if the wind stops
what happens to the air?
perhaps it fades.if the day stops
what happens to the hours?
perhaps they vanish.if the heart stops
what happens to the man?
perhaps he dies.
I'm in love with the air and the cries it carries to me
I love that which I cannot see, nor hear, nor touch
And yet I feel it
The only true love I've known
During a life of heartbreak and disappointments
Oh! To meet the air. That which has come over me
What should I do? Dance with him, lay with him?
Tell he that I know not what his troubles may be
That I love him?
What is it to love that which does not exist?
Love does not see, nor hear, nor touch itself
It is as the air to me
So I find that it is love that I love
And nothing else
Im Strauß unserer Wahrheiten
Für uns erkennbar:
Das gekonnte Arrangement
Die schlichte Schönheit der einzelnen Blüte
Wehmut eines SommertagsWehe uns!
Einer zeigt das Offenbare:
Abgestorbene Blüten
Welke Blätter
Der ekelerregende Geruch faulenden WassersDas Gran Hoffnung
Entlarvt als Träumerei
Scheinbar
Schöngefärbt
Das Sträußchen Hoffnunglosigkeit.
Jack-in-the-box When one squashes life into
A little red car,
And zooms out
On unfamiliar roads.The headlights ancious beam
(try as it might)
Cannot strain beyond the bend
But faster still they go.Driven by the
Swoshing glimpse
Of a faintly
Familiar feeling;The undeniable,
blissful intrigue
of a childs new
Jack-in-the-box. Rob Evans - 29/1/03
I don't know what to think of you
Of all the things you say or do
You're round and round, up and down
Can't tell if I am looking like your clown
It seems that only time will tell
If we're in heaven or in hell
I love the pleasure that you show
Drives me crazy like you don't know
Though I wonder why you come to me
You do, and it makes me heppy
You're like a book thats hard to read
Never know what you want or need
But as long as you are coming back
Our train will roll along this track
Johan takes the old lit books out of his bag one by one and throws them at me. I bat aside a well-worn copy of Frankenstein, and then ask him why he still has it in his bag in March. For an answer, he throws Oryx and Crake at my head.Once the lit books have been exhausted, he takes out rainforests of paper and the cover of a sketchbook he messed around with last year. He takes out broken pens and pencils, a broken pair of headphones, and a few pieces of trash. All these things, he threw at me, and after they bounced off my arms or head, I picked them up and placed them on the table between us.What is this? I ask, holding up two pieces of...
Adrift on a brown paper swell,
I found myself a castaway
In the waves of a corrugated ocean
Of my own making.
Packages flooded the floor--
In blocky and rocky outcrops,
Sticker-coated surfaces smothered
In parcel tape and postage stamps,
Proclaiming warnings in red type.
Perhaps I need to be wary - more cautious
Of the many irksome paper cuts--
A glimpse of a white here and there,
Another angled fin corner.
The envelop mouths of sharks
lurking beneath packing tissue sea-foam
My origami boats became shipwrecked
(I still missed the mailman!)