My Blogging Helps You Cope.

au lecteur – to the reader.

as you arrived in my blog’s belly
an extra hit did my counter tally
my dear, you err inside a thread
where wise men truly fear to tread!

but I console you with a fact,
that your mind (till now) truly lack’d:
that though Peer Gynt an onion peels
as man himself for the core reels

There is no core of this entry!
no truth- but jest, there is plenty!

However, as long as there is still more time,
there will always be a rhyme
and another lay’r to peel away
and another stupid thing to say!!
[otherwise, try peeling something with
more of a core, like an avocado, or visit www.nietzsche.de]

evocation of my Muse.

Oh, somewhat be-muddled muse of all things blogged
haunting the molten plastic perfum’d blogosphere!
You, passionate one, who kisses our eyes, CRT-flogged
to us, bastard sons of an electronic Narciss, be near!

…as we yet again luggage our Facebook profiles,
with the sweet URL siren-call of our irrelevant blogs,
in the vain hope of catching, what out there lies:
another key-bor’d-potato, whose soul already sogs,

be-moist’nd by the wish
for another “easy” dish:
the Saran wrapp’d TV-dinner
of the internet age: the “blog”.

Oh you vixen Muse, hear my call!
Make many, many … for me fall!

don’t be ashamed: being deep inside my blog is just as obscure a place as visiting www.wired.com

An Ode to the blogger.

Oh! You bloggers, who your secrets
from your parents keep,
with the fanatic determination of viperous Cerberus;
but are unashamed to exhibit them openly
to 2.5 billion other people!
To you goes out this ode, and to all
the under categories of you, whose tendencies
Google is so happy to index
to the detriment of those just trying
to find niche internet porn.

Let me start with, you, sweet girl bloggers,
who adorn your sites
with such star-trailing cursor magic
& perfuming pink style templates
that the visiting man
cannot but faint from its overbearing insense!

Then to you, oh bards, you sharers of deep experience
Tell me, which shops you visit, and musics you listen to,
which sounds play from your electric harp-proxies.
Are you currently listening to an underground group
called Monkey Idol? Rest assured, I care,
though alas, today I’ve forgotten my pen…

And you, bricoleurs, you hobby reviewers of digital trinkets!
Tell me, how you cleaned the CCD on your Sony DSC-P200!
Tell me, how you can boost the range of Bluetooth mice!
May God grant you the Odysseuses you seek
who crave precisely that knowledge
in the wild nihil of the internet, which your site doeth graciously, (with pictures), provide!
[And please, review the iPhone!]

Then, oh , you desperate souls, you melancholically inclined,
Tell me, like a Polar bear surrounded by global-warm’d melting ice,
how your lives have no more meaning,
but please, spray your entries with the misty insence of self-loving eloquence
Maybe then, on the next party, that you and I attend
Between the small talk, to your necrophile tendencies I can attend!

Oh, and you, baby bloggers, wrapped in delicate swaddling clothes,
who put the glint back in our eyes with their first and only entries:
“Welcome to my new blog, where I will from now on post random thoughts
and impressions on my life. Yeah, so this is my first post”
dated 2006 february.
please, write another entry, so we know that blogging is alive and well!

Oh bloggers, bloggers of the world unite!
Let us show where people need to search
the pulse of eternal life
in this internet age!

“This is Barbecue”

It is an open secret that my other blog has been more active recently. However, because I also want to entertain those for whom finding my other blog remains too daunting a challenge, I will now proceed to sharing a completely random anecdote.

When I was in Regensburg, there was an intern from Belgium, (let’s just call him Mr. G…) who loved to smoke good pot. As much as he liked to indulge himself in aforementioned (in-)activity, Geoffrey had admittedly a more difficult time in actually getting the pot:

In Prague, at four-thirty in the morning, a dealer had cut him in on four centimetres of supposed premium hash compressed in a saran-wrap tube; for twenty euros, each five euro’d centimetre would actually have seemed somewhat a bargain, at least when high at five-thirty in the hostel; alas, fate would have it that the there-puffing Geoffrey went quite fast from the declaration, “mmm good shit” to “strange shit” to “this is not shit!” as the first one-millimeter layer of shit wore through to the tobacco filling.

