Leseprobe aus Fireman

The Street

When I was young
I was afraid to cross the street.
I was afraid of ants
and snails as well.

Now I collect alligators,
wear leather-stuff,
my high heels hardly
touch the ground.

I am standing here on the same street again,
have lost directions,
my watch stopped years ago,
I just cling to my initials.

Irresolutely I spend my time
crushing ants and playing soccer
with the snails.

In my hands I turn this damn red hat,
which I have kept since I was seven.
My hands wander on this hat
as on a globe,
while I recollect names of old friends
like distant cities.

The street leaves me standing here
and goes on and on and on an
endless repetition of farewells.

End of Oktober

I roam the streets. Freezing
I put my old red hat on.
Hot from walking after five minutes
I take it off again.
Autumn fog hangs into the
confusion of my thoughts.
I could call you,
here from this flamecoloured
communication cage.
But I could also walk on,
past this treacherous, nicotine polluted
box of claustrophobic words.
Past white street-stripes leading forcefully
into november.
I could simply walk on, through the night,
through november,
take no effort to cut silly word-holes
into the stiff, cold air, leave you
drifting into winter alone,
walking through leaves of undefinable colour.
But I could still call you,
from this Red Cross-coloured wordcoffin.
Squeeze my congealed sentences
into this grey receiver.
Or I stroll on, just collect, preserve those words
in myself like in a frozen fountain,
word-cubes, buckets full, to the brim,
going further through the snowslush.

Chalk Paintigs

A piece of wood in one hand,
painted with colorful chalk
the water will wash off again.
On your head the map of Sicily,
for sun-protection,
the snow of Etna on your forehead.

We are waiting for a ship or the rain
or the sun or for our lunch.
I can't keep my thoughts together,
when I look at the ocean.
I put wrong stamps on letters,
lose my watch, love you
longer than usual.

You paint with chalk on pieces of wood,
which you find here
until lunch is ready or the rain comes
or the ship.
And then you throw them into the ocean.

Afraid of the Dark

The night has thrown
an iron mouth
on my small metallic
body

The night is
Lolita who glides
her innumerable firm little hands
around my dick

like swinging fern in the wind

Pale smooth skin
is my armour
more and more all over me
her bell-blonde hair
Lolita's one-hundred caterpillarfingers
mooncrescent me up

Iron fern in the wind.

Names; Peoples; Incoherences

In a far away cave
a name is glowing on the walls.
I've thrown all superfluous keys away.
My garbage can full of orange skins,
crumpled paper, toe nails and old keys.
I found a piece of paper yesterday
with some blurred initials on it.
I found a key the day before yesterday,
rusted, old and halfway broken.
I read names, street signs and advertisements.
And I don't understand a word.
My neighbour attached
no name next to his door, nor to his letterbox.
I know that his wife
died a few weeks ago.
My dead dog,
which was found in a far away cave,
was called Incognito.
Everbody knows my birthdate.
Everybody could draw my horoscope.
Some people carry around their passport
every day.
A secret writing was slowly invented by me.
Here on the grey floors.
To hidden caves I go and risk getting lost.
There I scratch with a rusty key
and a candle in the other hand my initials
my initials
in the cold stone.

Bonsai typ Art Verlag, Berlin 1996

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