Shelterless

Shattered leaves from sheltered trees
They dry the bloodstains on the ground
To conquer all but seven seas
And kill what makes us safe and sound

I know, I know there is no time
Thus all falls to the river’s flood
For in our first breath lies our crime
Cleansed and washed away like mud

Shattered dreams from sheltered sleep
A memory stinging day and night
To fall apart where widows weep
And vulnerable to the light

I know, I know there is no space
Thus rain will drown our stifled cries
For this will always be the place
Where there’ll be no sun to rise

What Do You Know

Wherever I go,
The shadows will follow.
And what do you know,
In filth you will wallow.

At heart and in mind,
You haunt my tomorrows,
You’re one of a kind:
The source of my sorrows.

I dream of the sea
To drown my frustration:
Its only decree
Is breed desperation.

Wherever I go,
The shadows will cry fear.
Yet what do you know
Who left me to die here.

Lakeside

I rise from the brook
With every little bit of dust
Of you
Still in my bones.

Despite the heavy rain
I will not be weighed down
By you
Still in my heart.

Instead I shall walk
With the gentlest of thoughts
Of you
Still in my head.

For you shall meet me
And I will kiss just all
Of you
Still in my hands.

Rote Flut (Red Flood)

After a long time, I have finally written a new poem in German. Please scroll down for an English translation.

Auf der Stirne liegt ein Degen,
balanciert auf dem Gesicht.
Es sieht aus nach rotem Regen,
Sturmfront gegen Gleichgewicht.

Küßt du mich, dann muß ich sterben;
hälst du mich, seh ich das Licht;
meine Sicht wird rot sich färben,
so die Welt in Scherben bricht.

Schiffe wollen Anker werfen,
transportiern ein großes Heer;
soll ein Schmied den Degen schärfen,
bringt gewiß das rote Meer.

Auf der Stirne lag ein Degen;
aus dem Gleichgewicht der Nacht,
hat er, mit der Strömung Segen,
endlich rote Flut gebracht.

[English translation:
A sword is lying on the forehead,
balanced on the face.
It looks like red rain,
storm front against equilibrium.

If you kiss me, I must die;
if you hold me, I shall see the light;
my sight is to be coloured red,
as the world shatters into pieces.

Ships want to cast their ankers,
transporting a huge host;
a blacksmith shall whet the sword,
for certainly, it shall bring the red sea.

A sword was lying on the forehead;
from the balance of the night,
it has, with the blessing of the current,
finally brought a red flood.]

Tin Soldier

She took an eye and looked beside herself;
The soldier suffered punches to his side.
She took his breath away and whispered wryly,
Unleashed an acid storm inside his skull.

Her siren’s song falls on deaf ears now:
He would not listen, out of tune.
She cut him just to pull his finger out –
Without a bite, she set his teeth on edge.

Eardrums pounding, hindsight whitening,
Her tongue cuts words aplenty on an edge’s knife.
All is lost, just patience lingers,
As she takes a heart to pierce through him.

WARNING: The following passage consists of personal thoughts regarding the poem above. If you prefer your own interpretation or would like to keep speculating about the poem, do not – I repeat: DO NOT – continue reading.

All kinds of circumstances, represented by English phrases, turn into bewildering, nightmarish scenarios. The semantics, and thereby meanings, of the phrases are exploited and twisted, toying with both literal and metaphorical ways of interpreting them. In addition, some phrases, such as in the very first line, are based upon paradoxical uses of ambiguous words like ‘look’.
Obviously, the male protagonist, referred to as simply ‘the soldier’, is blindsided – both literally and metaphorically – by his mistress, the female protagonist. The latter actually whispers, not wryly (in analogy to: dryly) but wetly, demonstrating her falsity and perfidy, for H+ ions are required for acids and interactions therewith. The acid storm eats through the male protagonist’s head but not his heart, the latter of which is, quite ironically, protected by both love and loyalty. Despite the female protagonist’s cruelty – she tortures him in many a way –, there remains an undying passion within the male protagonist’s heart.
In the end, however, the female protagonist finds a way to the male protagonist’s heart and finally, out of a sick mixture of boredom, pity, pleasure, mercy, and cruelty, kills him by piercing through it. Her taking a heart is, of course, an expression of pure cynicism, exploiting and twisting the semantics, and thereby meaning, of an English phrase again.
The reference to the classic story of The Brave Tin Soldier, a fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen, should be obvious, too.

Sirens’ Song

From days of old until today
I have not seen a single ray
Of sunlight that
Would not turn into burning pain
Against the ever-changing flow of things

I know exactly what tomorrow brings
Pretentious joy and poison rain
Inside my head
Where hopes are naught but broken clay
The scars of which shall never fade

China in the Void

‘I feel lost inside my own skin’, I wrote.
It is not like a prison –
I am just all over the place –;
not like ashes scattered to the wind –
I just extend indefinitely.
I cannot get a hold of anything –
it keeps floating
like ethereal china
in an endless void.