Alas for Geoffrey, this would not be his last close call with Mary Jane; an even closer one indeed is what motivated this entry and its clou, which has since become a kind of redewendung for me. (It was no doubt partly this final adventure that sent Geoffrey packing back to Belgium, somewhat closer to the centre of European weedendom):

I also had a friend called P… (this time omitted because I actually have forgotten his name) who was considerably more successful at finding sources than poor old Geoffrey. My adventures with P… also form the butt (or shall we say, blunt) of several anecdotes, but alas, these cannot be the topic of today’s post. It suffices to say that on one evening, when Geoffrey and I were again forced to face the quality (or lack thereof) of our navigation skills by not finding a certain party, which is a complicated way of saying ‘one evening when we were lost in Regensburg’, we randomly met P… . Now, not only did this radically increase our chances of actually getting to the club before the party was over; it also put tender, teary hope in Geoffrey’s eyes of finally, as he put it, “connecting to the Galileo satellite” (evidently, besides being a fan of substance, Geoffrey was also a great fan of the European Union). Indeed, no sooner did I share with P… Geoffrey’s preferences, than P… nodded understandingly and pulled out a small satchel and some papes, and proceeded to roll one. Though Geoffrey’s vision was obscured by joyous, expectant tears, I saw clearly that what P… was rolling looked more like dried carrots, onion and ginger root than some of that real “sticky-icky”. When confronted by my nagging doubts , P… shot back: “ja, es handelt sich hierbei um die beste Imitation, aus Indien. Fast so gut wie echt, und zehnmal so billig.” “Fuer deinen Kolleg ist das eh gesunder”, he added with a smirk, while handing the roll to Geoffrey. (Oh! And shall we mention, that as fitting of a tragic hero, Geoffrey had skipped most German classes that he had been offered by the university). Poor Geoffrey was thus left with his tears of joy and a hand greedily patting down his coat for a lighter. Soon, it was lit and the first expectant tokes were taken; we all eyed him questioningly, foreboding the final, tragic fall of our hero. Mouth agape, we were not dissappointed.

Said Geoffrey:

“This is not shit!… This is barbecue!”

So I leave you with this post tonight, which was not really brilliant, but also, I hope, not completely barbecue.

Morning Comes

So I am again a chieftain
wrapped in lion skin gowns
as ceremony commences
& barefoot dancers pound the dusty ground
and spirits seep forth from the Earth

Feathered women join
with breasts rolling
& drums beat heavy rhythm
w/ bouncing fingers
pounding skin membrane
& razor spiked teeth flashing thru the dust

screams pierce forth – screeching
as feathers swirl and are lost to earth
the beat-soaked mass mingling
rings for air
shoulders spray sweat & eyes bounce bulging
as desert earth bursts dancing
and white light explodes –

an image of old Eden

then
only dust
settling on earth
& the chieftain’s throne
standing empty in the silence

– 2004, 2007

Our Song

A shadow – a tear
a sigh caught on glass
the flutter of wings.
Be still – for I heard something
that reminded me
and must have been –
our song.

Evening. Night. Whispers on the terrace
over the glowing tip
of a cigarette
I can’t see the wind
but I can hear the leaves rustle –
and there –
it must be!
They’re playing our song

Ssh… don’t cry –
because it had to be

long ago – the moon was shining
our song being played far away.

I wrote the poem below yesterday, with the central line an allusion to something I had written a time ago. Not only did I find the original entry today morning, but I discovered, much to my amusement, that it had been written exactly 3 years ago.

At Home Again

my sobs ricochet
like glass breaking
in the empty hallway

the hanging coats
carve shadows
through the milky entrance glow

Oh, and see
What happened to the light!
She has curled up
exhausted on the floor

Her silver forehead
is a pillow
shuddering softly
on the heedless linoleum.

yet as she turns her head slowly
in teary pain
to look up at me, locked in anguish
suddenly, our eyes flash –

as if we could understand!

Oh, you gentle, silent Goddess!
your silver soul and I
caught in this poisoned well

– 5 November 2007

Epilog

Und wenn wir eines Tages
aufwachen – ohne Freunde –
vielleicht auch ohne Gl├╝ck
Lass uns dann gen Himmel
schauen und sagen:
Macht nichts!
Wir verstehen uns!

– 5 November 2004