She. Once shaved from the side. It didn't hurt. Once pierced from the side. It didn't hurt. Soft lips, kisses stormy and with anger. She is hiking over hard hills with a waterproof bag. She is hitting her face with flat hand as a wake up call.
furrows, trenches, building houses. Planing, stomping. He comes from any hinterland. Ruthless, unreasonableness. Grey hair, soft quiff.
hot tempered cheeks, the baby pounds resist to roll off as quickly as she isn't a baby anymore. Dressed like a sporty man. Undressed a woman with weight problems. She hears trance as tschaikovsky: serious and relaxed shrugging with the feet. In the pub she preaches down on her colleagues: Nobody is able to be his own man.
She is a little monkey and is carrying a large mirror with sahara motifs. At home she is hanging it on the wall over her sofa with tiger covers in front of the pole. While doing the pole dance she is letting out sharp shrieks. She has to forget all the shit around her. It has to come out. Sometimes a beer, eating ice cream in the shopping centre, doing sth with the kids. She is going more frequently to the coiffeur, than to the dentist. Why not? It is more important. And why not wearking pink? Who says that it doesn't fit to her dark red hair? On her shirt today the two nacked kappa – girls, like she and her sister. Back to back, surrounded by a beige whole- body halo in a bleached black world. She is comparing prices at Norma, takes me in her arms tightly and long, clinging on me until in the end, she let me go, says good bye with a slap on my butt.
A little, hard, dumpling lashed on the head. Lips talking, singing, whispering, going forward. Music through and through. Music...Cigarettes, coffee, black, mosquito bite
He is coming home from the 'meisterbetrieb'.He has a little frizzy she-dog. His wife wanted to buy her, but in the end the she-dog is so fixate on him, now she just likes to go out on walks with him. When he comes home, she sracthes on the door, whining. He loves this sound, the feeling, when he is licked all over. To be honest, It is stronger than welcoming his wife. He is mentioning it in front of her, with a little smile, but she is not smiling back. Sausages with moustard, the one year in jail, his two dead friends, the golden watch, a present when he came out. His head is often empty. Chromium plating, glazing, chipping, conreting, piling, pulling the plug on, in no time at all. No questions. When his wife makes jokes about his height, he is govong back a joke about her hair. Often he wants to sleep. Packing his little body in a fresh bed. Narling, groaning, snorting, snoring, going to Woolworth, going to the construction market, today going nowhere, not really, not today. He gives a statement how it is, today he does not, today not, today nothing.
I don't dare looking at you. You are a ghost and my gaze is drilling you. Your girly hair is oily, the skin is lying on a skeleton. I watch your blood pulsating through the veins. Ghost blood.
Hey Mogli, that was just nice, how your corner of the mouth went shortly upside, as a child was laughing in front of you. I like your glasses. It's propably the only shape until now that suceed never being hip. It is obviously put on, so I feel the desire to put it off again. I imagine you in front of a mirror, putting off your black duck shoes, the black hoodie, black trousers and then standing there like mogli in the wood. There is nothing else to do than surviving with bear necessities. Bow I just discovered your light violett finger nails and know why diogo keeps on writing about you like a fool. Does it make you more interesting? I don't know but from one moment into another the innocence has turned into earnestness, maybe a smooth transition. It is no contradiction anyway.
I have to write about you two and it feels voyeuristic. Because you are so drunken, the words from your mouth are sounding like greasy dark brown cow dung. I feel sorry for this image and I keep on focussing on your bond of affection. Behind the lifted eyes and the stringy fringes, the waxing skin you are in love. Your state is endless. Keep on leaning your head against to one another forever.
You sing pop songs about roses in the rain. Now you are closing your eyes and imagine them...roses...in...the...rain...The smell, the cold of the drops. Not many people understand. Ok...that was an interesting sequence right now: Concentrated gaze in the left corner – concentrated! Mouth corners downwards, knitted eyebrows. Then eyes closed again..roses...face relaxed. A smile flits across your face, more like a biting face or a smirk, again concentration...concentration in the left corner..what is there? And suddenly an outcry, like a bitchiness with yourself and you leave thoughtfully the metro.
Hey Ho Robert, look up from your book, your mystery thriller about pegasus. I have never seen somebody , who is really looking from up to down on his booking, performing a round round arch with the body. Your body will fall apart. Bye
I like you immediatly, cause of your gravity. A round belly, round chests in a violett blossom dress. Your dark hair curls softly on your décolleté. The parka is khaki, the chewing gum is white, the ear phones are white, the watch is coppery, the finger nails are bright pink. The lips, the cheeks in this breathtaking violett. Even the perfume , that you just put on with a safe moove on your round neck has a colour. With black you ground the eyes, your feets; with the black bag you ground your gravity. I am seesawing softly while thinking of you and celebrate the moment when you pierced your nose. You smiled at the piercer. Now your sweet flower flavour is coming next to us. I want to watch a movie with you, I mean not with you, but about you, i mean around you. I never saw a film with you. Should I be ashamed of my passion for you? But you are smiling as an answer. And I am glad you found someone , who is wearing the same necklace, the half of a heart, a proof of love.