Die gelbe Tapete

there is a book I do not want

to read, but have to, and another

one I need to write, but can’t

feeling bad is always

an option, but instead

of crying, I could read

poetry to you

you’re so much more in charge of your life than I am

two years ago in front of temporary friends

I lay down with

my eyes closed and wasn’t

able to tell directions, distances

or exits—I

kept spinning

endlessly because

I can’t take hold of anything, I can’t

hold hands

I wish I could see the world

in the way I write about it

I wish I believed in

my description of people

I wish I was the person

behind the poem

I wish you would take off

both your necklaces

and let me lick you underneath

the scarier it gets the fiercer

I want you—the pleasanter

it gets the harder

I want you too, I want you

both above

and underneath, I want you

at five am, saying you want to

fuck me forever, I want you

to miss me whenever I get up

to take a piss

I know there are rules—for

poetry, for privacy, for my own

safety; I just don’t know where

I left myself, just as I don’t

know why your scent appears

suddenly, I only know

I have to live with that, like

I live with this body of

pixie dust and brass knuckles

do you wanna know why I never run? I simply

don’t feel like it. It’s not that I hate it, the way I

hate calling a woman „a lady“ – like the person

who lives next door, who talks to her cat at 5

in the morning; by her voice I imagined her

having a full head of wiry hair, broad

and scratchy like her questions, annoyed,

like I’ve been annoyed with her; I acknowledge her

through the walls and am, just tonight, grateful for

her presence, while cursing her on other

days. that’s life, that’s me – you should count

on my insults, they will surely come. For now

I am content to put ribbons on entrances

where people don’t expect them: public

toilets, cemetaries, the broken

neck of a pidgeon run over by a bus. Heal

the spine. I practised that many times and

am now an expert. My head wants to kneel

though, or snap at the sight of simple houses

that I declared monuments. Loosely, the keys

confide in each other, rustling, in the pocket

of my coat. They think I’m dangerous but luckily

not for them. I cherish the chill of their obedient

metal and feel my heartbeak

parroting inside my chest. Do you want a

cracker? Remember the word, remember the

feeling. I want that same feeling, again. I want

to practise, practise on a spine. Delicate blood

that I will curl the ribbon around so gently, chalky

vertebrae, gory keyhole, expert opening.

fingers must not stop

their stubborn work of getting rid

of layers – if I am

not peeling anything off

surfaces, I am not satisfied

the white blood of the potato

in my fingers’ ridges

should remind me of

survival, that it might seem

worth it for a short time

I walk past a demo

and feel so ashamed

of being lovesick

there are things

more important

than feelings

but if it weren’t for

feelings, those things

wouldn’t be important

would they

pink like a spot

of creamy toothpaste

this week’s discharge

on the paper in my hands

in my hands, in my

hands – a week

ago my thoughts were spun

of the same

silk each – runny syllable

extensions

beady threads of

prefix, precum

ovulation ruckus

milky way

a pink weak and soft

spot on the inside I

regained my plank to

put across the fever

pit and shield my

soles from the licking

flames

everytime nobody is

thinking of me

I take a secret break

all I hear is you typing <3 <3 <3

are these the cravings they told us

about, is that your naked ass next

to the dog in the picture

Marian, I am back with a

van and a vengeance, driving you

out to the sea to destroy your pussy

for dinner

we were both busy loving people

as they are, but who was more

successful, Marian

you refused to look at me, I didn’t

want to see you, Marian

now face to face you shall repeat

your hair, or is it mine you are

repeating, Marian

yes, I have everything you ever

wanted – all your tits and pouts

for nothing, Marian

we have to work with what

we’ve got, but some of us do

not need work at all

this ain’t over till we found true love

I tell you, I can tell this

is not over yet, my love

but how do I approach you, Marian

he’s forcing me to write love

poems for him again like

he’s forcing everything

on me

dagger against my throat or

cuffing me to a desk with a

quill and a bottle of ink over

empty pages – I would like

to think so

would like to imagine my rain-

stained clothes and dripping wet

frown while he squeezes

my jaw, mockingly lifts my

chin up to hear me hiss

curses as I grudgingly obey

the cruel prince; I am

the young viscount, I know

grief but I am trouble, the kind

of trouble he loves

to be in

he takes, ah, such pleasure

in corrupting me, in taming

my resistance: fear-driven

and prey to vanity, he knows

a poet when he sees one

he knows me

I’m afraid he might, I am

scared he could

know me