I leave it up to you

It keeps on raining – a constant stream. It never ceases. I see the steam. Things are boiling underground. When they reach the surface, they barely make a sound. A trifle’s smaller still and yet, I cannot stop thinking about it. It consumes me completely. I am my thought. My thought is nought. And thus this existential dread. I try to remain calm, try to keep a cool head. You’d better, you’d better, you bet. I pass every waking hour just like the night – in bed. The ocean keeps eroding the coast and with every gulp of tea, my insides burn up. Every cigarette smokes out new demons. Every drop of whisky tames the beast within and all I can think of is: I sin. There’s no heaven above, just the ground underneath. And I hear them shovelling already, can taste – from your tears – grief. I leave it up to you how you wish to remember me. I leave it up to you what the world will see. What they will write about me, how they will sigh, thinking of me. All of this life will cease to be. A decrescendo, a fading-out. And in my head everything’s just loud. Your breath, the rain, the insufferable pain – all is lost and nothing is to gain. For crying out loud – if only my voice weren’t muffled. You would see that while I lied still, my feet still shuffled. A measly rest, still kicking to avoid that final rest. Shade in the dark. Contrasts so stark. No light where the tunnel’s yet to dig. I leave it up to you to pick me up like a fragile twig. I leave it up to you whether I am worth saving or not. I tried to go it alone – I gave it my best shot.

The need to write

The daily scribbles need their room to breathe

I jot down lines, the remedy for Lethe

My heart palpitating, I become short of breath

To not marry paper and ink would mean death


Whether paper and pen or papyrus and quill

The result of the day shall never be nill

I consume the news as though I needed it to live

Ink not blood, royal blue is all I can give


Rhymes and rhythm and rolling R’s

I can’t bear to not write when I sit on my arse

Shuffling my feet, tapping my fingers

In search for that word that on my lips lingers


I must find the right phrasing

Invoke in my reader the praising

Of all that comes straight from heart to paper

Of words grand and little, I want to be the shaper


A world full of grey and yet my future’s black on white.

I know just two things: I must write. I must write.



In defense of paradoxical behaviour

Paradoxical behaviour is not always hypocrisy. In fact, the over-inflationary use of the term hypocrisy is but the well-intentioned yet misinformed expression of a culture in which saving face is paramount. If you’re resolute, if you’re steadfast, if you have a clear idea of who you are and what you stand for, the world admires you.

I, for one, cannot claim any such certainty, nor do I especially desire it. Sure, it would be easier sometimes to just join a certain camp and never waver from a certain position. Yet, how intellectually disingenuous to claim to be in possession of the “one” truth or solution to any given problem and how unwiser still to hold on to the result of an equation even as the equation itself changes. New input, new output, one might think. Yet I marvel at the many rose-hued glasses available to what sometimes seems like anyone but me through which new input is altered in its perception to fit the same old result.

Laconic as I may be in spoken word, it does not seem too far fetched to compare me to a waterfall when I write. I am at once both liberal and conservative, hold opposing values all at once, try to further my understanding of issues big and small, may they pull me to the left or to the right. Certainty is scarce while hesitance is the order of the day most out of a year’s 365. A lackluster performance at making up one’s mind at best. Some may call it volatility, inability to come to a conclusion, a flaw of character or – worse still – lack of character altogether. Yet, I am very well capable of drawing conclusions, I just provide them with the caveat that they are not finite and, rather, subject to revision once new information is available that may alter my understanding of any particular subject.

So when I vote for one party one day and another come around next election day, when I drink tea on Monday and coffee on Tuesday, when on the occasion of frequenting my favourite restaurant, I choose to go off the beaten path and try a new dish on the menu… all of this could be seen as hypocrisy or at least as indecisiveness, yet none of it is. It is simply living free of the constraints imposed upon oneself ever too frequently by one’s opinion of what a steady, respectable man ought to think and do: that more than substance, it is form that counts. It is, thus, with pride that I can say that leading one’s life hopping from one paradoxical behaviour to the next is – more than eccentricity – to put substance over form and to thus exalt content above any principle of personal pride, foreseeability and respectability.

Respect is owed not to the man who never wavers from his position, but to the man who is brave enough to abandon a sinking ship when his intellect commands him to build a new ark, made of oak more flexible and yet stronger than that of the ship whose command he held no longer than two minutes ago. It is only then that he can say: steady as she goes, because she will finally go: ever onwards, onwards ever.

Of all the faculties one is endowed with, the ability to change one’s mind must in fact be the most precious one, or at least on par with any other abstract intelligence or problem-solving skill one might possess. To do away with the term “hypocrisy“, to recognize the human condition and to allow for swift changes of opinion may yet be the hardest but also the noblest task of intellectualism in the 21st century. The way forward is not a single street. It is a maze made up of darker as well as more brightly lit alleys. Allow yourself to venture each one and never cease to self-reflect.

Vires acquirit eundo.



This is goodbye

This is goodbye. I’ve weathered one too many storms.

This is goodbye. I could write my short biography in tomes.


I’ve been tested, I’ve been tried and I’ve seen that I’m for turning.

I’ve lived fast-paced, I’ve almost died of regrets, seen memories burning.


So farewell to life, farewell to the strife on who decides on my legacy.

That it should come to this, the torch held high: that of lunacy.


This is goodbye. No country to be buried in as my own.

This is goodbye. On the ocean’s waves, I shall be the foam.


A field full of poppies, yet no one remembers the blood.

Excuse me, it’s soppy, but I shall go now with the flood.


It is self-derision which I have mastered above all else.

It is self-demolition upon which the world now dwells.

As I say my goodbyes, anguish brandishes its sword.

And to all who would listen, this is my final word.


