son of the pig priest.

Soon I will draw a robot eating weapons when we write lyrics about the great national army.

And not too long after that the system will fall with the wall.

But until then, my father impresses me.

Last summer was a drunk fairytale

Listening to that now old song.

Feeling the warm summer breeze.

Tasting the starlight in my hair.

Feeling the tenderness on my skin, that never came.

Remembering that last night I played anyone’s expectations game and we both lost.

Seeing you again, that last time, leaning over the wall, looking into the banana plantation, those trees I wanted to climb.

Your lustful looks at me linger on in my mind.

And I am still never truly gone.


Nothing ever truly makes sense or has to. The joy is in what happened and what was imagined.

It leaves us with a taste of closeness and longing.




Your bag reads.

Forever, though, is a long time.