Oslo // enten går det bra, –

Was ich am Weg finde
Einen Trödler.
Am Eingang wacht ein Rottweiler, aber er beachtet mich nicht.
Drinnen riecht es nach den Wohnungen abwesender Menschen.
Im Heizraum kann ich mir Schuhe und Taschen aussuchen.
Ich bleibe im Türrahmen stehen, weil mich die Privatheit überwältigt.
Vær så snill og holde orden her!!
Ingen som holder orden her.

Oder liegt die Ordnung gerade im Durcheinander? Ich gehe, ohne in die goldenen Schuhe geschlüpft zu sein, was ich jetzt, Wochen später, bereue.

Was ich am Weg finde
Kalte Fingerspitzen in den Jackentaschen.
Am Meer das Übergebliebene einer Möwe, sie liegt wie im Flug. Noch sind die Schwingen schwarz; in der Sonne täuschen Sie Krähenflügel vor.
Das ist das Meer, hier sterben die Möwen, nicht die Krähen.
Ich betrachte sie und betrachte mein eigenes Skelett in mir.
Mir fehlen die Flügel und die Krallen.
Meine Nase rinnt und ich gehe weiter.

Was ich am Weg finde
Kinderköpfe auf Konservendosen.
Kannibalische Nuance, feinste Leberpastete, aber von wem?
Wessen Spenderleber wurde hier abgepackt?
Ich wiege ein Döschen in der Hand.
Reich an Metall.
Reich an Öl, eigentlich.
Strahlend blau und blond und weiß und reich an vielem.
Ich lege die Dose zurück und kaufe eine Packung Karotten. Das trifft meinen Gusto besser.  

Was ich am Heimweg finde
Die Spuren der Nachtschwärmenden.
Das Vors[spiel] vor dem Höhepunkt der Nacht und  dem eventuellen Höhepunkt des Nachspiels, dann wenn alle von innen erglühen und kalte Hälse haben.
Kos deg, lille venn.
Der Rand der Pizza ist zu hart, aber kos deg mit Käse und Paradeissauce und Schinken oder Kinderleberpastete.
Kos deg, irgendeiner wird deinen Rest der Nacht schon wegräumen.
Ich schlage ein Stück Pizzarand in ein Taschentuch und nehme es am nächsten Tag mit zum Meer.
Mit zur toten Möwe.
Ich will die Lebenden füttern.
Sie schreien vom Himmel und verstehen nicht, was ich von ihnen will.
Das Randstück treibt am Fjordrand,
verschaukelt zwischen den Wellen, die ein Boot schlägt.
Irgendwann kann ich es nicht mehr sehen.

Tasse mit der Aufschrift: entweder geht es gut, oder es geht vorüber.

Dear nothingness

A bridge in Vienna, fogg surrounds everything

It was only recently that I crossed a bridge to get to work. The bridge was the same bridge as everytime I cross it. The handrail, the graffiti art, the cycleway, even the river beneath the bridge. But this time the world around was missing.

A spider web in the fogg

In this surrounding of wool-like exhalation, a spider’s web collection of drops anchored between here and there. And I remembered a German palindrome: Nebel // Leben, reflecting mist and life.

little ship covered in fogg

As I played the back and forth of Nebel-Leben-Nebel-Leben in my mouth, a boat went by, appearing and disappearing between the limitations of river and sky and everything in between.

Reprise my longing, dear old land.


When to Scotland, I came to admire the very beauty of tartan against a grey Scottish sky.

Smell my dried seaweed, the water was calling. Smell my salty breath, the wind chimed in.

I wandered off to see the sheep. Blackface sang a song about obstinacy and dandelion.

Then the land ended and sky became sea.

I hid away from the sun. The leaves scraped like abrasive tongues over my skin.

In the end, everything pointed me to the water. Away, away we go.


Basic Patterns of Derangement

roses tilbud
More attachment to a city
in its autumn heart I find not only the twilit cold
one could expect
at the end of October
but layered structures that seem to exist in the strangest places.

Walking Oslo once again I wish for more
eyes to notice
hands to feel
memory to not forget.

Just breathe on inconspicuously

Guess my thoughts, I say,
to myself (because there is no one else I could ask)
and I answer:

It would feel a little strange to be a Rumanian stray dog
in Constanța

but I could do worse,
chasing cars
chasing fleas
chasing my own shadow as long as there is a sun in the sky.


Intricacy of a simple thing.


Have you ever seen the peony’s bud?
It’s not much more than a tight oval.

But when the bud opens up,

the greatest petals
and carpels
and stigma

And while I inhaled the sweet rose’s scent
I couldn’t help but think that it’s a bit like the mind.

There is so much that the cranium
hides from the world.

You never


Try the pondering mind.

haeundae beach busan

I would spend 3000 ₩ on a pack of rice chips to feed the seagulls
and I would have their screams accompany me down the beach.

stone bridge

I would walk across to have a look on the other side (and maybe I would stay there.)

hills magnolia gyeongju

I would wait for the sun to set just to see the magnolia at nightfall (between burial mounds, it is death and short term life, as always.)

koi pond gyeongju

And I would be a Koi in cold pond water.

Probably it is all in your head.

The sun was out in the midmorning and I hope he found something interesting (probably a bug.)

I hope he will have someone to wrap his arms around when his heart gets heavy.

I hope everybody found their shoes again (or at least came to a mutual exchange)

and that he had a great day after all.

I hope they really liked the sound of flags in March wind

and that their next lives are going to be so much better.

I hope that he had all the right tools to fix what needed mending.

I hope we remember love.
I really do.



Let me be your mirror, soul.

On a mild mid-march day’s afternoon,
(the blossom was yet to come)
many a selfie was taken.

a teddy was carried through the Namdaeum market
(and I think it was half his owner’s size)

and someone finished his lunch and was pretty satisfied with it.

While some shared with pigeons

others guarded fluffy pyjamas. I might have gotten one (or not, would you?)

In the evening
the weather cooled down
and I found beasts (plastic paked)

who would have known.



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.