You wanted something real.

And you found a quite place.

You looked over your shoulder, but not ahead.

See, it’s ok though.

See, what you get.

We are here to protect.

Your path leads you right now to where you are.


Westworld 3/1






Yokohama Station, the door opening, people streaming out like rain.

I stand and look in, will I sit or will I stand?

A foreign woman looks at me and smiles.

Behind my face mask, the white woman sees her kin.

She raises her hand as to high five.

And through my jacket she touches my skin, gives me a tender, yet short kiss, as she leaves the train.

She has no mask, dressed in leather and black.

Passing quickly, leaving me baffled, I take a seat to ride home, on a Corona emptied train.


the kiss was metaphysical, but felt.

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








5 in 7

I need to remember,
Words meant to console,
May well be

And I did not know, I could like you so much.
Feel close when the distance is still wide.
When I saw you, I saw an old friend in your eyes.
As if, remembering you from a past life.

Do not thank me.
I simply exist.
In this space.
In this time.
Where our paths are crossing now.

Rather, thank yourself.
To be brave to live one more life.
Move and feel and see.
Only brave souls live in this time with open eyes.

Being around you makes me a better man.
Learning from you is a truly great experience.
For all the curiosity I feel.
When we part there is a new memory.


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.

You know what I would do if I knew I could.

Hug you.

Nothing more.

A physical expression.

Of deep admiration.

I would like to reach out again and say: you are good.

My thankfulness is out of bounds.

Philosophical thinking

Re: The 10 Best Philosophy Books For Beginners

“This is actually a difficult question — which philosophical texts are best for beginners? But it’s also one that I get asked pretty regularly. I typically suggest starting with Plato, and occasionally delve a bit deeper into the topic, but admittedly haven’t devoted the thought and attention it really deserves to give a proper answer.”

Sorry. I cannot read past that, it makes me shudder. Honestly, the best way to learn philosophical thinking is to question, anything and everything. Then go to a book store, to the philosophy section (or religion or semiotics or anything else that sparks inspiration) and look for a book or title that fascinates you. Read that. Go from there. A path will open itself, coz philosophers have the (sometimes) annoying tendency to quote one another. Boom, rabbit hole.

Honestly, start with the classics if you want to show off. They are important to read if you study philosophy I guess, academically. But all thoughts are always repeated, so if Plato speaks your language cool, if you prefer something more modern, try Nitzsche (also his poems which are beautiful and unjustly maligned). The ideas don’t change, the wonders don’t change. The language does change and the people writing it.
And make an effort to seek out women / differently gendered thinkers. They are you there. And usually better thought out.

My last priest, the one who performed my Confirmation, told me a great wisdom: every thought is a prayer, because God, no matter their name, their number or their ascribed actions, lives in everything we do, in us, so every thought is a word in gods ears, a mirror (perhaps darkly) of our self.
Philosophy is like the air we breath and the food we eat. Everything is philosophy, everything is thought. And if you have a faith, a prayer.

For an academic or perhaps a young intellectual, I may be too tainted by Sophie’s World (the book, which remains amazing).

In the end, we all ask ourselves, why those dancing shadows on the walls are reborn every morning and how we can escape that endless cycle.

2020/2/4–5, to and inspired by Anna!




Your bag reads.

Forever, though, is a long time.

Slow burn

Proudly, tall, pretty.

And then a base punches.


Reaching into.

Deeply, deep into.

Pulling the hood over my head.

Stilettos, moving, standing, producing a beat worth dancing to.

Pulling back.

Pushing up, like grass in spring.

Oh, hey. Music is saving my life again.

Your eyes focused on the night outside.

Inside light, keeping us up.

That you are is amazing.

That we are crossing paths is something short of a miracle.

Let me synthesise the memories of today.

And attribute them all to you.

Your trust means the world.

Through words I might just mirror you.

And when I pass you, I say thanks.

This is a slow burn.

Tenderness Absent [v2]

Body against body.

Drinking what you provide.

Licking you dry.

And it does feel good to give.

And it is best to be shared.

