R. J. Nicolet

My God’s Name Is Andrena


If the fields of boxes
Turned grey overnight, with
The seeds of birth sowing under them …
When the death of language is consummated.
Stridency – Mute!       Before the bastille ears
Of working men and women …
If the perfumes of each and every flower
Fuse, –

If an exploded minute fell under a split second
And each and every flower’s perfume
Amalgamated and then bloomed
… In endlessness!

When the beach reaches the shore
On the misty winds of shifting stars …
When the currents are swept away by the tide,
Everything in turmoil,
Everything expect the unreachable skies –
Piedmont to The Heaven.

And there, the visible unadulterated sky
Holding the birds.
Motivating them to spread their wings.
Nursing them from the breast of safety.
Releasing them from hurt.
No artificial affirmations
Chanting in the sounds of Sanskrit.

A loving azure sky; just – Holding the birds …

If every thought I ever had came to pass, manifested in my hands
And the life I lead, use … Pulled by levers and pulleys –
When I am willing to accept truth as true …
If my desires cease to be external …
When I am willing to drift,
You (Rebecca)


REBECCA, the pillow beneath my head is reading my thoughts.
Burning comets dancing around the borders of forever reaching universes.
In sweet reflection of unity, of all the planets.
Behind them a row of chocolate seashells. White
Pearl white, bisque shinning inside sunbeams.
REBECCA, the pillow is reading my thoughts.
Rebecca, walk with me.
How could I behold you but in heaven?
Cut blades of fresh feral fuchsia fears
Falling from the sky, planting the blown seeds of wild flowers
Under Mother’s restful breast.
Soft, softer than the rainless cloud on a listless summer day.
(the fresh air of a quiet night, embroidered with knots of sanity)
Your perfect hand –
Step with step, I flow with the moment.
REBECCA, my clothes are needled in frozen yarn.
I feel a trembling chill against my skin –
A – weather – worn – body –
Ice trickling in the stone pebbles inside my temperate blood.
REBECCA, press the blessing heat of your
Saint hearted body through my sparkling arctic bones.
Warmed, pleased in peace.
I embrace your violet fire with my subdued gratefulness.


I went back to the science of my studies
The college of my youth, nestled in the womb of
A rusted Southern California derrick.

Pressed up against a cul-de-sac
The suburban salt breeze ran my back like a bolt of lightening
Splits the thunder in half.

Striking at the very heart of my intentions
The desolate scenery brought back vivid memories.

( a hazel-eyed boy
swinging higher than he should
his dreams floating away from him
(to be an actor, to conquer the world,
to be worshipped, to be understood)
swinging higher to catch his evaporating dreams
swinging higher then he should
propelling thru the air
landing on the cement, his dreams gone
He, just lying there )

The slow mannerisms of the society
Hypnotized my thinking
And I phlegmatically stared at the sky with a coronagraph
And I saw my slightly aged face reflecting back.
(Bravery embedded into my soul. No denial. No denial)

I felt the pain of stone crushed against
My toes, as the rolling rock of perpetual movement
Collided into my step – “!” –

…! The impossible happened, (impossibly)


But the culture had stripped me of my knowledge
And I saw it only as a phenomenon.
The despondent eyes I had looked to repent
MY existence
Captured me in the mist of awaken sleep.
“Disassociated” – Retarded – Neotenic

I realized the dream was over –
Yet, I dreamed on.
(all my powers of manifestation, stolen –
off with the instant. Still I chose to dream on. Dreaming)

Hot pavement listening to the dragging of my blistered feet,
A cologne bottle breathed heavy it’s broken flower
Beside my wanting nose.

and THEN
…! The impossible happened, again (remarkably)
… THE TIME HAD COME (a second time)

If Now … (and the seconds tick off)
Yes – If Now … (and the seconds tick off)
Now!! Precisely … Right Now! (and the seconds tick off)
The goal obtained, I would be whole
– but the rainbow; but the pot of gold …
– (with everything at the fingertips of my tongue)

Stone, I became stone.


Sanguinolent sun falling from Shamash’s arms,
How can I believe our tasteless education?
Painted wall, pretty in appearance – with deception fulfilled
Shared by my own sight.
I don’t want to know anything I see.
I reject the myths of travel.
I could run until I am out of breath
Drinking the waters of every fresh sea,
Reading every book of every library
And what would I have?
Maybe I shall run – travel to the end of this conclusion.
Weaken in promises, cancered in perceptions.
This is not! a life, an illusion, that is all it is.
Each day, and every minute in each day,
And every instant that each minute holds,
I but relive the instant when
Terror replaced love.
And so I die each day to live again,
Until I cross the gap between the past
And the present.
Such is each life; a seeming interval from birth to death
And on to life again,
A repetition of an instant gone by long ago
That cannot be relived.
And all of time is but the mad belief
That what is over
Is still here and now.
Andrena, how long will I wait?
Love! I call you name. If I vociferously scream it out in pain,
I understand that act will be nothing more than
Love. With all my heart. Take it away.
My heart, how ingenious – if not brilliant
Trying to hide me from myself
– I climb on this limb to grin (grinning) from myself (grinning)
– I don’t want it.
Do you think me a liar?
Joy? I hear you, disassociated in the proper circles.
WHAT IS IT I SAY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Again – JOY! I am lost.
But you see,
Maybe I know where I am, and maybe that is the “Lost”
I consider “Home.”
Love. I turn to you.
Zeuses? For what.
The aging of the body?
The organization?
The power structure?
Andrena, let me not see. What I would see.
Andrena, what am I waiting for?
The fear of death, the idea of sin?
An education?

