Blasphemous Rumours

I had a terrible nightmare in which men and women got killed or to be more specific – slaughtered. The murderers used weapons which don’t even yet exist. Or maybe they do and I just don’t know. Those were big cast iron tubes with a handle on the one end and God knows what was in the other. I call it the “evil” end. You just place the evil end on one’s stomach and the tube would dig a deep hole, shoot or slice that person open. There was a woman to be sentenced to death. She was naked and they placed the tube on her vagina. Her lower stomach was all bloody. Before she died, she tongue-kissed the person next to her, whoever that was, as though enjoying it. Basically everyone was sentenced to death, but there was something special about that woman, because she reminded me of this fictional character that I created three years ago.

After that dream I woke up in the middle of the night and scribbled something onto paper:
“I: This is the dream of…
He I don’t come here often”

Hell knows what that means. I don’t even remember talking to anyone in that dream. And I don’t quite remember writing it. I only remember going to bed angry and listening to Blasphemous Rumours on repeat.

When I type through pain

I wonder what goes on in the mind of a gynecologist; what his wife thinks and whether he has daughters and whether the daughters go to their father. He told me about having a son, but I didn’t want to ask any further questions.


There is this terrible pain my left hand; it hurts most whenever I type ‘a’ or ‘q’. My closest friend tells me to look after myself and to care about myself instead of worrying about anything else, even if it’s my family who needs the attention. This advice is to prevent me from falling apart he says. I know he is right, but why would I let my family down? – Because I know I have no strength to support them? I guess so. It is not easy to move on when you know you’re leaving something behind; something which is yet undone. But in this case…


I’m not as emotional as you think; it’s just wishful thinking and my habit of romanticizing things, despite of my inability to handle romanticism. I can only hope to have someone in future who is emotionally stable. A clash of individual emotions is war and that’s why people say love’s a battlefield, but it’s not, it’s simply black and white penetrating each other. And throughout their lives they’ll learn to deal with it and to accept it. All this grey area is a product of my perception; my perception of people and their personalities. I see all the misunderstandings, all origin of fights and wonder whether it’d be easier to simply vote a party to belong to instead of being ostracized by everyone because you are apparently inaccessible. Everyone has his/her own idea of what I represent and I’m glad to know that they are all wrong.

I want those I don’t want, those I wouldn’t usually go for, because they always treat me better than anyone else. Do you know what I mean? But then it’s the charisma which seduces me with its bright eyes and this hidden smile around its lips. It’s the spark which this indescribable chemical reaction evokes, but this kind of charisma only slumbers in the spirit of the dead and the non-existent or the taken ones. This is what it feels like when you’re in love and you don’t know who that is. It might also be mere illusion, loneliness or the naivety of a romanticist.


My hand feels very sore…

When I think about Buk and life

In the favour of your own irony
Choosing the comfort of the other
Leads you astray towards villainy
Which you inflict on your mother

Cry for the velvet skin to touch
This innocent stomach of life
Which gives you oh so much
Meaning and tasks to stay alive

Stroke the tired hands of motherhood
At a distance within arms length
Closer and closer into the woods
I only have a little left of strength

The difficulty of walking

Lit a cigarette again on a quiet lonely morning on my way home. The town was in a sound sleep, except for the taxis driving the drunk back home with 100 km/h on the empty main road. The Pall Mall gave me a foretaste of what is going to come next in my life, though it tasted good, which only means I was sad and conscious enough, relaxed enough to breathe properly and forgiving enough to smile at my hometown. My hometown is only wonderful when everyone is in a sound sleep, so I can have its goddamn attention all to myself. If you know what it is like feeling sober without having drunk before, without having done drugs before or without having had anger outbreaks before – and how simply the power of a little town’s tranquility, the smell of the morning sun and the taste of a Pall Mall, you’ll most likely know what I am talking about. The jaded subconscious climbs up on the shoulders of your tiredness for a moment, though without bad intention – truce and peace between good and evil evoke a string of wakefulness and all you do is walk slowly with confidence and determination. The way it should be. Moments like these often last up to 3 minutes only. Cherish and breathe those moments when you encounter them please. Think about lonely riders like Kerouac, Böll and Thoreau and how they had made sweet love to those moments; those moments which are only granted when the balance of the mind is right, when the heart beat is the same as Depeche Mode’s intro in the song “Somebody”. If they say free will and freedom are non-existent, you’ll know that they only lack of imagination, the never-ending road in our head surprises us each day, whenever we decide to walk this road. Some people are just too lazy to walk, too apathetic to explore or too scared to risk their existing stability; scared of losing track and scared of being alone. I just can’t deal with them. They stop in the middle of the road, build a house at the side and invite me in. The house feels warm, but it’s indescribably foreign and wrong in so many ways like the large full stop they use as a door mat indicating that this is where it all ends. But everything is ok, because they are smiling, because they are holding hands and because they are kissing. It’s only me who decides to continue exploring the road. I’m in search of a machine gun.