fourteenth song

standing alone

naked in the darkened room

and waiting for you to appear

do you lust with your

suppressed desires to seek me

in my room?

across this tiny courtyard

where we can extend our

minds and bodies

project into this darkened

void ourselves

with candles lit to outline

our shapes and to let the

other half absorb the body

we want to touch

to hug and absorb with our


our burning skins and our


we switch on our lights

it is past midnight and we

connect to each other through

our earphones

‘good evening love’ your voice

reaches my ears softly ‘i love you’

‘let me kiss you’ i say and hear

your breathing increase its sound

as I touch you.

‘take your top off love

let me touch your breasts’

‘oh’ is all I hear as you bend

backwards on your bed

let me touch your full ripened


kissing your nipples I feel your

hands on my crotch

my rising penis.

you are doffing clothes

in this seduction of each other

i go down on you.

you cry out and throw your head

back in a wave of pleasure

your fingers pinching my nipples

make me grow and let my fingers

slide into you

finger-loving your pussy

sing out in lust you will

‘ahhh’ as you feel your climax

burning you

omitting more cries

that turns me on for you

‘i want to slide into you my love’

i hear myself moan and arch

see your eyes gazing at my erect


your hand touches my bums

let my buttocks ache for

your finger’s sensual massage

i feel my breathing increase

notice your eyes slowly closing

as I move my pelvis against you

and move it back again

my cock diving into your lubrication

this slide that feels like a sweetened

push and pull

bathing in honey and in milk.

there is a burning swelling from inside

as I hear you moan ‘come on love, come!

oh sweet fucking, finish it love!’

‘fuck me anetha, harder!’

you scream, ‘oh sweetest fuck i come!’

then i hear your cry that penetrates

my head/my body/my heart/and my cock

and as I touch my balls I feel this

rising urge to come, to ejaculate

my juices into you

hold still for those moments

when the spasms I feel coming

i enjoy so much

this rushing come to spray into you

and press my penis into your vulva that

grips my cock in its spastic climax –

i come, and i come and feel the spurts

of semen bursting out intermittently

against this window –

you see the runs of milky white

from my body’s juices.

i see your finger in your cunt

and the other one plucking at your

hard pointed nipple.

arching back we come together

in a final cry ‘uhhh…uhhhhh/fucking

sweet anetha

fucking you all over

my very best of fucks


then we dim the lights,

we lie on our beds and now as it

is deep night or early morning

it’s a night of lovemaking

across a courtyard through the


in the darkness and in the void

across this ocean,

in a great distance.




thanks for the sun

to brighten up the day

with warmth

never mind the daily quarrels

we all might fall prey to

contradictions of not listening

enough to neighbours

teachers and also parents

at times

“later in life you’ll see it for

yourself” mom used to say

but young and rebellious

blood overruled any advice

warning or prediction

given to us thru’ experiences

by the elderly.

the poet dreams and dives

into a sea of shared romance

a world of tolerant reactions

to all his observations

a tranquil pond of love –

thanks to all friends who will

assemble to less fanfare

not to forceful cleverness

or conducive falsifications

are we what we eat?

though we are defined by

by our friends –

the poet ends his stanzas

where the artist has

already been.




in the middle of a night

in weidling

when the night is clear

of chemtrails

even in the poet’s room

of 2,7 x 4,4 metres

you’ll sense the local air

the memory blanks off

like scales fall from eyes

and all don ffp2-masks

yet/ if you wish to stay

creatively motivated

take my seven year file

of production/ the artist

said to his shadow

there – in all the past

seven years

you’ll find no faces

without a mask/

in the early morn’ of the

new day

the poet’s laptop Len –

lost its –ovo.

unhinged it had a self-

inflicted rest

so then leave it until

the shops will open/ so?


meanwhile a plaster for

the broken limb

and gentle handling

carry on with what you


for an artist’s living.





the poet prefers working

late night

and rise later at morn’s

refreshed once seven hours

of time passed

energies thru’ any kind of love

bursting into the stack of words

assembled during the night

so – there couldn’t be any pain

at all snapping at his heels

that plague the muse

that plague the spouse

and if she asks for cups of fresh

brewed coffee italian style

that’ll mask sudden spiking

pains and senseless suffering

she’ll wake the spouse

goes crabbing thru ’the house

however thunder and lightning


will resurface on the artist’s


who avoids further dustups

with muse and spouse

paints shadow images of his


that aesthetes fashion as

great new art –

thus/great canvases are

regularly born.




