Since I got old,

It’s not easy to find


The rocky wastelands of my mind.


But as a child, I knew,

They’re right behind the sleep-locked door

To my mother’s laundry room, where

I just had to open

The right-most window with

The washed-out blinds,

Climb over filthy clothes and

Once-loved teddy bears,


Out of the frame and

Into the foggy day of


The wasted rocklands of my mind.


*inspired by my most vivid dream when I was a kid.


Meanwhile on the 64th

In forests of half-grown trees wet moss relents and whimbrels ring.

Ashore smokey bays the sea breeze breaks through creaking daylight-swallowed nights

As humid bleakness fills with karaoke chants and clashing glass and Hot Dog smell.

Drizzly nights silence limegrass-rhythms in pitch-black sand and grow stronger as they

Knock on drunken wooden pubs bursting with biting whiskey sounds.

Cold stiff hands smell of scarlet wild thyme on the path to Hell’s backdoor before

Hot limp lulled bodies drift through fir green algaeous ponds and

Wait for cloud curtains to reveal green glaring paper-streams on midnight skies.

I’m wide awake on the 64th.


What if one day

I, too, do not remember

What your name was, so

I’d just point at you,

Sitting bowed and humble

At the other end of the table,

Hoping for the summer wind

Of my second daughter’s birthday

To dry my eyes’ upcoming rain?

Fingers Crossed

If you looked at me across a crowded room,

I’d always be the first

To turn my head.

In trying to differ from I’m most alike them.

In the morning, I dress prepared for every call

Of yours and then never pick up

My ever-silent phone.

I’m running through the fires that I lit

With my fingers crossed and heart of wood;

I’m just a product of whatever thing you say,

Hungry for the harvest

Of which the seeds I never sowed.

Don’t even try

Wipe the tears off my rosy cheeks

They’re made for you, they’re part of the show.

And please believe that I do want to see you


But only when I am prettier,

Prettier, than the face in the bathroom mirror,

Staring back at me with scornful eyes.


I’ll only dare to bite your neck when we are drunk again.

For if I laid my hands on you in brightest light of spring,

It would feel like eating tempting tabooed fruit all naked and in vain.

Ashamed, I’d never come too close before the night sneaks in,

Or exhibit my flesh raw or block your sight and blind your eyes.

But when the dark and I fall both into your arms, simultaneously by chance,

I know I will feel safe, hidden in the noisy, flashing disco light,

One night, when, for a while, I will stand still as my heart starts to dance.

Just a bit, just for one beat,

just until I’ll realize:

I can’t be drunk in paradise.


This morning, when my laces came undone,

And I walked on because I didn’t care,

It occurred to me that

The last time I saw you,

Your shoe laces were untied, too.

You guided me out of the building and

You hadn’t even properly put on

Your classic black and white striped running shoes.

Maybe, because you knew

You wouldn’t go much further

Than the automatic doors.

And probably you also knew that

I would just as well have found out on my own.

As much as I, Good Girl,

Could make my way through

Warm dark air towards the trains.


This morning, though,

When I was just about to

Take my treasures and my goods back home,

My laces still undone for

I didn’t have any further to go,

I wondered whether you,


Ever thought of that moment long ago.

And if, not having seen me in so long,

And surely not about to see me soon,

You somehow wished a tiny little bit,

That you back then,

At least,

Had tied your shoes.

Come Home Pantoum

It’s the distance she craved close to me.

Did modesty make me breathe on?

I kept riding in circles so I’d never have to stop.

I shouted out and the answer echoed me.


Did modesty make me breathe on?

I listened to the bursting silence of her mind.

I shouted out and the answer echoed me.

She never said she’s scared, ‘cause I was, too.


I listened to the bursting silence of her mind.

I slept on the sofa when she was not home.

She never said she’s scared, ‘cause I was, too.

The bed sheets remained the same, unmade.


I slept on the sofa when she was not home.

It’s the distance she craved close to me.

The bed sheets remained same, unmade.

I kept riding in circles so I’d never have to stop.


I shouted out and the answer echoed me.

Sleep home, come close. Sleep close, come home.


And 1 noon, you stood in my bookstore,

In the corner on the second floor

The second-left loose plank creaked,

As you smiled with ocean eyes and rosy cheeks,

Coloured from cold winter air and

Framed by your messy golden hair.

The church clock stroke 1 – a lash into my eyes,

Like reflections on closed window skies,

Outside hissed blue frozen winds

And with them you and all my sins.


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