Here is an excerpt of a poem I wrote recently. Amongst some phantasies it is a love letter to the past years I mostly spent in Berlin and everyone I met on the way:
Stones grow on stones
I thought this was the end but maybe it’s the beginning
at night i left my city
I cried when I passed the angel
And the paradise played its greatest hits
Maybe there is a message?
That I received when we fucked on your table
the stones hid our organs
our bellies covered in blood
and my tatus became yours
Is there a shared narrative, a shared fantasy, a shared?
You accompanied me
when I carried a stone down from mount Pilatus and put it in front of my house
Into the no parking-zone and called it Bob.
But it wasn’t scary. It was just a nostalgic memory.
In the shower you washed off season 4 of my back.
Season 4 was full of asses in slow-motion getting slapped, hit by pearls and hair
And a finger without a nail held bread onto a butt cheek
Karol, honey, my ass, Mariana, dancing in a clearing, a suicide, Karaoke in the kitchen, July and Göksu, an alienbaby, a wedding, two divorces, communal lunches, smashing glass in backyards.
Who else was left on the birthday? Ron, Knut, Lina, Leon
We all turned into zombies, sequels, actors, bodybuilders or adults.
I do not remember many shows in museums.
But I remember the shows we made for each other.
