Written musings/ Poetry

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Before Corona and after

And I don't mean the beer.
I mean the fear
of being near
you or you.
And I so wanted to hug
you or you
more,
express my care,
express my love
through touch

no more.

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Memories can be heavy
heavy on one's chest
the heaving chest.
Heavy heaving
Not just of childhood, 
but of
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Today I raked the leaves. It was a nice pastime. It passed some of my time and I spent it outside. Afterwards I could see the result: A clear driveway. Cleared from all the leaves. A man walked past and said: When you're done, can you do mine? I said: Sorry? He repeated: When you're done here, you'll come do mine. I said, Yeah, glad to have understood: sure... and somewhat laughed. Now I am thinking, you know what? I will come do yours. It's a nice way to pass the time. I will spend it outside and doing someone a favour. Clear their driveway, clear their heads. It sure cleared my head. 

Of course I never did go do his nor anyone else's for that matter, and I never did get a rake for myself to do this on a more regular basis, like this one moment had made me want to do. 

Why do we keep going against our grain?

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Grapes.
Shapes.
Pleasure.
A beginning, so sweet,
an end, so certain.

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WUT.
(The first word that comes to my mind. Because the first word is always German.)

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This urge

This urge
this dread
this...
To create dangerously
but not finding a beginning
Wading in the aftermath
of the written.
Words
wanting to spill from swollen
lips
This urge to be heard,
to speak,
to cry out loud:
I am here
knowing that some day I won't be

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Fremdling

They send me pictures,
videos, 
call me.
They request
to see me,
hear me
now. 
They demand. 
They.
They are visiting Turkey.
A city with the name Viransehir.
A city, a name, so far, so out of reach.
The mind's reach. 
My mind's.
Blurred pictures of women in scarves,
in mountains, with traditional face paintings.
Or tattoos? 
I don't know for sure. 
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Anger towards feeling buried in myself.
Who has the shovel?
Who the soil?
Open up the ribs,
reveal yourself. 
I wanna say
to my self
being buried in myself. 

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At the tip of this pen,
release.
At the tip of my tongue,
almost.
The tip of the iceberg,
melting,
fast.

The cherry on top?
At ease.

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PAIN
E
N

SCHMERZ
T
I
F
T

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When things consume me, they consume me.
So, I have to choose with care what I will consume, because I could be consumed.
And, 
if I'm already consumed
by things I had consumed before,
I would be eaten alive. Swallowed whole. 
by all that's out there
to consume. 

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I somewhat laughed
Somewhat?
Yes.
You mean you grinned?
No, I made a sound.
The sound of a grin?
No, the sound of a laugh.
So, you laughed?
No, I somewhat laughed.
So, you smiled?
No, I somewhat laughed.
How do you somewhat laugh?
You snicker. 
So, you giggled?
No. 
Scoffs and signs off. 

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you know when
...hm?
You know when you
hmm...
Are you scrolling?
Yes. You got me. Funny how you can tell.
It's a certain type of silence. So, you know when you print out a text and don't read it?
Yeah
Did you hear what I said?
Sorry I am listening now. What did you say?
I said...
Are you scrolling now? 
YES! *laughs*
I started when you were and now I'm stuck. Sucked in. My thoughts blank. 
Okay, let's hang up and chat later.
Sure. 

Of course we never did "chat later". 

Why do we let ourselves get sucked into the aether?
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On the current condition: 

The new Soft. Decay okay. Thrive in a new coat. By Mould.

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The fear of death dictates my days,
it lingers and looms,
so certain awaits. 

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My only self-indulgence is me.

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The Tale of the Humble Turd. 

This is the tale of the humble turd.

The humble turd seldom was perturbed and when it looked in the mirror, it saw a diamond. Unpolished - yet, so clearly, a diamond. Now, it wouldn't be a humble turd if the turd was in fact a diamond. Indeed, this then would not be the tale of the humble turd but instead the tale of the humble diamond. And, would it be humble; the diamond, if it spent its days in front of the mirror polishing itself? Wouldn't it in turn rather just be a diamond and then this would be the tale of the diamond and not the tale of the humble turd? And - isn't it so much more lovely; a tale of a humble turd rather than a tale of a diamond? 
And so ends the tale of the humble turd; the turd that knew, deep down beneath its layers; that it was in fact a diamond. 

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Some publications: 

Poetry as part of the Poetry Hour (Birthday Mix) by resident host Dustbreeding on Movement Radio: 

https://movement.radio/podcast...: