what we found: nothing

the terms dissolve—what remains is not true—really, one ought to be silent—but what is someone to do when all he does is keep silent—perhaps become a pre-silencer—in swarms they had flocked to his gatherings—I had heard about it—it took three of them to drag him back into this existence—at first it’s an experience, then one gets used to it, then it dissolves again and wipes one out—it’s all very tiring—this happens to professionals too, not just amateurs—actually, he wasn’t a real pre-silencer at all, he simply had nothing whatsoever to say

one day is enough, and yet it isn’t, it gets nowhere, and that’s exactly where I want to go—a week is not enough either, a few years perhaps are, or perhaps not—a life is enough, and most certainly is not—and no path leads back, Anja wrote—thought out in rigid rows of four and with slurry and poetry—right into the first frosty nights—then blank lines—blank lines or black cloths, heavy and almost still despite the wind in winter nights…

you and your trendy crowd—blank line after blank line—no ifs or buts—otherwise the state would lose its function—these past seven years, I could easily have spared myself—a leap with no afterlife—that’s what it comes down to, after all, that hardly anyone gets anything out of it—blank line

the girls walk around in black—it’s looking good—the dog still felt like running away—too much has been over for too long—all that heartfelt moping too—gray mist above the silent peaks—such and similar things work just fine without a social worker—simply wonderful—there, where freedom begins—a person—whether with an admission fee or without—for only together with others, autonomous one can be—blank line

the circus already broke camp last week—that’s how quite a few lives actually end—in spite of yoga and Zen exercises—a good choice, for the sake of a fool’s freedom—to dig oneself more room to maneuver—to dig in—warning, military inventory—blank line

blank lines, nothing but blank lines—clarinet concertos that foul the air in the room—the wasps go zipping through the air—through the skies—whoever eats nothing but leaves cannot come to any harm—nothing ever happens—but people wave their arms around or write crazy stuff—how I’ve longed for a few lines from you—I feel absolutely magnificently awful—everything that needs to be renewed—and gunshots in the night—banalities without end—until one is surrounded only by people one does not know and knows nothing about—and no telling can destroy this not-knowing—keeping only what destroys one—that’s how people are, Ursula sang—blank line

and suddenly, entering a password is fun again—all the noise that comes with the simplest of gestures—milk running from your ears—and whatever else an overstimulated imagination wants to conjure into this day of mine, freed of every meaning—finally, summer gets punched in the face—astonishing, actually, that I’m truly made for eternity—blank line

that’s not even remotely over the top—upon closer inspection, the black spot turned out to be a burn hole—hands flying to one’s face, and—but everyone sees you, and everyone will tell you that they saw you—we know it, perhaps we would understand it too, perhaps we would rather not—when she had that bob cut, there was no stopping me—still, the years roll by—hair and nails would simply keep growing—what remains is dirt.

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