Dieter Sperl

when the landscape ceases

the door is dripping it is damp the tongue is exhausted for seconds only wheezing the tongue hanging out with all these fingers and teeth and ears in a wheezing to dawn like this until the body ripped open on the floor the heart in its beating in a passionate new year’s beginning the chin is in the armpit the finger moves out only flashes like each pulse-beat in this dripping and pouring from all the hair the tongue cuts across the field the bodies and faces turned thrown to the ground to the ground and lain there the forearms only a few body-parts like now thrown limited to a few body-parts from all pores everywhere it pours from all the hair no beginning at all on to the ground like this without any fever always somewhere else long since the folds between a finger wheezings over the calendar in a snowstorm through the screaming on the corridor to creep out in the clapping of the crowd out of the last garden gnome when the fork into the face of a piece of meat on a morning like today to wake up like this on a morning like this to go out like this

the street is empty still take another ten breaths today wolves and fish populate these senses there in the middle of a thick forest you follow the tracks stand still you follow the tracks with the scent on several branches at the same time like this in this wheezing near the ground to follow until the breath is perceptible the breath perceptible the pleasure stays long on the ground men kneel on this ground and hold their heads in the grass they lament the death perhaps they are lamenting themselves no trembling now the glistening sun and fast shadows in front of eyes a stone is thrown against the sun such a wheezing the later twitching of the faces what’s been suppressed grows long pushing until it strikes us in the face and is already gone as soon as it struck us the fingers in the soft neck in the crevices long seconds only this sun which stands open there a telephone conversation early in a morning a bird goes past infiltrated by february by ants insects they run so fast

there are no more images there the train goes irregularly slowly something is flying never mind aquarius and autumn on these fingers so near that the salt the salt on the fingertips begins to jump the cracks for example here in laughter behind the horizon for a forest assembled the family bent forwards wheezed on to the ground on a station lies a fir-tree branch on a yellow line like this left over from a christmas from the last one probably that pushed itself forward into the new year on this skin there these senses the station manager waves from his camera no more waiting now no waiting at all only a dying and a living that was hardly noticed hardly noticed in the natural shadow-play of the trees a cat runs across the street don’t come back

thirty-eight feet with ears standing upright alone in summer in packs in winter when they are hungry in general they rest during the hottest hours of the day running fast as if blurred two old people are wearing leather gloves a buzzard is sitting on a cable around him only this white winter landscape only at the end does it begin to change into hills when the head is twisted quite far round wheezing just above the ground long lines in white mountain landscapes only this wheezing an old child is defying his birthday his tongue is friendly leather gloves with the fingers cut off and all other forms of gloves smoke rises up two birds beneath a bridge there will have to be a lot of animals there the trees group together or they appear as trunks a separate population of spruce and scots pine with size thirty-four rubber boots on the ice-rink in the forest slid there run there jumped over the wooden side fallen on your bottom hit the ice half with your hands half with the back of your head the ice is bleeding between the hairs our next stop the old faces often get quite hard before they implode the old faces as long as it’s still possible with a board hung in the wind when again we’re beaten from these heartbeats these heartbeats nothing fights against them in order to announce our fear as well when individual people when individual people are struck dead or their death’s hushed up or they departed early the dead win their feelings back through their living representatives when they are addressed thousands of culprits millions of culprits have lived in one family it’s only another forty minutes now thirty minutes another few minutes a wheeze tongue hanging out

she has sunspots on her reddish-fair skin when the landscape ceases she begins to follow to pursue the rapid trail of footsteps yes she has sunspots when she has left the landscapes behind her a few cuts above the knee it only rained once in five days to start off like this with these feet on the ground scattered between the heaps of rubbish in the sky slow rainships cruise the rumble of an aeroplane comes later several days until clouds hear the drums going on many a sunday to wheeze like this alone over the ground still another thirty minutes a few seconds now gulls screech behind the curtain through the curtain when they cast in lights movement between the dogs sit in the forest and stay between the leaves lie until it’s morning rapid wingbeats cold wind on your ears but a certain a certain very slow rumble is closely interwoven with the spring you can perhaps hear the steps in the glass if you could only hear better the steps in the glass with your coat open as if they were dancing the fishes before lively rainy days quite near where they’re at home and the sounds of grinding from the dismantling section they hang at night over the suburbs as if they were dancing from the side into the holding stack in the smell of hot hotplates you put off your happiness to a day in the midday heat no animal in sight only a car is standing there abandoned with a yawning abyss your feet in empty space so that the bodies between the trees begin quite suddenly to tremble the hands on the hunt then on the hunt then to do something daily to wheeze tongue hanging out two wolves are running fast entangled in the snow to the point of being totally surprised veiled women often in black children playing as any pulse-beat fragile the gaze wanders over pine forests and hill-ranges the lush meadows can hardly be held up by its own body-weight it’s just above the ground only a crawler lane keeps the ground in order there are two legs four legs they rush over the ground just above the ground all the flotsam that comes from the land and from time far behind the hills there where the horizon begins nowhere no waiting far and wide this sun the screeching of the gulls beneath a sunday the wrist two muscles for this winter lie waiting for battle or fortune then the animals sound as if from silence as if from talking there the mouth laughs the children stand in the rain at the front door under the roof it’s been raining for hours two hours their mother comes with her shopping bag and umbrella in her hand not a very loud day despite the rain no real memory but the rain the rain so unceasing has no end in sight the children are not waiting for the rain to stop it doesn’t stop it won’t stop any more wheezing at the front door under the porch it’s raining and lightning with dirty and grazed knees where were the girls where were they she’s wearing black boots and looking out of the window only the rain really clap hands in their collection through the gap between window and curtain where the child heckles on all fours four feet it’s four feet running over the carpet into this gap in a midday heat outside in front of the house behind the house madcap rushed running headlong between the clothes-poles always a lot of heat and wet to the skin fallen in this heavy rain thirty eight feet rushing from the dust into the rain from the glowing heat from midday into the downpour into a cloudburst the heavens are bursting it’s raining from all feet down at the front door where were the girls where were they on that day outside in the weather with their clothes totally soaking only this wheezing this lessening wheezing over the years the wheezing lessens at this front door it’s quieter there’s more spoken about the future assumes proportions a well-ordered day makes its appearance the fingers get older to walk with a torn-off sun-hanger walk more quickly then more slowly there are two legs they push forwards then backwards then four legs near the ground another twenty minutes still another twenty minutes the days are overcast infection occurred long ago the child hasn’t got a temperature to come like this out of such a morning with plenty of fresh air if they are warmly wrapped up to come out like this especially when they have a cold just compare that the body is there the earth is there something has changed the windspeed for a few minutes there’s just sun and dirt on your finger tips a light breeze is here five days have passed then a bird then a second one all at once almost every view is oriented on the line of the horizon often stunned for long seconds only chapped fingers the only movements the year has given away colour after colour

drink as fast as a wolf drink as fast as a dog feet and fingers look for holds only just above the ground beneath a pile of stones beneath a layer of freshly fallen snow look out of the window just here the settlement begins on the shelf lie knitting the school exercise books of the daughters and jeans waiting to be shortened there are four square metres all round the house at the entrance five square metres of meadow with simple flowers with a check pattern the shirt is ironed the blouse is ironed the photos of their daughters in the living room on a sideboard the daughter as a five-year-old the daughter as a thirteen-year-old the other daughter a few years afterwards only a very few years the other daughter as a nurse what did she look like as a fifteen-year-old what did she look like when she was still going to primary school as a seven-year-old and then as a twenty-year-old what must they have looked like the two daughters so that they didn’t have to go to the factory like insects that fly up they sleep facing forward and in summer there are many of them

here at all the rivers and flooded areas there the thunder ceases and no hail and no rain falls on to the earth any more on a morning like this there are twenty minutes still twenty minutes just above the earth follow the shadow-lines of the high clouds sometimes the fire also gets out of control and you can hear a noise you can hear this noise there are men and women they last a certain time they are at home over there among themselves just as they are here on the street above the ground when they wheeze up and down the feet yearn for nothing the hands yearn for nothing the sky enters our experience burning sweat runs abandoned from a face these few evenings in summer on which you were able to sit under the stars outside these evenings somewhere rain far away in front of a shop on a country road a soup with cheese swimming in it the houses step nearer there are early noises coming from the street or from the mountains early noises from a kitchen when they were washed up to press forward like this at our feet

on a sideboard are the photos of their daughters the photos of their sons a young woman is kicking a chestnut against a tree very many fallen and cut down trees a child is using a branch to draw on the ground far behind a crow is landing an elderly married couple is creeping over the meadow a man with a hat is approaching on a bicycle an old mercedes with people just as old stables on the right side with one rear leg the skewbald mare is scratching itself on its ears permanently birds fly high in the sky once again the horse scratches itself with its rear leg a woman claps her hands several times one child explains to another one that you should only feed a horse with your bare hands another twenty minutes the celebrations have been in full swing for a long time

there are words for monday words for tuesday rain and heat or rain and autumn you’re walking in the sun now you’re walking in the sun tomorrow no longer to wait for anything

over there fifty people are being swept under the table it doesn’t take a week three days perhaps twenty minutes there were two feet four feet they went with their desires to survive they went home on their way there they stopped still hanging in their names there are two feet wheezing over the ground the washing hung in the wind just above the ground wooden fences that you can smell but september still hasn’t been sailed through yet a few accords animals close by only step by step now only step by step now before the sun disappears she doesn’t leave the house very often any more she mustn’t fall ill any more either there’s no-one else there on a shop car park cows are sunning themselves perhaps a few seconds or fewer

the whole body clings to the ground as far as possible crawling over it slowly and effortlessly it is warm here only the trees tower upwards a body runs along a straight otherwise no living thing was to be seen the rotations of the hands in many variations until the salad with the hot potatoes until the salad has disappeared as it were only the empty bowl with vinegar is left standing in the middle of the table until it’s taken away until the plates are likewise taken away remember this the empty table with four hands with eight hands depending still listen simultaneously without a signal without anyone clapping their hands listen to the chairs being put away pushed back from the table then disperse only the voices left that go like drums in the early afternoon the wind opened into a spring into a stone

there are two feet they’re running quickly beneath the clouds up and down a flat expanse there are four people a woman a girl then a dog stepped on a dandelion in a second one there they’re running straight over this meadow to wheeze the scream of a painted child no real illumination no real joy but what then this keeping on a lead of the whole body to go out on a day like this with your mouth gaping open

count to four count to five before they’re quite born with violent nose-bleeds a water pistol is working on an old ruined wall again and again seconds go through my head in my september in my october the tv appearance of a donkey twelve days have passed perhaps ten days away over a fence over a metal fence an avenue on which many black horses are running time of rain with the water time of flowers with the wooden steps which lead up to the street with the wheezing a twitching of the eye breaks out of the eye a man is lying stripped to the waist on a wooden bench it’s march outside or april much too cold still or may behind the church spire there’s only a light breeze if you approach him he won’t notice many clouds are moving across a clear sky without indicating any direction there are images of a little town on a day like this you don’t need to notice anything go barefoot over the meadow go barefoot a cat lies lazily on the warm wall of the church with its feet stretched out why do you want to sleep you can’t feel any memory in your hands and so in the end you don’t hit any birds whatsoever

the sparse rays of the sun have been seen for days the sun returning now is especially welcomed by the children in the schools and nurseries sun festivals are celebrated and colourful pictures painted twenty-four hours make a day then the years then the years from the sky birds fall we simply join them a strand of hair out of the eye streaming cat over there at night crow big bird people on the street find the tempo in which they are hunted the fast flying up of the birds not to wait for anything any else don’t wait for anything else step by step the speaking of the river

break off step by step the speaking of the river it smells of rain the wet grass smells of rain to do something in this way to wheeze with the wind in his eyes the stranger falls into the sleep from which he will awaken only years later like the people from the house opposite they’re looking out of their windows again then no-one will be looking again for days on end fall asleep on a park bench in a sun only this light breeze and freckles which stretch to the horizon tear at the body again and again outbreaks of time and laughter no foot-prints there’s no path prepared with these steps on the face no path viewed from the distance a small figure disappears between restlessly dancing wheat-fields nearby the light refracts into the last piece of country road with the search for hidden fish and arrows in the corners of the rooms in the corners of the clouds cheerful whistles drawn on a gateau wooden fences one moment from a distance of ten metres when you’re sad when you sit on a tree from a distance of eleven metres orange-segments which keep a circle warm when you hop over kerbs heaven and hell in the a morning you don’t listen to the screaming like lightning as if thrown to the ground the forearms the stomach the feet to hear the wheezing only just above the ground to wheeze only just above the ground washing fluttering when the wind then when the wind comes in the wind hangs itself on the washing a man with his birds in a park in guangzhou 1998

to look like this at the water like every pulse-beat no pulse here then it’s quiet then it’s quiet here no pulse only talk into my mouth when you make soup when you look at a star into the very highest rain a car smaller than an ant smaller than a pin with six cameras positioned at the window what’s happening in the street staying up and waking up on a park bench in a sun fall asleep march outside still far too cold to lie on the benches in the same places on the slope behind the house wooden steps that lead up to the highway into the handkerchief on such a day on a day like this there’s a voice which is knocking a river which is flowing past there’s a forest here the summer if falling on the field the stones are bringing snow into the bird-year with a noise on the tongue not for a needle even only a scratch to fall through it with your hands

there’s a time to be contented there’s no time for this one day one year perhaps later there are four feet then only two feet on a morning like this like this to creep out walk out the air rushes into the room when you open the window where the sun falls apart like this on to the ground on to the street it’s behind the house there are steps running up wooden steps there are two feet no-one comes too late only one child then there are two there are two girls they have to make their way on foot on the highway three kilometres four kilometres they walk wrapped up in their thick coats they have woollen hats on their heads and footprints the sun strikes the ground the animals are now a gust of wind the girls are walking it is a summer on the road dust whirls when they wheeze just above the road they can hear the noise of the gravel in their noses they can hear the dust with their hands they sketch their wishes in the air many wishes for later on this highway they were invented these wishes stamped in laughter in crying in a nursery in a bedroom then they cut with these tears this air is a bird tossed upwards just like now thousands of mothers one day one year perhaps later you walk through one life through two lives there are eight feet they are still wheezing eight feet wheezing up on the highway tall brushwood the yellow lines down the middle lead the eyes until you turn off they’re hot days stagnant water completely broken up insects crawling into something birds of summer only smoking on the hill in front of the house

vienna, end of february 99

version: Friday, 24 May, 2002, 4:37:24 PM

Anant Kumar

Die Dämmerungsrufe in Motihari

(In einem Erdteil, wo heutzutage die Kriegsposaunen laut dröhnen.)

