I hardly can wait to unwrap

The watermark across the sky says SPRING, wrapped in a light blue fabric Do we look at life with a treasure hunter’s eyes? he asks and bends his head   slightly to the right As if the answer weighs him down a bit. My feet   are stripped bare, rough   from winter as they gently   touch the grass’ moist and soothing lips Linking up with Poets United Spring is not my biggest treasure, but a Huge one

I forgot my head in the checkroom

“You always have a choice” I say, standing in a sea of art, sipping champagne, talking first world problems “You’ve gotta take the consequences though--- easy as that” Supernumeries hang head first from the ceiling, I don’t wear a bra under my suit The floor is far away “You always have a choice” I say For Friday 55


Her crown is almonds, brussels sprouts and fireflies I meet her in the city at the entrance to the tube She reigns a different kingdom, sings a song that no one pays attention to. Her hair a mess of light Maps no one can read subtly woven into it The city’s noise loops wiry around her chest She rises in the half-dark, disconnected, balancing the edge Then crashes, and shatters For IGWRT

Growing up

The door is locked I put my laundry basket on the lawn in front of it I’m not one to break a lock Eventually someone will open it, or not I sit on a swing My thin shirt puffs-up like a swan’s tutu in- and deflating with each move   The northwind’s breath entangled in my hair I deny that I’m not designed to fly,   push higher, stirring up a bunch of birds that held a nap atop the chimney Down on earth, the janitor approaches with a key Yet I’m too high up in the air already, he won’t see me as I hum a sweet but random melody For Poets United Midweek Motif Doorways


The sky explodes & eats the candle I glued to the rooftop Neighbour's laundry shakes like drunken skeletons It will never dry I think Smell of rosemary & smoke, We leap, forward, The wind’s white needlebreath beating my face We’re thieves   ina night thick with rainbows A Quadrille with exactly 44 words and the word "leap"  in it for dVerse

Heading home

Black moves with the clock and white against it No symbolism in that We’re approaching midnight He nods thoughtfully, moves the checkers and wipes beer foam from his lips, I fold a tiny swan, put it in a puddle on the table As the dice roll it unfolds its wings, quivering and majestically 55 words for Friday 55

Coz it lacks life

I buy him a cup of tea He spoons sugar into it Momentum hit him hard He made some bad mistakes He sleeps in a garage outside the city, hardly talks to anyone I drink coffee, scribble poems in a tiny notebook “If you’ve not learned to listen carefully” he says “you’re gonna be a lousy writer” He gets up, peels a pea green woolen cap over his ears “What are your New Years wishes?” I ask “Take a shower, steal Rihanna’s bra - in that order” “Good luck with the writing” “Good luck with the bra” The door squeaks hushed, dog-tired in its closing For IGWRT

In-between spaces

He pours coffee with his left hand The afternoon is grey rags in a rainbatched sky I sit at a table by the window It is smeared with lines and relics of a year gone by too quickly He shouts something from the counter I look up from my book The goose rests her head friendly on my thighs He waves a red and yellow checkered dishcloth as if it were a flag, a treasure map I smile politely

Getting ready for Christmas

The goose has button eyes We put her on the back seat as we drive into the forest I neither find the heart to cut a tree, nor kill the goose I clip a candle on a branch The goose stands lost “We’ll have potatoes instead” He smiles, pulls me in his arms,   the headlights of the car cut a bright triangle into the dark We slow-dance, his hands warm and reassuring on my back, hips The goose next to my leg fluffs-up her feathers foolishly His lips are heavy with the scent of fir and half-snow For IGWRT , exactly 100 words, the original longer version is below.  Merry Christmas everyone! The till girl hisses at me “That’s pre-ordered, so you cannot change your mind” which makes sense I feel sorry for us all Her eyes drown in a pool of shadows from the shifts The goose is stiff like wood planks as I carry her out in the rain My arms ache In the evening we drive to the forest in a borrowed car, we put the goose onto the back seat I brought an axe but cannot find th

