Daneben

Ich lebe völlig neben wir,
Nicht bei, mit oder unter dir,
weil ständig auf der Flucht vor mir.

Dazwischen die Wände aus Papier
Nur eine Frage, jetzt sage mir:
Was mache ich eigentlich noch hier?

Werbeanzeigen

Leer

Er ist leer, mein Tank
Was ich brauch‘, heißt Neuanfang
Wo find‘ ich, was ich such‘?
Doch nicht auf der Flucht
Vor dir, vor mir
Vorm Jetzt und Hier

Leben unter

Weit und breit ist keine Hand in Sicht,
Die dich hält,
Wenn das Leben seine Wellen bricht,
Wenn das alles hier zusammenfällt.

Leben unter
Meine Seele ist in Seenot
Geraten, Verraten, alle Liebe verbraten

Leben unter
Meine Lungen bäumen sich auf,
Bis der Atem mir stockt

Wo ist das Schlauchboot, wenn man es braucht?

J (One of Us)

So it’s one of these days and about twelve o’clock
When he was about to be reeled and dragged to leave us in shock
Clutched in his cuffed hands he was holding a book
It is by Gore Vidal, if you have had had a closer look

The author has died about seven years ago
Now in three months, as it goes to show
Do you know the title „I told you so“?
„History of The National Security State“ is what he was holding though

Vienna cried, when coincidentally after a seventh year
Lenin invited bobbies to invade his embassy
Carved in red brick and white wood, yet inside so drear
For International Law it was the state of emergency

What if J was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home?

So, it was one of these days in late February
When Ecuador went for an economical hail mary
What’s the price tag on a head worth to be chopped?
Well, under a 4.2 billion dollar contract signatures swapped

It only seems yesteryear as someone was saying
„Veni, vidi … murdered“, and willingly paying
(What’s the fuss about, „Can’t we just drone this guy?“)
A campaign after Benghazi’s mission has gone awry

Turns out it never was her might to fight with delight
The electorate voted for someone more on the right
With Trump and Moreno in juncture at military pace
The World Department of Justice took on to J’s case

What if J was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home?

Trumped up the charges that fitted #MeToo
Rape and a bail jumped – now that wasn’t new
Neither to Sweden, nor the UK or any the like
those charges already dropped were pretence to land a whole different strike

To silence a man that has published to you
Crimes of the rich and the mighty – who knew?
Collateral damage is what was used to describe
Civilial killings in targeted strikes, money been taken for bribe,

Elections been won by institutional liars
More cables released and helping a man walking on wire
After revealing the mass survaillance of the power that be
Edward Snowden succeeded to flee

What if J was one of us?
Just a slob like one of us?
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home?

A prime minister stumbling and stalling is clutching at straws
By suggesting nobody is above the law
She has never been elected to office
Article 50? She is stepping above this

They will be trying to make short shrift of a man
I hope you’re getting my drift, I know that you can
Stripped of asylum, citizenship, facing extradition to jail
As requested by the U.S. for letting you glimpse into hell

Because investigation and tinker don’t mingle
Journalism’s purpose better be single
To write what be told from the office above
Yours surely, the alphabet boys sending their love

What if J was one of you?
Just a scribe like one of you?
Just an editor at a desk
Trying to let truth seep out to the rest?

Just trying to let you know
Who has been running the show
Instead of „Even so“, „Moscow“, „Apropos“, „That was long ago“, „Why can’t you just let it go?“
Shouldn’t you be like „Guantanamo!“, „Collateral murder video“, „Army against refugee boat“, „Spying on world leaders and the Average Joe“, „Chapeau to him that made the whistle blow“?

J is one of us
J is a son, a father and a brother
Trying to make his way home

We are all Julian

This is for free speech, Daniel Ellsberg, Edward Snowden, Chelsea Manning, Julian Assange and for the numerous other whistleblowers around the world.

Again music lyrics inspired this text. I might make a habit out of this.

Departing a little farther from the original than in this piece I didn’t link to the „lyrical template“ above, but here you go.

