they pretend emotion

they pretend emotion
they present it in empty boxes
they wrap it in advertisements
they sell it with the little girl
they conjure up emotion
they present it as film action
of kidnap and murder
of the little girl
a standard plot
that never fails
the little girl as focus
of their career minds
the little girl lost
transferred to their bank accounts
emotionalism into money
gaining righteousness
from anima
it is easy to incite hatred
and to lead the herd
with propaganda

My mind is menstruating

My mind is menstruating
A flood of images into my mouth
Maybe – it’s a madness
Maybe I’ve never been myself

After the menstruation in dark night
Debts are paid, dogs no longer bite
Hair grows longer like a waterfall
Freedom fights for one and all

A flood of images like the smell of blood
Mixed with alcohol and love
Drunk I get on trays of shots
Dreams to clear away like blots

I open up the page of light
New and bright, like beetles there
Take it or leave it, I don’t care

After the menstruation in the bright sea
The monsters sleep in the light of day
You are free the gremlins too go away

Menstruating poetry
Without the use of illegal substances
I can write like death

You do not need a judge to be in a prison
Love walks with you there to die
So bad is the need for love in this world of the lie
If it comes to this – Do ask why?

After menstruation there’s new love to find
Scattering the signs
like the crosses that mean life
With new eyes

The day of talking flesh

The day of talking flesh
Is ending soon
Stars like birds exploding
In Berlin’s dusty saloon

The day of flesh is ending
Mirrors fly everywhere
The bible blues are bending
The train tracks in the air

Nightmares collect together
For one last dread onslaught
The day of flesh is ending
Winding down to nought

Goes the bells of bullying
Goes the wages of war
Goes the thoughts of tyrants
Goes the mischief of human law

The day of flesh is ending
Its yardsticks broken in a heap
The owls will sing a new song
To the babies asleep

If I could speak to my psychologist

If I could speak to a psychologist
I would come out of my tempest
Flying down from the sky, I
Sitting on the couch would die

If I could speak to a psychologist
Leaving the battle with the witch
Crawling through the lava cave, I
Sitting on the couch would die

If I could speak to a psychologist
From the tombstones in the mist
With the glowing balls of sea, I
Sitting on the couch would die

If I could speak to a psychologist
I’d terminate the tragic quest
with the moonlight in my eye, I
Sitting on the couch would die

Being lost, failing to exist
Like a snake in chains, I try
Out of deserts hot and dry
Sitting on the couch to die

A face in shreds

The Iranian children
Had the work
Of putting back together
The shredded strips of paper
Of the six diplomats
Who worked at the American embassy

Now in hiding
And faceless
In a dark room
In the Canadian ambassador’s residence

Look said one child
I have half a face now
One diplomat dreamed
He had half a face

Look said another child
This face looks like it’s behind bars
Another diplomat
Dreamed of looking through prison bars
One child could not find
All of the strips
That made up his photo
Perhaps they had been burned
In the fire

One diplomat
Dreamed that his face was on fire

One child could not find
Amongst the heaps of shredded paper
Any face at all

Look said the soldier
This face is missing
From the dream file
One diplomat
Who didn’t have any dreams
At least felt confident

One child
Was horrified to see
A faceless hanged man
Swinging from a crane
And went home in tears

That was my face
Said the child
In one diplomat’s dream

A child had a complete picture
Of a diplomat
Who woke up in the night
And staring into the mirror
Saw his face in shreds


A thorn bird came into my life
With wings made of stinging nettles

Where did you get
Your thorns from? I asked
Why are your wings
Made from stinging nettles?

She could not remember how
She could not remember
Her blue, blue wings
Or her golden crest
Or her long, long black tail

But she stays here until the full moon turns red
Talking of conflict and misunderstandings
sleeping where the cat slept
rolling up in the cold blanket of the night

her plumage is spotted with the blood of kisses
beneath her is a lake of tears
a crown of thorns was her greatest gift
and love has been her endless quest

Life – momentarily

I can’t believe it
Life is here
It tickles inside me
It is laughter melting

Something has succeeded
A prayer has rooted down
That the darkness cannot fight
A spirit of birth

When each thought
accepted the other
In the mind

When each feeling
Is placed chromatically
In the heart

Begins its circumnavigation

After the explosion
Has drained away
The water level returns
Better than before

Sing to God
a psalm of everything
sing To God
Everything in a psalm