The Second Generation

There was a strange necessity in our first encounter consistent and beautiful like the tides of the soul it's stirring my heart nonetheless. We are not supposed to be here.

We are the Second Generation. Our ancient closeness is like conspiracy in a well-ordered orphanage. We are diligent and disconnected. Everyone is proud of us. Even the sons of the butcher keep on praising our forgiveness, We were not murdered. We were not burnt. Were protected by their remorse. And our lousy little pain can't bother anyone.

You're well-established in this land. So do I. The rich men envy your splendour and the beauty of your spirit, the poor men envy the vastness of your exile and the graceful way you're passing through.

You are famous among the seekers of oblivion, famous among the few seeking for the figments of their speechless soul. And they beg from you:

Give us back our dreams, give us back our dreams and teach us to brighten the world by the Language of the Heart.

The Heart was fortified in 1945 so strong that even angels cannot pass. We are not supposed to be here.

November 1997

The Eyes of the Beast

The eyes of the beast were quite filled with tears when it cried out for mercy. It pointed at the nest with the starving brood in order to blame you.

Since everyone felt bothered by your memory of gas chambers and massacres and tired of watching you, they opened the cage where it was held captive.

It was half dead when it crept out. Blinded by the floodlight it gave a howl of pain and made off into the forests.

But some youngsters didn't give up.

They were running after the beast, they were applauding to the beast, they were feeding the beast, they were begging for the love of the beast, they got ready to kill for the beast. The beast became their redeemer from their endless boredom.

One day, the beast crept out from ist hole under an oak tree, nothing but skin and bones, but it's hate had grown fat. It shook out the dust and the fleas, stood upright, quite human - and pointed its finger at you.

And no-one listens to your cry for help for the beast is very old just a fabulous animal and its ancient songs of hate are simple and archaic like a Hollywood drama.
Februar 1998

At a Holy Place
Petrified monks in the mountains continue to lure the lame, the despaired and the blind to the place of the wonder.

Passing the way of the cross and the icons of martyrs overcome by fragrance from the Orient

each one ascends his own Sinai in search for healing.

Like trophies, the holy warriors display kalashnikoffs and plaster jackets to show the working of the super-natural.

And those left without consolation set off with their captured top machine-guns to blow up the gates of Eden
December 2001

The Cherub
I met him drifting down the road on a cold November day. One of these days, you dont know, why you wait, still wait and stay. Berlin was so leaden, Berlin was so tough, the streams from beside and the streams from above were cut, and the heart was leaking away - when he crossed my way.

Oh fly, fly, fly and fly, fly to me, little cherub fly, fly, fly and fly fly on and come to me, I need your comfort, I need your kiss, especially on a day like this. fly, fly, fly, little cherub.

Since then, I meet him everywhere, we never talk so much, it's boring in that pothead-bar and there's no-one to touch.

Protected by a visa-card, young men drink off their dream, and the old rebels and the saints have lost their self-esteem.

Oh fly, fly, fly and fly, fly to me, little cherub fly, fly, fly and fly, fly on and come to me. Why dont you dream the world you miss, especially on a day like this, oh, fly, fly, fly and fly, fly to me, little cherub.

He' smiling like a little boy although he' s very old, his wings got frayed and tired now can hardly be unfold. His front dried out by the desert wind that carried him thousand years by the smoke of stakes and offerings the salt of sweat and tears.

He's looking for the other one for whom he's aching still since our tent was burning down, don't ask me by whose will. The old and holy covenant was broken long ago, the sad songs from the taverns still hide the misty glow.

Oh fly, fly, fly and fly, fly to me, little cherub fly, fly, fly and fly fly on and come to me. I need your comfort, I need your kiss,

especially on a day like this, Oh fly, fly, fly and fly, fly on and come to me, fly on and come to me.
December 1996

The Dancer
Last night, I saw you dancing in a warm Spanish night connecting the heart to your footsteps till the music played from inside. The old and smoky courtain of the dance-hall was waving apart with every turn of your fingers, with every beat of my heart. And from above, through the fan-light, there was a distant gleam: That was the time to get over the edge between daylight and dream into that empty chapel, the walls all riddled and bare. A ruin or a building site - with a ladder on the stair. No faith and no believers, everywhere the traces of doom. Thats where I saw you dancing - just a body in a room. But every time you touched the ground

or when you touched the air there was a distant swoosh of wings - I cannot tell from where.
June 2000

The Shadow of the Dancer

While You are sleeping The shadow of the Dancer stands by your bed Keeping off the creatures of war. The Dancer climbs upon the piedestal Secured by a silver ribbon, while the cannons keep on roaring. The bullets whistle around him The ground is trembling While the Dancer mounts the dragons back. He pats the neck of the dragon, He caresses his mane, . and slightly, very slightly, the noise of the battle calms down. Just by a stir of his big, caring hand, He's waving away the gun smoke And a short moment of peace spreads all over the room While you are sleeping.