Mr. American Spy

I felt like it needed altered lyrics … the day journalism died

Bye-bye, Mr. American Spy …

A long, long time ago
I can still remember how his revelations made me smile
And he knew if he had his chance that he could make a people’s stance
And maybe they’d be happy for a while
But April made me shiver
With every paper they’d deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn’t take one more step
I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about this warhead bribe
But something touched me deep inside
The day that journalism died
So bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
And them greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
Singin‘ „This’ll be the day that he dies
This’ll be the day that he dies“
Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in God above
If the Bible tells you so?
Now do you believe in lock and load or can journals save your mortal soul
And can I teach you how to take a blow?
Well, he knows that you’re in love with war
‚Cause he saw you firing from a drone
You killed off fathers, mothers and the youth
Man, I loath the rhythm and the blues
Of you unleashing hellfire and digging bucks
With a carnage and a load of pickup trucks
But he knew he was out of luck
The day that journalism died
I started singin‘ bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
The greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
Singin‘ „This’ll be the day that he dies
This’ll be the day that he dies“
Now for 7 years he’s been on his own, and tents grow in front of Hans Crescent
But that’s not how it’s supposed to be
When the UN finds his detention arbitrary
And the UK turns on them, and everybody contrary
Oh, and while the cat was looking down
the asylum agreement was just torn
The courtroom was adjourned
No verdict was returned
And while Lenin read a book on Marx
A quartet practised in the park
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day that journalism died
We were singin‘ bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
The greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
Singin‘ „This’ll be the day that he dies
This’ll be the day that he dies“
Helter-skelter in an embassy shelter, the bobbies flew in with a welter
A dozen men strong and dragging fast
He didn’t pace, nor did he pause, stayed true to the cause
When they were ignoring laws
Now the courtroom air was foul perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune
We all took our chance
Oh, and took a stance
‚Cause the betrayers tried to take the field
But we were an impervious shield
Do you recall what was revealed
Before journalism died?
We shouldn’t be singin‘ bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
The greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
And singin‘ „There’ll be a day that he dies
There’ll be a day that he dies“
Oh, and there we were all in one place, a generation lost in space
With no time left to start again
So there came Lenin, bein‘ nimble, Lenin bein‘ quick, throwin‘ America a stick
‚Cause a buck’s the devil’s only friend
Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage
No angel born in hell
Could break that Satan’s spell
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day that journalism died
He was singin‘
bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
The greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
And singin‘ „This’ll be the day that he dies
This’ll be the day that he dies“
I met a girl who sang the blues, and I asked her for some happy news
But she just smiled and turned away
I went down to the sacred store where I’d heard the news years before
But the man there said the news wouldn’t comply
And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day that journalism died
And they were singin‘ bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
The greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
And singin‘ „This’ll be the day that he dies
This’ll be the day that he dies“
They were singin‘ bye-bye, Mr. American Spy
He dug heavy, and the well of lies wouldn’t run dry
The greedy boys were drinkin‘ whiskey and rye
And singin‘ „This’ll be the day that he dies
This’ll be the day that he dies“

Traumwellen

Der Schlaf –
eine gewittrige Nacht
auf hoher See
Traumwellen
schlagen mit poseidonischer Heftigkeit
gegen’s Unterbewusstsein
und wühlen den gesamten Körper
auf und ab
Er wälzt sich
zwischen Wellental und Wellenberg
Bis Oberkante Unterkante Matratze
erhebt sich die blaue Finsternis
bis es Morgen dämmert
und die Traumwellen
in wolkenloser Früh branden
An Deck!
Auf Wachposten

A Sonnet to Jekyll & Hyde

Sun was looming from your lips,
and grace controlled your gait,
but your words turned into whips.
By then it was too late.

Jekyll, I fell for you,
but was it really you?
The man in ugly stride
went by the name of Hyde.

I believed your lies
as for the rest, I drew the blinds
on the windows and my eyes

They’ve warned me of your kinds
but through the heartfelt cries
I hoped for better times

Sehnsucht im Konjunktiv II

Dass Du nicht sagst, was Du doch meinst,
dass Du nicht meinst, was Du mir sagst,
es ist gar schade,
singt von Saudade,
bereitet ein Bade
aus stillem Tränengelage.

Dass Du nur träumst, was nicht könnte sein,
aber doch müssen sollen,
bringt keinen Stein je ins Rollen.
Sehnsucht im Konjunktiv II
ist vertane Müh‘:
noch gar nicht hier und doch schon vorbei.

Ich lieb‘ Dich zu früh,
ach! kenn‘ Dich zu spät.
Und doch bist Du hier –
alles, was zählt.

Schachmatt

in meinem kiez –
da steht ein fiets.
es hat keinen fahrradständer.
so hängt es verkettet,
angerostet am geländer;
und die stadt, ein monochromes mosaik,
setzt mit ihrem grauen schleier
den draht’gen esel bald schachmatt.
lackgeblättert, reifenplatt –
so steht es da, das velo
und fragt:
was hat wien für einen elo,
dass ich jetzt schon verloren hab‘?