cold

the sounds of cars are cold this morning. the air feels velvet though. my hands make patterns in the snow. the breath is all but calm. the rush, the streets, the veins. oh, god please blow my horizons up, take the curtain that drowns my sight down. i would like to see the whole of time: the ashes of names, the dust of things, the brutal truth of tomorrow that pretends to have no end. in the meantime, the night is going nowhere and your soul stays with its distance.

::: going nowhere :::

empty

it is half past nine. joseph beuys is producing a social sculpture. he is an influential artist, born in krefeld. i sit in my room. this day does not exist. the horizon is black and the air is thick. the smokers expand to the street. it is paris 1939. the arcades are closed. the whores kiss the dry morning. fascinating mixture of stockings, lipstick and dust. it is 1986, beuys dies in düsseldorf. the trees in kassel mourn. victory, fame. sun dies in your hands, mother. it is too late. the leaves cover the surface of waters. the night rises to celebrate the newborn emptiness of earth. no trees left to regenerate the time.

::: ::: :::

heresy

this modern heresy sinks into the abyss of tommorrow. electronic disbelief versus analogue sickness. this is not about translation but about new way of thinking. one that does not comfortably rely on binary oppositions but on multitudes. such thinking is on the brink of comprehension because the mind simply gets to wild. one has to think time as time and space as space, that is the multitude, which is not reduced into partial notions. there are no mirrors, nor images. because down here you have to open yourself to the invasion of the outside.

::: be there :::

unfinished mourning

for some time: the writing burns like cigarette in your mouth, hand. suntime, already. in the meantime: the windows resemble time in its intricate conspiracies against space. noon: the trail vanishes with snow. my eyes are like sand from devil's hand. i stand and watch the deliberate intercourse of truth and impossibility - swallowed by the body of their mother. sick hour: obsolete typerwriter ribbon announces another love. then everything is disjointed by the hand behind the curtain. the invisible joy of the end, the pain, the radicality of light touching the eye once again. in sorrow we dream, in sorrow we become sisters.

::: restart later :::

my face

so emotionless. just a screen, just a surface. we stand on a hill. in the next days you will pronounce 250.000 words. the first will be soil the last soul. my heart is drummachine in the meantime. i also take a lot of pictures. the suns keep falling down. there are no interruptions at all; just the constant wordflow. each word describes my face. each picture steals it. an eternal equilibrium of exchange. sit down, listen, you will be there too.

::: go or stay and i've got to choose and i'll accept your invitation to the blues :::

für alle, die

... understands this night full of white fumes that strangle thought after thought. where do you live, what kind of time measures your life, what color is your blood: the hertzes of heart... no empty emotions when the screen dies again ... out of the frame into the void ... the antennas' only desire is the sky )( dasein ... augen)( but the moon is too high for them today. because this is for everybody who understands the vanity of passing moments, the simply and pure vanity of passing love for time /// this passion, this desire to burn and feed in the same time.

::: das hier ist für alle die die es verstehn die in der tragik der tragik das schöne sehn :::

perished

adapt or perish, she said. future is an uncertain widow... then she handed me the glass of time. the moment possessed the distinct aura of immortality. then we talked about machines revolting against production. then we talked about the space of evil; that evil which always needs some space to become real. --- maybe the very nature of space is evil, one of them whispered. then the night made everything equal in the last hours of that day.

::: wir wissen ja nicht, weisst du wir wissen ja nicht, was gilt :::

inevitable silence of dead leaves round thousand corners

like an empty calendar like an airport sea in the night are your distant, abstract eyes. another place, another night. full of daggers, liquid speed and suspended desires. dreams of cruelty, oblivion, sickness. black and yellow. german voices all around me. language-trench. milky gray. i swim the water of my blood. i feel your every moment. born on the different side of the moon we drink the same stardust. free, unbound. you can escape everything but this pure, true and simple liberty.

::: how can you ... when i am ... :::

histoire du feu/histoire de la separation

past all these rivers i run to escape from the fire i have seen in my eyes. you drink my liquid hands. the air sounds like a poisonous guitar. mon cocaïne, ma heroine, my fatal sin. the heat of venus is near. the black skin swallows skin. you drink my liquid hair. the blind bird closed the milky shutters of the night. bound by some abstract burden. like centuries, like love.

::: unseen flowers under your feet as you walk :::