Saturday, March 09, 2013


[..I said to Barbara, I said]

I’m writing my book, making my costumes and playing me

I think I am rather good
remembering all those lines that could
have once made a difference
when sunsets felt real,
 beyond their damaged magnetic fields
I sang, I danced, I concurred
and when my sword bent from my knees
 and I couldn’t cry anymore
I walked on burning coal through the icy rain
to embrace the forgotten

I keep on writing my book

I pierce my ears, die my hair, conjure the dark forces
and anchored by fear I deliver
touching, exhilarating, borderline shocking
live entertainment
half brave, half pushed
sometimes merely there
I remember the lights,
blinding they are, hallowing they are

I keep on wearing my costumes

children rush to me like lambs to their mother-sheep
and their smiles, joy and clapping
are worth a whole sun and one bright half of a Moon
we lick ice-cream together,
 get colds together
make sticker-charts together and
sit on the naughty step together
and after dark - and only after dark – we pray to not have to pray again


keep reading
turn the page to the scene
 with the guy who locked the rare wounded dove in a cage
and the woman who loved too much, laughed too much, wore too much lipstick
and her depressed chiwawa
and keep playing me
 Sunday to Sunday

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