In der ganzen Welt wollen die Eltern ihre Kinder zur Dämmerung bei sich haben. Das ist ein Faktum. Meiner Meinung nach sollte es keine Ausnahme von dieser Regel geben. Von New York bis Motihari. Unter schneeweißen sonnenarmen Skandinaviern. Und unter den in der Sonnenhitze gerösteten südlichen Völkern.

Stückchenweise verschwindet am Horizont die rote immer größer werdende Scheibe, die Vogelscharen fliegen zu ihren Horten zurück, und das Familiennest dürstet nach dem Zusammensein.

Und nicht selten vergessen die spielenden Kinder die Mahnungen ihrer Eltern, abends rechtzeitig zuhause zu sein. In manchen Ländern wird es in Gassen gerufen: Mamas und Papas artikulieren deutlich und laut die Namen ihrer Lieblinge. In manchen Ländern wird wiederum an die Tür des Nachbars geklopft, auf den Spielplätzen gesucht, … bei Freunden angerufen.

Es gibt brave Kinder. Es gibt auch weniger brave Kinder, die nicht immer den Eltern gehorchen. O Weh! Dann gibt es welche, die in ihrer Neugier an einzelnen Abenden ein Geheimnis aufklären oder vielleicht auch ein Rätsel lösen möchten. Sie möchten weiter erforschen, weiter suchen.

So einer ist der Junge Winton in Graham Greens Geschichte „Under the Garden“. Eines Abends wird der Kleine richtig von seinem Entdeckungsdrang gepackt, und er möchte die Geheimnisse des Haussees samt seiner Insel erforschen. Beim Einbruch der Dämmerung versteckt sich Winton, währenddessen sein braver älterer Bruder ihn vergeblich sucht. Eine Weile, weil sich der gehorsame George vor der anbrechenden Dunkelheit fürchtet. Er zieht ins Haus zu der Mom zurück.

In unserer Familie gab es wenig Ermahnungen. Vielmehr dirigierten uns die Regeln. Ja, die Gesetze von Herrn Papa mussten ausnahmslos befolgt werden. Und Papa hat das Grundgesetz erlassen, dass jeder vor dem Sonnenuntergang im Haus anwesend zu sein habe.

Papa rief mich in Motihari laut, und wenn ich mich nicht in seiner Sichtweite befand, dann erschallten seine Rufe in engen Straßen, die abends allmähnlich immer leerer wurden. In den Ferien, als uns mein großer Bruder aus dem Internat besuchte, hörte man zwei liebkosende Kindernamen, deren Silben sich aufeinander so schön reimten. Sobald jene Laute unsere Ohren erreichten, antworteten unsere Münder automatisch: „Ja Papa, wir kommen!“

Hinzu fällt mir eine kuriose sehr amüsante Anekdote ein. Ein neuer Straßenverkäufer, dessen Stimme auffallend der Papas ähnelte, begann in jener Zeit durch die Gassen unseres Wohnviertels zu kreuzen. Und immer wenn er den Namen seiner Köstlichkeit aus Nüssen wiederholt hintereinander laut rief, hörte ich meinen und den Namen meines Bruders in Papas Stimme. Prompt antwortete ich darauf wie ein Automat: „Ja, ich komme!“ Sofort wurde mir jedoch die Tatsache — auch nach meinem wiederholten Durchsuchen des Hauses — bewusst, dass weder Papa noch mein älterer Bruder da waren. Verwundert fragte sich meine Kinderseele, ob ich richtig gehört hatte oder mir die Rufe bloß eingebildet hatte. Mein Kinderhirn rätselte. In den darauffolgenden Tagen hörte ich noch einige Male die merkwürdigen Rufe, auf die ich mechanisch antwortete. Dann wunderte ich mich. Es vergingen noch einige Tage, bis ich selbst der Sache nachging, und die Wirklichkeit peinlich lachend herausfand — einen Trödler!

Zuhause gab es abends erstmal einen kleinen Snack, und dann gingen wir, vier Geschwister, ins Lesezimmer. Mal döste einer hinter seinem Buch. Mal nahm einer ein kleines Nickerchen an seinem Schreibtisch. Aber nur, wenn die Gefahr von Papa nicht in unmittelbarer Nähe lauerte.

Reminiszenzen! Wenn ich mich heute in Europa während der Weihnachtstage an meine östliche Welt so schön erinnere, unterhalte ich mich zugleich darüber mit dem Schüler Anton. Anton wird 19 und macht sein Abitur in der Waldorfschule Kassel. Anton stimmt mir zu und versucht sehnsuchtsvoll auf seine Kindheit mit seiner alleinerziehenden Mutter zurückzublicken: „Stimmt! Die Mutter kam oft zum Spielplatz und holte mich ab, denn es wurde auch Zeit zum Abendbrot … Aber ich werde demnächst meine Mutter fragen, was ihr dazu einfällt …“ Damals lebten sie, Anton und seine Mutter, in Berlin. Antons Mutter wohnt jetzt in Hamburg, und sie kommt regelmäßig nach Kassel.

Die Spielplätze meiner Kindheit waren die Straßen von Motihari. Damals war jene kleine ostindische Stadt nicht übervölkert, und die trockenen sauberen Straßen eines jeden Wohnviertels waren ideal für unsere Spiele: Marmorkügelchen, Kreiselräder, Badminton, …


George Orwell erblickte die Welt in dieser ostindischen Stadt (Bundesland Bihar), und Mahatma Gandhi startete 1917 Satyagrah, den gewaltlosen Widerstand.

John Kinsella

The Fugitive Writings
Four Fugitive Poems of John Heywood


They never-never me,
in my difference
between rock
and hard place,
mining companies
paying Fred Williams
to paint a singular scraggy tree
against an exuded backdrop:
that’s narrative,
our story,
our Cenzoic conversations,
tektites glowing
art deco,
otherly glass,

The Sand of Frenchman’s Bay

In the heat, as of snow,
pressure point reprising
equal and opposite reaction,
fresh water running
out of stone;
here dead whales floundered
and sharks brewed,
such clear water,
King George Whiting
tracking abruptly
changing direction, altitude,
as swimming against the current
you occupy more than buoyancy,
data and consequence
shoreline softly cracked,
looking out
to land that surrounds
the bay.


His death brought name-loss
and family heirlooms,
packets of letters,
that tooled Bible
from the end
of the sideboard,
grabbed by the black hole
of regret. It gives us
displacement in pseudo-jargon,
a projection of: light
in his paintings, uneasy
perspective, memory
devoid of sexual reference.
It was made clear
in his will: burn to a cinder,
let ash fall like pollutants
into the lives
of the active.

Archimedes’ Principle

The lacklustre patch of lawn
coated with red silt, sensed
an increase in pressure
as water flowed
downhill with greater intensity,
Wondering, she momentarily
fused with her lawn
in its struggle and surprise,
against heat
and mosquitoes
and a generator
barely driving yellow light
in her dark house,
pallid through curtains.
he sank below the surface
of the dam, unable
to see his way
up through
a lack
of light.

Ian McBryde


Clothing Piles, Dachau

It seems the clothing piles reach up to brush
the clouds. All those coats, those lovingly
put away coats, taken off on cold Polish nights
and placed in closets. Rumpled dresses with
the leaves of Warsaw parks still on their hems.

A million pinafores. An avalanche of hats.
All trouser pockets turned inside-out. Shawls,
kneesocks, pullovers, undershirts, cliffs of
clothing in the rain. Beyond that, the mound
of empty suitcases, all carefully labelled.

Chelmno Villanelle

She helps the new ones off the filthy train;
they look to her for guidance and for truth.
She reassures them, indicates the gates.

These are faces she will not see again.
As the guards watch and chatter in small groups,
she helps the new ones off the filthy train.

Their worn shoes fill with mud and frozen rain
as more snow gathers slowly on the roof.
She reassures them, indicates the gates.

She smiles and waves and points them on their way
as the mounted horses lift their cold hooves.
She helps the new ones off the filthy train.

Her mirror broke, fell all the way away.
In the end there is nothing left to lose.
She reassures them, indicates the gates.

Sirened awake each fresh relentless day,
her nerve returns; she steps up to the queue.
She helps the new ones off the filthy train
and reassures them, indicates the gates.

Himmler Retires Early

In private, erect, you still barely fill
your small, girlish hand. Hence,

eventually, the black clothes, black boots,
black leather, a death’s head on your

black cap. The air you travel through
beating with fear. A lullaby of screams

to soothe you. Your pillow the grief
of Europe, your consolation a chorus

of children’s voices crying hurry,
Mummy, burning, hurry.

Frank Milautzcki

Freude an den Texten


Hundert Deubel Hohlgass-
wächter, oh aufpass!, oh oh nächtens!,
schlurften wärts Wald lichterdings.
Wochum wochum kein Gekutsche,
genimm dich Dieb die Stadt auch vor.
Aufpass!, lichts Balkonin horch …
schlafnit, knirsch und knack er ast
––––– krrrrrrrrk –––––
Finster aussem raus komm Schatten,
mondmit Licht geht Gaunerbrut!
Arm, all Arm, oh leute nächtens
aufpass! laut und wachgemach,
Arm, all Arm, oh Ast verwunsch dir!
all am Arsch.
Hundert Deubel Hohlgass
renn ihm hause dunkel schnell,
knack er ast dem krieg er Prügel,
aufpass er muß lern dem kerl,
blauge rote fleckte backen!
Oh oh aufpass lerner nächstens,
aufpass lerner sicherdings.


