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.


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.


Looking into the mirror in a restroom.
Cats eyes looking out of my face, back at me.
Grey mostly.
A little green a little blue.
Blues in my ears singing at me.
Worldpeace through beer technology.
Said the poet in the 90s.
Not me, though.
Just drunk enough to see the miracles.
Just sleepy enough to think back and wonder.
Where are you now?
At home.
What do you do?
Taking care of your kid.
What do you think.
That I don’t know.

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.

Hey little girl in the corner at night waiting to be picked up to go home and study.
I am finally relaxed.

I was checked out today.
We crossed paths across the street. One look up and down.
I looked in the reflection of a window there after.
Yeah, I looked good today.

And so you leave.
You fade away.
With a smile.

Why is this all so beautiful?

Funeral speech

Hey y’all.
Thank you for coming and celebrating my life and death.
There should be enough alcohol in front of you, to bring some of you closer to god or whomever you may pray to.
It’s been a long time coming. I am sure by the time you hear this, I have lived my 9 cat lives. We surely have laughed and cried a lot. You will have gotten to know me as someone who you can count on, you can be a friend of and who you can meet again and again.
I know that I tried my best to explore you in your feelings and thoughts, have been attracted to you, sometimes more then I could have dared to admit.
This life has been long, perhaps one of my longest. If not in years, then in the time I felt living.

I hope that if you want to cry over me, you will. As always I welcome your emotions. And then laugh out loud, drink and eat and celebrate.
You are here now, which means you were my friend. No matter what I have shared with you or you with me, know that I have valued every second of your presence. You have made me the richest I could be. Thanks to you, I had a live worth living.
No matter how many times, we fought and yelled and hated each other, we could not ignore. Thank you for that.

I hope I had time to say good bye to you in person. I hope I gave you a good long hug when we last met. Now, let me send you one ever lasting hug from beyond the vail.

It is on me now to believe that we will meet again in one life or another. Here on this planet full of green and blue wonders or somewhere else in space.

I am so thankful I met you. Now grab what ever is in front of you and let me lead you to a drink. Thank you, cheers and I love you.

*Writing a speech for my funeral seems more important then writing a will. Most people who know me, should also know that I expect a night long wake with music, loads of drinks and laughter. Like my grandma used to say, don’t cry for someone’s death, celebrate their life and laugh and drink and be merry in their memories. Everything else is just cynical.

Wedding, 2

Don’t thank me.
I have only existed yet.
Watched you.
Loosing it.
In a dark place.
Lighting inviting.
To loose it.
Where I saw you cry.
Where I saw you dance.
Where I saw you leave.
Drunken all over the place.
Perhaps you heard me cuss once.
Y’all beauty fucks me over.
And I drive you off the edge before you catch yourself.
Ending lonely.
Perhaps longing.
For the peace in in me.


Every time I meet someone for the 2nd time, I like to run a social experience.
Just being myself.
And today I made someone smile.
Just being myself.

And we won’t meet again.

I apologise for being so long.

You apologise for moving on.

How is it that we can sleep, but only alone?

Once it was told, we are protected.

But I have fallen out of faith and thought,

Life be damned, it’s never too short.

Also, can I lament my insecurities?

Oh, compassion.

It’s like holding a moth to a flame.

Just to feel the warmth in your voice again.

I answer unexpected.

I don’t expect.

I like to come out, when you may need—someone / me.

And cover your nerves with a cooling summer breeze.

Stakes are always high.

Show me your bad sides.

Perhaps take a leaf out of my book and pin them down in living colour and ink.

Your admittance of thought is freeing.

Your existence is a relieve.

Where is this coming from?
This trust.
No, trust.

The familiarity in this smile of a face.
This glow in your voice and the air in your eyes.

Greatest tenderness felt for’a friend.
It is not physical.
Until it expresses itself.
The form of a word.

Sometimes I want to spray all ya names onto the street.
Not to walk on them, but to jump up high and feel you all there, with me.

The form of a hug.
Sent out.



To keep the pain awake,
I dance solo,
And let you watch.

There is a little moon,
Behind clouds above,
In broad daylight.

In my head, I let tears stream down my cheeks.
On my cheeks, I feel their warm saltiness.

But, I let you watch, so I wont cry this time.
All strength is make believe.
I make myself believe!

The wishing, the pushing.
Smiles are real.
Feeding the thoughts, but not to pigs.

Thoughts as streams, don’t have to make sense.
Sensibilities, of hurt, may not be real.
But I should not worry.
But it worries me.
As I think—too much.

I watch those kids at the playground, watching their mothers watching them.
Autumn leaves.
And I still have not asked.
What makes you happy.