in the circle

in the circle of my fingers

the throb of your heart –

on the tips of your breasts

a sleek dolphin that i ride

slipping on love’s perspiring

tangled fingers become

the phallus

as folds of thighs

extend your vulva

and take me in: flesh and bone

circle of love’s up and down

libido’s to and fro


thru’ 300 tete-a-tete’s

with my pulse beating weak

as if i was mortally wounded

by black lances

on the southern hemisphere

shifting breasts of a mountain

in its initial storm of grinding

i’m falling into the abyss

of an odyssey’s last lap

of dire existence

in the circle of love’s expressions

when my mind assembles

shards of a shattered eros

however hard i try and fail –

lust is a ring of iron

made of wood.





the poet creates ongoing

this huge ship

of an uncertain future

he weaves a whole tapestry

of colourful weaving

includes clever little word


and finds himself

perched on a münchhausen’s


a high-speed flight

near stratospheres of fancy

at all times new adventures


reach a highlight floating

with his favourite muse

thru’ the spring air of athens

where he lived literally

to the meaning of eleftheria

as an artist

as a friend of the arts

tasting it like a delicious dish

to the end/near detriment

of his tested soul

something never anticipated

nor expected.

still to avoid the bone-man’s


he’ll pull back from a jump

at lover’s rock

in high-age less adventurous

saved by the bell

and a helping hand

on to the raft of survivors

that drifts slowly eastwards

with enough space left for

good friends

as Charon has left for lethe

and the poet treasures

the golden obulus

he’s receiving

one still has to buy bread

and some wine

at the next anchoring post




locked-up free

as a child the wide


his romping grounds

freedom tasted as sweet

as succulent wild clover

wind in the hair

stroking of an early

romantic sweetheart.

locked up for homework

with one eye outside in

nature still

with one leg itching

to be away

find a new trail thru’ the

high grass

to still one’s thirst at the

mossy spring

woods – permanence in

great friendship

sit below one’s fav birch.

as a young man

Imprisoned in serious garb

tiny rooms for a high fee

riding on a bike with

a soulmate

take Simchi out into the


pet below dense leaves

grow in budding love.

as a plan maker design

build and coordinate

complex techno-workshops

for airplanes

life in the fast lane –

an amazing feat

until changes come bouncing

like high balls in sport.

adapt or die for any changes

are most painful

but for the spirit: it still roams free

among the wild flowers of


in spirit and mind forever






he woke early at 5 am

what was it all about?

overnight snow affecting

his dreams?

his muse sending messages?


he looked at his mail

did not wish to sneak back

into bed again.

so – he admired her latest


all about distance –

never meeting planets

on different orbits

passing exploratory missions

avoiding collision at times.

he liked her paintings

scissor cuts


precious web of emotions


falling like snowflakes

from ice-blue skies.

as he paused he thought

about love and eros

pain and anguish

sleepless nights

drinking hemp-tea

cooling down his innermost

emotional world

flaring up at times

like fermented drink’s foam

overflowing one’s cup.

the cup of wishes that hadn’t

passed his lips yet.





Pablo/ the artist from joburg

had a dream: he was invited

to a workshop in athens

working on the theme ‘humanity’

to contribute his art.

If accepted, he would win a place

with the selected artists

to exhibit at the united nations

in vienna, austria

where his work would be exposed

to an international clientele.

indeed/he met a young woman

artist who was keen to bring her

messages across as text in her

depictions – all positive.

pablo wished to create a visible


with his paintings

to resemble inhumanity

to lift his colleague’s work up as

the highlight  – show how much

was still wrong with the world.

his friend wondered what the

matter was with pablo the artist

known for his eros-motives.

pablo told his friend that he’d

need a hard challenge to wake up

to another perspective

free himself from a stereotype world

of repetition –

the poet lauded him:

’fantastic pablo’

you are a true artist.

then the poet woke from his

confusing dream




tea bag

„this man from felpu

artist and poet

squeezes his tea bag

with his fingers

and then places his fingers

on his eyes too

before he drinks out

the squeezed-out rest”

mr t reports to his spouse

but mrs ira abstains from

any comments

for whom the artist has

completed an inner dig

depicting five faces

in an early autumn


he witnessed driving past

in a 400 bus

along the side-arm

of the danube river

poplars – most enchanting

colour changing

stripping –

beautiful women hiding

their denuded bodies

behind mighty tree trunks

their lonesome habitat

for the biting wintry season

elfin/nymphs/erotic chancers?

As long they’ll remain

In our dreams.