Und wenn dir was gehört ist
es ein abgefahrener Zug ein Gedicht
eine Tannennadel im Socken
ein Zitat und wenn dir noch was gehört

ist es die Luft die dir nicht gehört
die Rede von und der Tag danach
eine Ente im Schnabel einen Fuchs
ein Rad und der Besen daran

ist es dein Satellit auf der Parkbank
ein abgefallener Fuß und darin
die Rede vom Blut das dir nicht gehört
ist es ein Meisenknödel für andere

Maden wenn du was du sein sollst
bist was dir nicht gehört ein Fisch
deiner Tante im Mahlstrom des Goldes
heureka du wußtest es Gold


Oh wie sie da …
Oh wie sie das sitzt wie sie da
sitzt wie ein Eimer der voll
ist wie sie das sitzt wie ein Eimer
der voll ist sitzt wie sie da ist

Oh wie sie schimpft …
laut wie sie schimpft wie sie da
sitzt wie ein Schimpfer der eim
ist wie sie da schimpft im Gesitze
eim wie er voll ist wie sie das ist

Oh wie sie d’Hand hält
Luft mit die Drohung von Schimpf eim
wie sie da sitzt mit ihrm Schimpfen
ist wie ein Schimpfer mit Eimern ihr Drohen
zu schütt wie er voll ist von wie sie das ist

Oh wie s’ihms schimpft
lang mit dem Lauten wie er da steht
wie er nass ist vom Lauten wo er da steht
dass ’sihms langt von ihrm Schimpfen das Eimer
daherträgt und schüttet wie voll s’ist wie sie da ist

Voll bis Du schimpft ihrm
den Buben und sitzt wie sie da
sitzt oh wie ein Eimer der voll ist
wie sie da sitzt wie ein Eimer
voll bist Du schimpft sie dem Buben vom Liege


Die Täuschung das
Versprechen ding

im Wasser

blinkt das Silber nach
der Liebe kann das weg
kann das
Nylon durch

trennt mit dem Blinker
rennt nach dem Licht
zeug im Maul lebe
kann das

und der Blick aus dem
Spiegel sagt hilf
mir über
drüber groß
nache Mauer
kann das über


Jawohl ich schlief unter dem Hut
ganz genau richtig und gut erkannt
ich schlief unter dem Hut
ich war mir nicht sicher ich war eine Insel
ganz genau richtig und gut erkannt
eine Insel der Ruhe unter meinem Garibaldihut
das könnt ihr auf den Fotos erkennen
ganz genau ja dort in der knorrigen Welt
die weiße Mauer ja das ist meine Mauer
der alte Stuhl und der Hocker ja ganz genau
das auf den Fotos bin ich frag doch Luigi schlief
unter dem Hut hier auf dem Foto bin ich Moment
mal das ist mein Hut aber ich schlafe
nicht ich überlege ob es noch Wein gibt
im Haus.


Die Ränder
allein waren
bereits sie küsste

wusste ihn nicht
mit den Zeichen
zu geizen was das ist
im Meer

aller Schwimmer
das wirkliche
Wort sie küsste

wusste ihn nicht
und das war Meer
als ein
Wort er kannte

es und zahlte das
Wasser sie ging
was er blieb


die Zeit
zwischen Fakt und Sprache
ist meine Zeit

Stimmen die Nichts sind
im Pappellaub das dürr
September heißt wie alles
einen Namen hat

Du bist nicht
sicher etwas schweigt
es ist kein Ring
am Licht ich trug
die Scherbe kalt ins Tal es hieß
das Bit lag leer im Wasser

und weiß vom Ring er fiel
ganz lautlos hin

Chris Chapman

Poème en prose


(walks) up the street, of any inner suburban domain. up the laneway, into the main street, on the corner is a smart italian restaurant, but those people eating their $25 vongole at the stainless-steel tables on the footpath, aren’t they a little freaked by the:

drunk homeless guy,
hungry punters from the TAB passing to the milkbar for their burger,
lesbo chick with shaven head,
local non-anglo teens in homeboy uniform …?

on the bus: it’s 11 am. the british tourist couples in their sixties move so the scraggly but i’m sure perfectly respectably eccentric guy gets up to get off. his passage to the centre door is clear but he wants to disembark via the front door. that’s cool.

on the train: why is that elderly middle eastern guy looking at me? is he?

HEARS (on railway platform): happy holidays! (teacher to students).

HEARS (on train, upstairs) the aboriginal girls in the two big seats in front making fake cosmetic ads and laughing loudly. when they leave their names and a diagram of the ABORIGINAL FLAG is tagged on the vinyl seat.

from the windows of the train: terrace houses, industrial buildings, shopping centres, cheap apartment blocks, the olympic park, a mosque.

at the front of the bread shop is a stack of styro cartons full of market garden greens and a cardboard sign “70cents”.

URBAN TIP: when passing someone say HELLO, or nod so.

April 2002


What a strange turn of events, an unexpected path my days have taken. An introspection that seems inevitable surrounds me.

This sense of being treads a path between internalism, and absorption. The pleasure gained can be immense and heartening, when there is a feeling that the flow is all that there is, which of course is the case.

Sometimes this approaches a state of meditation, of shikantaza, “themeless sitting in zazen, that is, abondoning all thoughts of good or bad, enlightenment or illusion, and just sitting.” (John Stevens, Introduction to One Robe, One Bowl, The Zen Poetry of Ryokan, Weatherhill, Tokyo (1977) 1979, page 15.)