A solution of Lambert’s W function

“It refers to the universe’s density” he says, yellow sprinkles in his eyes like lampions “Or the lowest-ranked wolf in a pack” His smile is tide and flood, an animal about to jump “In chemistry it is a stable isotope of oxygen” My breath gets flat and wonky We’ve been sailing out into the storm with nothing but our bathing clothes We’re past the point that math could save us His voice deep as ships about to melt into the sun “In topos theory…” I close my eyes, all molecules in flight, surrendering For IGWRT  A writing exercise My starting point was the 24th  letter of the Greek alphabet


Snow is a gamechanger, he says, slowing things to breathable He has one hand on the stirring wheel, with the other lights a cigarette as we slither on the highway towards dawn The lighter throwing forest fires on the panes Smoke settles in his beard like fairies Trucks and cars, half-swallowed, clumsy, figure skaters in a weird show I lean back in my seat and watch them dance without choreography

For someone who will live

When they baptize him, his hair stays dry, so thick and wiry that the water sparkles diamonds in the air, on everyone around him His smile is reggae beat and Bach Skateboard stored under the seat, he shakes my hand “I’m Yafet” “Hi” His mind's a cage of birds and butterflies, set free to fly into the sunset The next day Delilah takes an axe, a missile, hand grenade, some cancer cells He stands in the front row, arms stretched high in praise They shave his hair to do the surgery But he’s not Samson. For IGWRT 


His shirt suggests he’s Superman The S-Shield on Palatinate blue ground, the Kryptonian symbol for hope they say His cape a faded grey instead of the  Geranium red you would expect Eyes restless   The city wears christmas lights around her wrinkled neck Litter and spilled liquids on the pavement where he sits He unlearnt flying My own coat seems worn and frayed The wind blows ice across the land I reach for the bus change in my pocket, smile as if that helped reminding him The coins clink a small melody as I drop them in his can I too forgot how to fly I think At least I can walk though

Break room

The neon tubes breathe nicotine with yellow teeth Each day I count them during lunch break and write the sum into a little notebook You would not suspect it but the figures vary, daily actually nineteen twenty-one one hundred and eighty The scent of coffee hangs black like Batman in the air We discuss trivia, tell halftruths in different languages Put band-aid on our battered minds I yawn The count is thirty-two I take my bag On the way home I talk to the shopgirl in the bakery She doesn’t judge me by the colour of my skin nor by how good my german is The dimples in her face bounce in perfect sync with the movement of her lips which are green today which makes total sense to me

Rent a bike

The groove sits in the center of his hips Only he can hear it He half-dances through the room Smell of oil and rubber Dreads coil like a bunch of snakes around his shoulders Do you have a credit card? I shake my head I need some deposit then His face moist and dark like freshly roasted coffee What? What do you think? I can’t give you a bike just like that His legs move in a drum roll  He leans back in his chair Flies circle in trance around an unwrapped sandwich If you lose it I won’t I bike into the crowded streets The air is charged with sun and exhaust


He draws straight lines with a chewed down pencil Graphite crumbling loose across the page connecting tiny dots to paths someone could walk A baby cries Smell of petroleum The hum of insects in sticky midday sun A sickly coughing moped Sweat drips from my brows, gathers on the faded plastic table, forming lakescapes Backup plan? His beard’s the hue of chia seeds Gaze dense like Osmium This night I dream of snow

Sunday, early morning in bed

Wind howls like an injured dog It drives snow flakes through a slit beneath the window Spinning, twirling Ballerinas on a secret stage in white tutus Lit by a single candle


We stand at the border A strange way to put it when I think about it now My knuckles red and swollen from the cold The mark between his eyes makes him look alien He speaks in a calm and subtle voice so far away though that I can't decode it, no matter how hard I try to put the wires right I take the basket, stumble, snow capped fir trees rise like giants in the dark The river’s breath goes flat and heavy

Jester stories

The king sits on his horse with a red tie around his neck He spits on the globe He refuses to look left and right before crossing the street and blames the traffic lights for changing colors He puts missiles in his peoples' mouth and plays with a lighter Velvet cape, a laurel wreath draped on his head, sandpaper smile He shuts away the jesters When I see him on TV I change the channel He’s unimpressed by that

Almost home

We drink wine after the nightshift   at the table in the neon room I count tubes like sheep It makes me sleepy Later I walk home in freshly penciled daylight The woman in the bakery talks fast today I cannot follow her I smile and nod with dark rimmed eyes