Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé

The hatred of my hatred vindicates me:
I am still a consciousness
in and of the world, death foreshadowing
in all of its tissues

My body tortures itself
I must watch, I watch
pain is no measure as my spirit is gone
this is not suffering: I am an automaton

I don’t want to wait
while life flees from me
like a scared rodent flees
from bigger rodents

Ceci n’est pas un poème déprimé was originally published on Meandering home

Cum granu salis

There is the commitment of a slow suicide inside my mouth
flaring nerve tissue makes me a beast of seconds
foregone my extravanganza, the wordsome Walpurgnis Night
of wild hue candelabras burning into the popliteal
intimacy of progress – relinquished

Swearing and sweltering I lock myself in debasement
reddish eyes sore at glaring screens a mind wants
closure phosphorous burns at the inside of my gums
two heavy arms lie on this black dusty keyboard
fingertips are punching through with fierce patience
dictating the gangrenous trace of my existence
into my fucking laptop.

It is time for a salt rinse.

Cum granu salis was originally published on Meandering home

April 22. La Paz.

La Paz. It is cold indeed and the bus driver halts for me so I can take my jacket out of the luggage compartment. The old orange one that has served in Russia earlier on the road. The arrival in La Paz is spectacular and comfortable. A modern bus terminal right in the center, plenty of affordable accomodation within walking distance. The world’s highest capital at some 3500 meters, until Tibet gains independance one day. It’s not very cold inside the city because of strong direct sunlight. With a few Argentinian girls I find a hostel and walk around. It’s all there: romantic cobblestone streets with bright colored Alpaca ponchos on display; salespersons luring you inside their little tienda saying “no comprometido”; ancient blue Ford buses with elegant protruding hoods crowded with noisy locals; older women carrying their offspring in traditional woollen pouches tied on their backs; a central Plaza with a proud revolutionary élan reminding of Buenos Aires’ classicistic avenues; dark-skinned shoe polishers covering their faces with a mask and wordlessly pointing at every pair of rich shoes to offer their service to the owner; a nice national Art Museum with an arched patio and an interesting exposition of Bolivian modernism on the second floor; a cathedral as the heart of a rich Catholic tradition; a crowd of silent protesting people in front of the municipal buildings. And that’s enough lonely planet intake for the day, mind you.

I walked around at night and experienced some fine happiness in a small bar in the romantic Calle Jaen. Oh if you visit La Paz, walk that magic Calle Jaen. The spot where I saw the protesters that morning was empty, the people that were populating the streets at the evening hour were all on their way to bars. I didn’t come back very late and knocked the door of the Argentinian girls’ room. Behind closed doors, they said goodbye, and I went to my room where I tried to sleep. Remember: Calle Jaen.

Tried, but my legs hurt like hell. Cramps. Rolled around in my bed, sweating and tearing off the sheets in a vain attempt to overcome the pain. After a few hours, I got up, scoured my backpack for some pills, and took two tablets of acetylsalicylic acid. The pain went away and I could sleep. I dreamt about what our society must have been like before the invention of aspirin, when people had to cope with unbearable pains every day. And I dreamt that in the world before those little Bayer pills religion must have played a bigger role than it does nowadays. Perhaps, religion is one big conspiracy against complaining.

April 22. La Paz.

La Paz. It is cold indeed and the bus driver halts for me so I can take my jacket out of the luggage compartment. The old orange one that has served in Russia earlier on the road. The arrival in La Paz is spectacular and comfortable. A modern bus terminal right in the center, plenty of affordable accomodation within walking distance. The world’s highest capital at some 3500 meters, until Tibet gains independance one day. It’s not very cold inside the city because of strong direct sunlight. With a few Argentinian girls I find a hostel and walk around. It’s all there: romantic cobblestone streets with bright colored Alpaca ponchos on display; salespersons luring you inside their little tienda saying “no comprometido”; ancient blue Ford buses with elegant protruding hoods crowded with noisy locals; older women carrying their offspring in traditional woollen pouches tied on their backs; a central Plaza with a proud revolutionary élan reminding of Buenos Aires’ classicistic avenues; dark-skinned shoe polishers covering their faces with a mask and wordlessly pointing at every pair of rich shoes to offer their service to the owner; a nice national Art Museum with an arched patio and an interesting exposition of Bolivian modernism on the second floor; a cathedral as the heart of a rich Catholic tradition; a crowd of silent protesting people in front of the municipal buildings. And that’s enough lonely planet intake for the day, mind you.

I walked around at night and experienced some fine happiness in a small bar in the romantic Calle Jaen. Oh if you visit La Paz, walk that magic Calle Jaen. The spot where I saw the protesters that morning was empty, the people that were populating the streets at the evening hour were all on their way to bars. I didn’t come back very late and knocked the door of the Argentinian girls’ room. Behind closed doors, they said goodbye, and I went to my room where I tried to sleep. Remember: Calle Jaen.

Tried, but my legs hurt like hell. Cramps. Rolled around in my bed, sweating and tearing off the sheets in a vain attempt to overcome the pain. After a few hours, I got up, scoured my backpack for some pills, and took two tablets of acetylsalicylic acid. The pain went away and I could sleep. I dreamt about what our society must have been like before the invention of aspirin, when people had to cope with unbearable pains every day. And I dreamt that in the world before those little Bayer pills religion must have played a bigger role than it does nowadays. Perhaps, religion is one big conspiracy against complaining.

April 22. La Paz.

La Paz. It is cold indeed and the bus driver halts for me so I can take my jacket out of the luggage compartment. The old orange one that has served in Russia earlier on the road. The arrival in La Paz is spectacular and comfortable. A modern bus terminal right in the center, plenty of affordable accomodation within walking distance. The world’s highest capital at some 3500 meters, until Tibet gains independance one day. It’s not very cold inside the city because of strong direct sunlight. With a few Argentinian girls I find a hostel and walk around. It’s all there: romantic cobblestone streets with bright colored Alpaca ponchos on display; salespersons luring you inside their little tienda saying “no comprometido”; ancient blue Ford buses with elegant protruding hoods crowded with noisy locals; older women carrying their offspring in traditional woollen pouches tied on their backs; a central Plaza with a proud revolutionary élan reminding of Buenos Aires’ classicistic avenues; dark-skinned shoe polishers covering their faces with a mask and wordlessly pointing at every pair of rich shoes to offer their service to the owner; a nice national Art Museum with an arched patio and an interesting exposition of Bolivian modernism on the second floor; a cathedral as the heart of a rich Catholic tradition; a crowd of silent protesting people in front of the municipal buildings. And that’s enough lonely planet intake for the day, mind you.

I walked around at night and experienced some fine happiness in a small bar in the romantic Calle Jaen. Oh if you visit La Paz, walk that magic Calle Jaen. The spot where I saw the protesters that morning was empty, the people that were populating the streets at the evening hour were all on their way to bars. I didn’t come back very late and knocked the door of the Argentinian girls’ room. Behind closed doors, they said goodbye, and I went to my room where I tried to sleep. Remember: Calle Jaen.

Tried, but my legs hurt like hell. Cramps. Rolled around in my bed, sweating and tearing off the sheets in a vain attempt to overcome the pain. After a few hours, I got up, scoured my backpack for some pills, and took two tablets of acetylsalicylic acid. The pain went away and I could sleep. I dreamt about what our society must have been like before the invention of aspirin, when people had to cope with unbearable pains every day. And I dreamt that in the world before those little Bayer pills religion must have played a bigger role than it does nowadays. Perhaps, religion is one big conspiracy against complaining.