This is especially good for afternoons, say, at the northern parkland at Bondi Beach, and watching the people, the weather, recognising the colour of the sky and ocean change gradually.

And sometimes in a state of half-sleep a similar feeling emerges where there is a floating sensation, the mind half aware of external reality, half aware that it is dreaming.

February 2002


Down the stairs into the western Elizabeth Street entrance to the underground railway. I buy a return ticket to the Cross, browse some magazines and eventually take the escalator down to the platform where I’ve just missed one train but the next will arrive in seven minutes. I walk halfway along the almost empty platform and sit on a benchseat. I’m casually looking to my right in an unfocussed kind of way, and when the guy, who is walking in my direction, is about six feet away, I consciously realise I had noticed his sandals, second-hand brown suitpants, red zip-up sports jacket (also retro), and his good looking and scruffy head. I’m snapped out of my daydream by a doubletake because he looks briefly familiar, and because he sits on the bench next to me.

I think nothing more of it after the train arrives and at Kings Cross I take the Victoria Street exit. For some reason I’m a bit surprised at how leafy-green the street is, and I’m in daydream land again, enjoying the atmosphere: the cafes, the backpackers’ hostels, the backpackers. I turn right into whatever street it is that heads back up to Macleay Street just where the post office is (on the quiet side of the park with the fountain), head into the section where the post boxes are, and emerge with a magazine I’d contributed to and Money Mark’s latest cd I had ordered over the net. Outside, in the sun, I decide to open the plastic magazine pack to see if the cheque for my writing is in there too, thinking I could walk up the street and bank it. I’d considered sitting on some stone steps in the sun, but instead use the chest-high sandstone wall right beside them as a shelf to peruse my mail. Well, the cheque must be mailed separately, no problem. I’m absorbed in flicking through the mag to find my review and to see what else is in it, and then I notice that sitting on the steps right there is the scruffy/cute guy smoking a cigarette.

Weird. Then things got decidedly weirder. I met J at X gallery and checked out the work which was nice. A couple of beers with J started things off, really. Then dinner at the great SuperBowl Chinese restaurant in Goulburn Street. We’d taken a six pack and had two left so I suggested we wander down to the nearby southern end of Darling Harbour to sit by the water and drink the remaining two bottles. We’re passing an open-air Japanese restaurant and bar full of people when J recognises his friend S who is involved with the said event – a function for the promoters of the current tennis tournaments, and their guests. She invites us in where we proceed to consume complimentary beverages for at least a couple of hours.

Stupidly, instead of grabbing a taxi and heading home, I take one up to Oxford Street. I meet a very nice guy who is a chef at one of Sydney’s most fashionable restaurants, then, on some kind of whim, decide to take a walk but not before buying a disposable camera and kindly requesting streetfolk to pose for my documentary snaps. Then I call in to the Stonewall for a vodka, and, taken by a particularly humourous advertisement in the boys’ room, leave a note on the bar with my empty glass requesting the bar staff to phone me if I’m able to have one of the posters when they change them over. This is after I’d tried unsuccessfully to remove one from its perspex display-frame myself. Hey, it gets worse.

Another camera purchased and another walk around the neighbourhood and now the sky is starting to lighten. Back to the Oxford Hotel for a bloody mary (!), and a chat to a charming Torres Strait Islander, for whom I offer to buy breakfast for at Bondi Beach. As I do. Before that we’d sat on the beach for a while, and afterwards bussed it back into the city and spent a couple of hours dozing on the lawn beneath a Moreton Bay fig in the Botanic Gardens.

I now have four disposable cameras as testimonials to this and two previous all-nighters. Fucking hell. The photographs should be either very interesting and inspired, or uselessly bad. That is, unless I find myself without the money required to process them because I’d spent it all on alcohol and breakfasts. I don’t want to think about how much of my rapidly dwindling savings I chewed through last night. Oh well; all in the service of a supremely enjoyable, if slightly out-of-control, time. It is the big city after all. And I haven’t found myself in a tricky situation yet, save for the assumption being made, on two occassions, that I was a cop. Maybe my unusual photography subject matter had something to do with it, and possibly the fact that on one evening I arrived at Taylor Square in a cab immediately after police officers had blitzed numerous nightclubs in the vicitiny for the presence of amphetamines and ecstasy. No wonder I was mistaken for a Narc.

After a couple of hours of fitfull pesudosleep (recalling details of last night vividly), my brother and his mate C and I walked the few blocks up to the Belgian Beer cafe, under faint rain, blue dusk, and purple jacaranda flowers (which are everywhere in Sydney). There we drank some Hoegaarden beers and I left them to it for more. Settling instead for a toasted cheese and ham sandwich here. And now I’m listening to the pretty acoustic sounds and vocals of the Norwegian boys Eirik and Erlend of ‘Kings of Convenience’. With the clarity and sweetness of morning rain, is how I would describe their cd ‘Quiet is the New Loud’.

November 2001