Die gelbe Tapete

it’s not just the weather you

hate about my country, I know

the colours of mud & indifference

the heavy skies, too little fun yet

too-much-meaning-people, nation

of loneliness and contempt

hostility as a hobby

constant reek of self-important

men with sagging

cheeks, their poems shaping

the last century like wooden

bars on both sides of a broken shin

and then the cold, the rain and

the harsh rules that made us who

we are; clouded is my second name

I’m used to gardens that were not

allowed to touch each other, I grew

up among men trying to be funny

and sometimes succeeding

I grew up wearing sunglasses, I grew

up collecting lizard’s tails, I grew up

annoyed with apparently not enough

hardship in my life—I grew up for you

to find me, I guess, between rain barrels

listening to the noise of wet heavens

gushing over my face, washing it

away, I grew up to meet someone

who didn’t know me before, so I would

have to explain myself

and let the raindrops talk instead

do they say brutalist – I wouldn’t

know, because I’m not a well-

defined man: but the church

in its grey assembly of walls—

a concrete burden— brings

suits to mind, dark ties, an afternoon

with a late 50s stench, no light.

clouds cower in the brittle air, it

is February, of course, all through

the street the echo of meat

being beaten. poetry by puffy-

eyed men, slightly sad, without

any space for women

to exist on their own. the grass

smells of rain, the lawns smell

of boredom. I was raised in

gardens like these, I can’t say

I like them, but they are

familiar, they’re a part of me,

which is why your taunt stings

and I only ever felt

safe in the passenger’s seat

except for one occasion

but the car wasn’t moving

then, nor was I

I like being driven

around, in cars that have seen

the coast of England, Austrian

places, middles of nowhere

in cars that carried

paintings & second-hand books

in every nook, small and old

cars, dust- & cinnamon-scented

I like leaning back

while someone steers

and talks to me as if

we weren’t vulnerable

I like the intimacy of cars

I like giving my life into

someone’s hands

I like loud music and speed

in cars, I like sitting next

to a woman who knows

something about arrivals

and being late

a woman who

swears, a woman who

relaxes, a woman who

loves me or who, at

least, wants to make sure

I get home

this could be an ode

to the women who drove

me places: to train stations,

bus stops and airports, chatting

and calming and cussing, hands

holding the wheel in a

knowing grip

in traffic, you can get to

know someone sideways,

and love them without

being noticed; passenger’s

seats are for danger & adoration

I imagine Vyvyan as a

responsible driver, but eyeing

the opportunities for an accident,

feet twitching, ambulance,

emergency & fractures on his mind

should he give his flatmates

a lift, they might briefly

forget about mortality—with Vyv

there is pain but there’s no

blood, only stars, four cold

silver stars on his forehead