To see lust rising in you,

fill you, nerves on alert, hair standing.

But your tenderness is absent.

Truly felt, truly given.

Your body shakes in desire and I forget all of this.

Till our bodies rest, side by side and sadness will rise in the place you now reside.

I have to ask many questions and find many answers, but remain silent to not destroy the moment as it’s passing by.

I hate sleeping alone,

after sleeping with you.


& 2010/01/10

Marionette [v2]

A marionette, dancing on strings.
To a sound only they can hear, grasp.

Is it me or you or us?
Are we dancing on borrowed time?
Finding, we pull the strings.
We dance a dance of time.

My wish remains to kiss.
To close the gap.
To shower you in tenderness.
Even when I am distant and insecure.

Who we are, what we are.
What we want, what we dance for.

As melancholy displaces depression, I control my own path.
Pulling strings.
Pulling free.

2019/08/16 & 2020/01/10

Marionette by Mathew Jonson
& Submerged Metropolitan by Ø [Phase]

And things we don’t say

Things I say, sound dark.

Things I do, look hurt.

Things I laugh about, might be painful.

But not to me.

I just am.

Journeying to be free.

To be close.

And never that faraway.

I miss you, though.

Not expecting and respecting.

In the silence.

In the spaces between.

Where you live.

Where you stay.

Sleeping and kissing

For some reason I had ended up in a friends flat. It was clean, but also full of futons on the floor, empty beer bottles on the tables and crips situated between the bottles. The room had red walls, deep, dark, red. Not unlike blood, but darker.
It was cozy.
I just fell onto the first futon; tired, exhausted and all of them were empty anyway.
Somehow I was not in Japan anymore. This flat must be in Berlin.
I fell asleep.

I wake up, the door stands ajar and my friend just coming in with other people who seem to know me, but are surprised to see me there. She smiles, looks happy.
Groggily I get up and remove myself next to sofa on a pile of pillows. Sandwiched between the sofa and the wall with window and a radiator I close my eyes again as a party rages next to me. It’s daytime, but I just need sleep.
My friends face hovers over mine. She is very pretty and has a brilliant name. While I don’t remember meeting her in person, I know we have been friends for many years. There is a strong closeness between us.
Curly hair flys freely over her dark skin, with a big smile in her face, she hands me a joint. I am reluctant to take it, but she encourages me and finally I take it, to which she tells me “good boy” with a giggle.
This is the first one in a long while. I enjoy it with glee. I smile up and down, listen to my body stiffening and loosening again.
Her face still hovers over me, coming closer into a kiss that had been coming for a long time and does not last long enough. I am surprised at not being surprised. I just take it all in, let it happen. I just so enjoy her lips on mine, her tongue with mine.
As she comes down to sit on me, my body feels light. I give up control; it’s unlike me, but what I want and cannot achieve. She is close. So close it’s unreal.
As she unbuttons my jeans, I tell her I’m sorry, I won’t last long, I — she shushes me and does as she pleases.
I am just there for the ride and I don’t even want to describe.

When I come back I find her face asleep next to mine, her chest on my chest, legs intertwined. We didn’t age, we grew younger. I could move, would like to, but she is as a cat, I just don’t want to disturb her.

The image fades, but I force myself back. I want to say goodbye. I thank you, kiss you, then fade, then wake up, eyes closed. My pillow is nicely cold, but I miss her warm body, the scent of her cheeks, her taste.

Dusk of the century

At the dusk of the century,

Waiting in line at my local shrine,

Others look back at what was won,

What was lost.

I choose to look forward.

The dawn.

With hope,

With humility.

There is still more to come,

Before the clock strikes 12 again.

I look in all directions,

But my eyes are glued to the present, the next step, into the future, into the light.

Where do we go next?



You won’t be long.
Looking at the barking fox.
Fox eyes, looking at you.
Smiling into the wall.

I was told, foxes are demons; seductive.
I was told I have a foxes eyes.

Sitting in nature doing nothing.
Just listening to my kind barking.
Looking into a foxes eyes.
Looking back at you.