Buried Bliss and Comfort’s Fast Decay


Winter came late this time and

as I strolled Warsaw’s cobblestone pavement

as my hands were pressed against the insides of my pockets

as I found snowflakes in the corners of my squinted eyes, making my sight blurry,

I met a lady outside of her shop.

She stood there and had a smoke, a cold one. A smoke with wind in the back of her neck and around her ankles.

„Warsaw is rather cruel to you“, I said, but I guess she didn’t hear me.

Maybe I didn’t say it out loud.

The Inevitable Desperation of a December Fly.


Cold leaked through the window frame and there

not moving not turning its head not rubbing its legs

sat a fly.

I bend to examine it closely.

Its wings were a perfectly symmetrical veil.

As I took a picture, I realised that it was soon to die and felt blasphemous.


Privat Residues

Writings on the Wall

I came across a street, more a lane, let’s say, the corner of a lane,

and there on the wall were writings.

Old ones and new ones.

It made me sad to look at them for no other reason


that nothing stays and once no one will remember.


Wachau Frühlingswiese

Ich weiß nicht, wo du die letzte Zeit über warst

und ich will es auch nicht wissen,

wenn ich ehrlich bin,

ist es gut gewesen ohne dich.

Aber jetzt bist du zurück und die Leute freuen sich und gehen hinaus und sagen Schau, wie schön es ist in der Sonne und brechen Kirschblüten ab und stellen sie zuhause in eine Vase.

Herr Träumer, Herr Weltenerwecker, ich möchte doch viel lieber schlafen.