tPJ

welcome to the mass grave with bodies clad in a red monstrosity the carousel of barren rituals where drones fall from a falsely spiced ceiling welcome to the world of sheep where the nightmare stares at you in mirrors and creeps through grasping delusions to merge with hope look there! I’ve got a catch! again and again, again and again the repetition of the past until the bourgeois man…

“Are you coming to meet Kafka?” He had a red rose next to his glass of beer. His skin was half sunken, hunched over, and his eyes were watery. I sat next to him in the Irish Pub. The television was on, that evening the entire bar population was following the results of the Eurovision Song Contest, a show that had lost much of its original purpose but still managed to entertain. Except for this…

I don’t want to go back to yesterday when mold took over the refrigerator and you called out to me in the pouring rain “Do something!” While I was stuck in my father’s chair and spoiled that great romance

I can’t stand striped, checked, or textured clothing; trousers, shirts, socks… you name it. Tiny lines screaming to break free, doomed to eternal captivity.  I would never wear anything like that myself. Give me something plain or something with a nice message on it – although it’s rare to find an interesting message – but usually neutral black with the occasional worn-out hole in it. I don’t…

the infinite looks out on the closed windows splashes out like moving villages hidden between valleys of melancholy I hardly dare to look I am blinded by what may always remain until the autocratic idiot the fungus of the ego that festers with false promises until what should remain fades away and the valley of Angels and muses is flooded fortunately, it is not (yet) so now I hold on to what…

I see your bronze buston this burning spot from talent to star to dustsucked up close to the people I smell my friend’s sweat, your scentlost on the back of stardom I hear children cheering with delightI hear a mother shouting: “No—stop!” The smoke of beefburgers as I descendnot far from here, the City of Angelsand stories of yesterday and today I still see you drivingfast-off that cliffinto…

There they stood arm in arm as if it had always been that way this Tristan and Isolde she, mother and father the one 10 years older when the virus came and he saw the world change even before egos decided that war is necessary, that people are cattle for slaughter, ‘cause machines must roar, weapons must clatter and turn blood into gold, silver words from those who see through the charade, …

I cross the street, iron monsters surround me, throwing their poisonous gases into my eyes and filling my lungs, heavy as lead. That’s how I feel now, I want to get away, away from the grind, away from the smell of everyday life, let me write, writing is not dying, writing is wanting to live, but not out here?  I ask the old man next to me at the bus stop: “How do you keep going, how can you…