Some Days

Some days are

windows down cold beer in a cooler favorite songs on repeat all people invited bring your roommate bring your booze hell here have my pizza where do we wanna go next

days

Some days are

blankets drawn up shades never opened pillows scattered rewatch Happy Endings wait for the medication to work

days

and

Some days are

can't be bothered to flip a coin

days

Resist!

flags droop
leaflets tossed aside
glued to the pavement
by the rain

scattered protesters
wrapped in scarves
reconsider futility
at a young age

A Poem About Nothing

Life should be equal parts

desk, barstool, and bed.

Me, I’m just cowering under-

neath the desk,

too afraid to check for demons.

visualization should

help

but the venn diagramm

of what is good

for me

and

what I can stand

turned into two poles

dragging in opposite directions

my structure has so

• many headings
• and subheadings
• and references
• and bulletpoints

it’s static again

chaos

white noise

as my pen leaves scars on

the empty page

I run out of letters

to combine

#MMwird5

I had a great time at yesterday's 5 Year Mädchenmannschaft Birthday Party. It was the first time I took the stage with my texts without the band. The other two spoken word performers during my session Anne Prinsregentenheim and Jayrome C. Robinet were amazing and it was a great honor to share the stage with them. Throughout the day I met wonderful people and also learned a lot.

The 'setlist' of my texts so to speak was as follows:

Commune
Crisis at Starbucks
One Bench
A Moment
You and Him
Too.
Kids
Asti in the Train
Dilemma

Update: It was great meeting so many people at the party and I for the most part had a good time, but not everything was great: A panel on activism and internet, the penultimate part of the program, turned into a discussion of different criticisms of the Slutwalk Berlin. When confronted with the (absolutely correct!) criticism especially re: the reproduction of racist sentiments and the lack of inclusion of PoC, the representatives of the Slutwalk organisation team - both on the podium and in the audience - reacted in a manner that only confirmed the criticism. @accalmie wrote a better text on the incident and the problems of Slutwalk than I ever could, so I highly recommend you all go read it now: You Walk Alone.

Belgian Beers.

"What a pity
you have a boyfriend."
he moaned
between sips.

His friend just shrugged
and lit himself another cigarette.

"You'd love him."

Crisis at Starbucks

Hand in hand they
lost each other
between sips of foam
and swirls of caramel.

When they met, they
had to choose between
food and Foucault.

They'd both been
unhappy in happy relationships and
happy in unhappy relationships.

They joined forces,
became allies.
Countless days
 and even more nights,
afternoon walks and
midnight fights.
Distributed clothes and utensils
in their cabins
until they found a home. 

A home.

But between quiche forms and
high thread count bed sheets
they stopped talking.
Osmosis replaced communication.

So they went where
modern campaigns started.
To end it. To talk.

They took a final sip,
licked foam
off their lips,
opened their mouths
and -

"I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

They smiled. And it all came back.

One Bench.

One old couple
holding hands
on the park bench where
you kissed me for the first time
- carefully -
not spilling a drop
of the coffee I bought.

Chinese hipsters pass by
the old couple
sneers together
like they've done
for years
and will for
one more.

Too.

The
too slow walk of the
too young man -

too alone with his
too long beard framing his
too old face, his
too battered coat and
too worn out shoes, pulling a
too small cart
too full with
too many bags with
too few bottles -

reminds me that I -

too

- could be that man.

Just Like This.

On a night
     just like this
In a place
     just like this
Nothing special
     happened
And it was just
     fine.

The Man on the Corner

"The wind is the worst"
he nodded
barely holding on.

"but I'm used to the cold."
Snot freezes in his beard.

No one buys newspapers anymore.

Not For You

This song is not for you.
This beat is not for you.
This beer is not for you.
This laugh is not for you.
This dance is not for you.
This drink is not for you.
This street is not for you.
This house is not for you.
This kitchen is not for you.
These friends are not for you.
This room is not for you.
This bed is not for you.
This body is not for you.
- waking up your smile meets hers and you know:
This night was all about you.

Swirl

Out of a
swirl of voices
near and far,
abstract and crystal clear,
of joy, anger and
futility
a vague image develops:
Your mind.

ICE

tracks tracks tracks
tree!
tracks tracks tracks
tree!
tracks tracks tracks
tree!

suits racing
along tracks

work work work
free!
work work work
free!
work work work
free!

dig trenches 

through markets

buy buy buy

see!

buy buy buy

see!

buy buy buy

see!

like a deer 

in headlights

Heaps of Glass

Late September
wasps
parading around
the remnants of
summer's eve

Heaps and heaps
of glass
red wine
trickling down into
autumn day

D.

"C'mere, baby,
let me tell you how it is"
he said,
words spilling from
his mouth
like fishnets;
his lap a
landscape of regret,
reeking of a
stale, undead age.

Bad Influence

Every time I start to
think
I feel like I need a
drink
Maybe I should stop to read
Bukowski.

Dare

Ash fell
on the
D.A.R.E. sticker
on his
desk.

"Those were the days."
he thought
and coughed.

Troy.

Once
you stuffed them
into ships and huts
Reaping the
fruits of their labor
Denying them humanity.

Now
you stuff them
into blocks and jails
Reaping the
fruits of their labor
Denying them clemency.

A Dream.

Once I dreamt
of Jonathan Franzen.
We shared a sweater
and a cigarette.
Before I asked him
how to write
I finished my drink
and woke up.

Growing Up.

I was a father once
had silver-gray hair

then

I became a child
and finally knew
everything I would ever need.