Wallungen

and we talked about Netflix
and we talked about the war
the weapons for Ukraine
and the mushrooms in my fridge
we talked about our sick bones
clothes, hormones, vitamins,
our careers and our partners
AI and all the crises
we read about today

but what is it with the hate in the world
and what is it with my flowers
they are dying, it’s too hot
but there’s nobody to water them
during my Ayurveda retreat
I compete with the time, and how are you ?

let me have a sip of wine
and I’ll tell you what I think
about the elections, the stars and tanks
I’ll tell you how I see the future or the past
through James Webb Space Telescope
how I cope with not having hope
for the world
as long as it gives me comfort
and the feeling of importance
I’m informed, and how about you?

there’s an olive in my mouth
mixed with quinoa salad
and the fruit
strange fruit, bitter touch
a sip of a french wine,
intertwined with words like
strike and mother and all the other
less important people
but have we ever spoken about NATO?
the kids in Yemen or Plato?

globalization in my mouth
self-sufficient mix of taste, sound and thought
nothing new
always proof of life in this
quasi 3 dimensional fairytale of happiness and success
I am full, and how are you?

Here she comes uninvited
long blonde hair
her beauty screams in my face,
with remains of nature in her eyes
in those rainbow colored eyes
disguised as trust, as she would think

under those layers
I imagine her short past
her future
and the answers
to why the heck does she think
I’d be happy to get her advice

I hope she’s not planning
To talk to me
with only 20 years of being here
in this world

there is a perfume wall between us
sweet – flowers dung on my tongue
I do not breathe
I hope she won’t talk
I hope she won’t instruct me
about the needs
of my mid – forties face

and then it starts
with persistence, a lot of words
I run towards that deaf state of my mind
the only way to avoid
her ideas for how to redefine
the age, my wrinkles
dark spots and loose cheeks

ah, she knows so well what I need
reciting the lyrics of that Douglas Lied
thinking – I’ll be happy to get her guidance
about the demands of midlife crisis

and grace is not what I feel
hot flashes is what I feel,
a need for a punching bag or a scream,
a gleam at the end of this tunnel full of words

I need a solution for my mood
not another reason for being rude
if I only could…
I’m shrinking, I’m thinking
whether to buy
the most expensive thing in the store
or nothing at all
I need a solution for my anger

and grace is not what I feel
hot flashes is what I feel,
Mood Swings
Brain Fog
Lack of Motivation
Headaches
Night Sweats
Breast Tenderness
Hot Flashes
Periods Stop
Digestive Problems
Quick Weight Gain
Loss of Libido
Vaginal Dryness
Osteoporosis
Joint Stiffness
Muscle Aches
Decreased Confidence
Hair Thins
Dry Skin
Acne
Dry Eyes
Wrinkles
Dry Mouth
Bloating
Fatigue
Insomnia
Anxiety
Urinary Pain
Clammy Feeling
Burning Mouth
Facial Hair
Dizziness
Lack of Focus
Depression

Here she comes uninvited
long blonde hair
her beauty screams in my face
Her name is: Sell me everything you got

i know that place of nothingness
of royal laziness and holy hang
a place where i never open my weather app,
and have pyjamas for every occasion

a silent protest of the dust spread around all the floors
like grey blow-balls dispersed around the summer afternoon
but I don’t care, I let them live their dusty lives

and I as the queen of my day
parading between the sofa and the kitchen
ordering in and letting out sighs of a happy afternoon

I make a list of all the things I won’t do today:
I won’t try
I won’t let the guilt to sneak in this light room
only sunlight in the room
I won’t…

I won’t plan, or… I will
It’s nice to spend a minute or two
thinking about me do
nothing else but making blue
like that German girl I knew
she was the best, the master in blau machen
she would be able to make the whole world easy
like Sunday morning,

easy like the feather lost in that baby – blue sky

Everything starts with a cloud.
from big bang to the cloud
to the little big bang of the birth,
to bean stew every Friday,
from hating it to loving it,
to getting sick of it over the years,
to becoming nostalgic about the familiar, and missing that stew again,
working on it until it tastes like mother’s, then passing the recipe to the first friend that visited.

the subtle combination of conscious and unconscious actions
makes the perfect bean stew.

entropy of my will,
longing for the Friday’s bean stew in my family home,
a bit of stardust,
technology,
infinite procrastination,
hunger, 400g of white beans planted by some Stephan in Oyten,
and extra time that social distancing gave us to start missing the things.

meanwhile the snow stopped,
that tireless boy from downstairs is turning the building upside-down
the universe is still expanding,
my neighbourhood sounds busy,
police sirens acting like Munich is a metropole,
and I’m trying to get my head around this chaotic thoughts,
eager to make an order of this disorder of a system.
all turning towards transformation,
as Greeks would translate.

There is no end. there is only the process that is happening in uncountable Nows.
Now now now…

at the end there can still be some dancing with the dead,
ashes turned into shiny colorful beads,
or what I would choose – sitting on a chair, in the fanciest of clothes,
with a lit cigarette in my lips.

it starts with the cloud, and ends up in the same.