and death said to me
i will give you three years more
if you will stop pos
ing and putting on
an act all the time – will stop
imagining things
and putting on airs
okay i answered that's a
deal – but in that case
you are to stop hood
winking me and leading me
astray i replied
ole sarvig wrote
his green poems collection
a generation
ago – and they're still
standing – they pop up every
year in october
like death caps – but aren't
such mushrooms both a bright red
and highly toxic?
and so what – they grow
only in fairytales at
the back of my mind
it is as if re
ality has become too
real at the moment
now that corona
has decided it will add
the crowning glory
and shown us how frail
the world is that we had con
sidered unshakea
ble a year ago
but wait and see in a month
it will be fake news
in just a month life
has turned into a struggle
for rye bread and toi
let paper – no more
was needed for this than a
tiny virus which
when magnified on
screen is as beautiful as
a red carnation –
no more was needed
for our own frailty to
be clearly revealed
at the world's end stands
the tree of life and that's where
i'm finally seek
ing that's the way it
is and there is nothing one
can do about it
i'm relatively
unfucked about not com
pletely burning up
so write myself out
of this poem to music
from final countdown
now it was my turn
to place a book under my
pillow and to sleep
soundly among oth
er words in my dreams than my
own ones other red
admiral butter
flies from the B-pages of
the black book other
hopes for the fu
ture that i can no longer
expect to be mine
a singers' war at
heartland – a mad nightingale
sings the whole night long
if only then it could
match the notes in yahya has
sans poems at ze
ro six hundred hours
i try whistling: time to say
goodbye but that does
not help in the slight
est – for it is still singing
away as i write
despite corona
and all the deaths taking place
spring is on the way
with its usual
splendour of magnolia
blossoms and new dreams
about everything's
tremendous power and force ma
jeure everything's e
ternal return in
various green disguises
and new breaking news
one thing is knowing
oneself (to know what a self
is) another is
living it – god all-
flaming mighty – it takes an
entire life to
do it or as some
motherfucker or other
once said: werde der
du bist – it takes quite
simply an entire life
(with the stress on takes)
i walked over to
the wood to pay a visit
to the tree i've called
doubleheart because
the bark at one place has split
off and has formed a
heart both in the tree
trunk and in my gaze i saw
that it was bleeding
green but took that as
neither a good nor a bad
sign but a true one
and it's all the same
when it really comes to it
for perhaps i lost
myself along the
way more than i actual
ly found myself – or
maybe i more in
vented myself as a kind
of proxy or pseudo
self or what one could
perhaps also give the name:
an honest liar
thank you god for al
lowing me to write this great
number of poems
i mean i could just
as easily have been dead
at the age of twen
ty-six (the number
of the holy spirit) like
so many other
poets and then there'd
only have been yggdrasil
to show – so thank you
time sure flies
i am writing my last poem
nothing more to say
no more nonsense and
no more poems either and
no more words from me
death will not mark the
end of my authorship – i
will do that myself
i now unsheath po
etry's samurai sword – swiiish –
did you hear it zip?
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