The face without the picture



The winter tends to blow apart –
where autumn reminds the flowers to drop their leaves
it’s not the time, yet.

in the hallway, there is a bookcase,
dark brown, from wood,
old books, a vase, and a picture frame
where it should –

stand alone
or stand together
It’s a frameless frame for what it matters
And what you see is what you get

The life without the heart
A rain that doesn’t wet.


I forgot how it was


Shifting sands, there I was, on the beach.
Standing alone, straight up in the wind.
The big endless sea, threatening these waves in my direction
But I won’t
step aside.

As the sun used to rise
And as the moon used to be around here
As the dark is becoming day
And the light dissapear

It’s the perfect place to be
I just forgot how
it feels.


Where the eye can’t see, the head can’t look.


A perfect silence drawing the sky
Flashes and lightning where darkness can’t be shy
Wilderness hidden in the depths of the woods
For every leaf that’s taken
and every forgotten moods
It’s just out of the fields, where deers come at night
Where the rabbits hear thunder
That is where it might.

Catching flows


Once, I was a ferry,

covered in fresh paint and oiled mechanisms

and I was not this sinking ship,

Thrown back by my passengers and owners,

who I used to move forward on their daily trips


Once, I carried, and  sailed over the river,

wasn’t stuck like this on the shore

And now I’m rotting away and

I don’t know where I belong or what to do anymore.


The factory

On the other side of
the river banks,
behind this dirty water
full of dangerous flows,
is the place where the wild has taken over,
forgotten, most.

In the picture of infinity,
in distance traffic shows
all the signs of ignorance
invisible resistance grows.

A long forgotten cable
connects these neglected worlds,
and no one really notices it
but this is where a future swirls.

The Pancake Tree


Under the sun, in a forest with one tree,

in a dense place where it’s hard to find and rare to see

There is standing a weird one: the pancake tree.

In loneliness it continues invisible work

Trying to provide forgotten, empty, lost souls

But all that happens, is that it’s freshly baked pancakes

fall in to the deep black never ending holes.