Cœur cloisonné

Cœur cloisonné, tête enrobée

Par des fragrances de jadis

Des boucles encadrées d’or, fait de lapis

Qui me font maladroitement tomber


Cœur cloisonné, corps envoûté

Par ta peau souple

Forme-t-on un couple ?

Ou peut-être plus qu’un — ajoutez !


Cœur cloisonné, poumon ouvert

Entre des soupirs et des gémissements

Entre tes seins et tes avances du moment

Je veux respirer un peu d’air


Cœur cloisonné, cœur qui bat

Pour plus qu’une personne

Au rythme hors de norme

Cœur qui travaille le sabbat


Cœur fixé par des chevilles

Plus qu’une fois réparé

Plusieurs fois réanimé

Cœur sans propre famille
Cœur cloisonné, pâleur exquise

La fragilité de tes mouvements

Tes doigts qui le tracent jalousement

Tout innocent, toi qui me vises


Mon cœur — mes mœurs — ricaneurs


Addiction in verse #2

I can almost remember the innocent days

When not one single problem had me fazed

When feelings were dealt with and not suppressed

When a defunct coping-mechanism didn’t give me the rest

When skies seemed blue, yet not melancholic

When I wasn’t yet a sexaholic

Love seemed optional and not compulsive

I reflected, was not impulsive

I can almost remember what that felt like

To be free of constraints, to not need a psych

I can almost remember the taste in my mouth

That was different in the days of voluntary drouth

I can almost remember confiding in friends

In their hours of need, holding their hands

All that seems almost within reach

Yet this contract, I constantly breach

Which I have with myself, more or less binding

Keeps me for affection still pining

Nothing can fill this void although to fill it I try

At the end of the day – huddled in my bed – I cry

Addiction has robbed me again of my feelings

Emptiness, headache, sadness, no meaning

I can almost remember the lines, intertwined

Different paths; many a pleasant pasture to find

Now as so often, I stand again at the beginning

When really, I am batting in the umpteenth inning

Addiction still brings relief

Addiction still brings grief

Addiction’s still a thief

Still robs man of belief

How dare I act out? How dare I not fight? How dare I? How dare I? How dare I?




A day like this

Was it a day like this, when it all went to the dogs?

Was it a day like this, the sun shining, no cloud above?

Something stirred within me, left me in the fog.

I cried that day, I lost all hope in love.


Was it a day like this, where shapes started to become blurry?

Was it a day like this, when a sharp pain hit me in the groin?

My portrait besmirched like a failed attempt at restoration.

The mirror fallen into pieces, broken glass on the floor.


Was it a day like this or was it a day like yesterday

When everything seemed bleak and even the crow shed a tear

Was it a day like last week, when all hell broke loose?

When the voice inside kept wishing for the noose?


Was it something akin to the hope of liberation?

Was it being fed up with damned stagnation?

Resignation gave rise to a revolt inside.

From inaction sprung forth action, something died.


Was it a day like this when hope lost was found again?

When nothing could be lost and everything was to be gained?

It was a day like this, on which the downwards spiral started.

Today it goes upwards, thoughts nary to be thwarted.


Es regnet wie in Strömen

Und ich höre nur das Dröhnen

Der Bässe, satt wie das Grün des Laubs.

Die Regentropfen sammeln sich auf meiner Haut.

Es riecht nach Frühling, es schmeckt der Tee.

Auf der Wiese, gesaumt von Tropfen, wächst der Klee.

Helmut Schmidt hat seine letzte Zigarette schon geraucht.

Wie Reinhard Mey, nach dem letzten Glas im Stehen abgetaucht.

Es donnert, es blitzt, Spektakel der Natur.

Die Luft ist rein, von Feinstaub keine Spur.

Entlang der Spree, sind Menschen in Galerien,

Fabulierend über südliche Ökonomien.

Im Berghain herrscht wie immer schon der Vollrausch.

Im Bundestag debattiert man noch den Informationsaustausch.

Am Potsdamer Platz regieren Schlips und Krawatte.

Am Köpi gibt es am ersten Mai Krawalle.

Und die Menschen schauen von Ost nach West.

Von der Mauer von einst bleibt nur ein kläglicher Rest.

Die Busfahrer freundlich, die Verwaltung ein Kampf.

Mit dem Fahrrad unterwegs, überall riecht es nach Hanf.

Das Catering vom Spanier schmeckt, die Kanzleikultur stimmt.

Sehnt euch nach dieser Stadt, sie packt euch bestimmt.

Es regnet wie in Strömen,

Es weht der Wind.

Und das Wetter übernimmt

Ein Startup, weil wir hier unternehmerisch sind.




World affairs

Have I gone mad or is it the world?

Stones and insults, at everything hurled.

I cannot remember a better time

Yet it must have been there,

It must have been mine.


I cannot imagine a future not bleak

Yet hope does not die,

In fright, reaches its peak.


Have I gone mad or is it the world?

Stones and insults, at everything hurled.


A shoe has been thrown.

A sign of disrespect.

Retaliation: a drone.


A mirror is broken.

A certain neglect.

Fragmentation: outspoken.


Have I gone mad or is it the world?

Stones and insults, at everything hurled.


Have I gone mad or is it the world?

Insanity just unfurled.


Give me the remote

I can’t possibly know what to do,


You want me to be someone else,


He can’t guess what you want,


We cannot be each other’s pillar,


They will try to divide us,



And with each drumroll, news became clearer: War against North Korea.


It used to be the Russians. It is the Russians all over again.


At least we have an enemy. At least the people are sold.


You put a crown of daisies on your head. You reign over this flowery kingdom.


I can’t tell which is louder, the fighter jets or the TV.


Stop Screaming!

A stifled scream. A muffled heartbeat. Life pulsating through my veins.


I want to be somewhere remote.

North Korea? Not remotely.