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TRI-ANGLE(D)-(E)ITY?

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Sat, 15 May 2010 18:20:58 +0000

The following lines that you’ll be witnessing bear a striking resemblance to a particular memory of a particular moment in a particular situation as seen through a veil of thoughts. Thoughts that might have crossed this one person’s mind, who sits now here to narrate to you of the sheer beauty in the setting of a lonesome and yet distinctly soulful space that nevertheless will undoubtedly remain unreal to you. Causing at most an irritable sensation as to know the place’s locality, Canopy’s altitude and Bleak’s possible proximity just as much as the pitch of those beings’ outcries which the one that now is about to talk to you had listened to:

“Today I met you. Wayfaring, when it began to trickle down out of little fountains invisibly hidden behind a mash of clouds like dust, and amidst that grayish mist you drizzled through the gloom of a sun borne by afternoon’s never but humble hum. Drip, drop! Drip, drop! I stopped and you drop-dripped from my bare hands as I held my palms upwards. Up there I thwarted any of your chances meeting together on the ground to gather, where you tried to thrust your selves hither and thither.

And then, as I enjoyed this so solemn a moment, now solely seated beneath some tree’s branch – Canopy’s unmistakably; a little blackbird joined me in the calm when it landed right beside me – claws clumsily grasping random strands of grass. Clasp! Clasp! Immediately I named it “Bleak” in my mind because its beak swallowed by its shiningly black feathers was synced in grimmest vista to the sun’s demise from this so darkened weather.

It deeply reminded me of the slow shudder and hisses of the leaves above – of Canopy – when Bleak shuddered and hissed, ‘Compassion!’ or ‘Come passion!’ Swaying lightly every now and then while you dripped on me, and Canopy’s and Bleak’s complexions. By then we all have been tickled by you. Trickle! Trickle! Endlessly, a stream of moments. And by endless I mean uncountable. A moment came. And moments went by faster than the former exited. And you unconscious ones streamed downcast to predestination in this slowed-down downpour of memories in motion. We – Canopy, Bleak, and I – caused a trickling down with altered directions. Alternately from where we have been sitting, us three, when you landed with hearts abandoned on my sleeves, slick Bleak’s feathering, and Canopy’s leaves until raindrops ended in dreams. Drops of rain end their lives constantly as it seems. A dream! Dream!”

Mephedrones

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Thu, 06 May 2010 14:04:18 +0000

Flowers who once blossomed immaterialize like dust. Blown away by the winds. Gone with the air – parched. In no time. No time at all. All of them are everywhere. Inhaled once and for all. Day in and day out. By all of us who need to breathe. Daisies like Rosemaries. In and out of our nostrils. And lilies like sage. There is no such thing as empathy. It all comes down to nothing. And we’re a catastrophe. In the end we’ll die alone. But you know that just like mephedrones.

Miniatur

Jakob Reichsöllner — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 18:14:05 +0000

Meiner Welt fehlt der große Bogen, das Umspannende. Liebe fühlt sich manchmal an, als biete man dem anderen sein ganzes Leben, er nimmt es in den Mund, kostet, spuckt es aus.Sie hatten sich einen Raum der Leere geschaffen, in welchem ihre Körper sich als Gefüge betrachten konnten. Wenn es Blumen regnete, konnte man die Sonne nicht sehen. Der Schnee fiel nur an trockenen Tagen und ihr Blut stand still um den Atem der Welt hören zu können. Es ragten keine Bäume, alles war. Scherzbolden wurde Gift eingehaucht. Jonathan spie nur noch. Er stopfte die Äpfel in sich hinein und spie sie in das Handtiefe Loch am Fuße seines Fensters. Jeden Tag.Im Frühling knospte ein Baum des Lebens heran und er spie und er spie und als sein Baum Äpfel trug konnte er seinen Raum nicht verlassen.” M.F.

Square? or not square?

C.Matthias Kügler — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 19:50:59 +0000

To be Square
or not to be Square ?

I don`t care
this is not a Square

it only seems to be..

jannuary 2010

ADOLF POLA-OIDA

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:28:24 +0000

emptied spectra filmpack, white chalk, one polaroid

on the back of a canvas.

jan.2.ten

bewaffnete Wortspende

Jakob Reichsöllner — Sun, 27 Dec 2009 21:11:57 +0000

Auf der Bühne das Opernorchester, die Pianistin, und Ich. Ich hält eine ungebetene Einführung mit einem Maschinengewehr in der Hand.

Ich: (auf die Pianistin deutend)
Eine Symphonie! Man stelle sich vor, ein lauter Beginn. Wie sie spielt, der erste Anschlag nach der vorangegangenen Stille, in der sie sich gesammelt hat, versucht hat, all den Schmerz und all das Glück dieser Welt in sich zu vereinen, zu halten bis sie birst und die ganze Welt auf einmal sein könnte um all das dann hinaus zu lassen im ersten Ton. kanalisiertes Glück. Musik explodiert nicht, sie ist für den bestimmt, der zuhört, wir wissen noch nicht was geschieht, kennen nicht jede Nuance ihres Stücks, können nicht explodieren.
Die erste Note ist ein Ventil, das manchmal sachte und manchmal laut geöffnet wird, aber niemals! entweicht all die Luft auf einen Schlag. Sie weiß jetzt schon dass sie weinen wird, arbeitet an ihrer und unserer Erlösung. Ich kann sie vor mir sehen, wie sie ihren ganzen Körper verspannt, sich krümmt und später dann sich öffnet, mit ihren Augen in eine unfassbare Weite blickt in der sie Welten sieht, die sie mir nie schildern konnte.
Oder sie schließt ihre Augen, reist in sich selbst. Nichts ist Leichtigkeit. Spielen ist Arbeit. Ich habe das Orchester immer als großen, atmenden Apparat erlebt, jeder für sich ein Rad in einem größeren Uhrwerk, das rasselt, rüttelt, schnarrt, schlägt, singt. Unstoppbare Maschine, die, so meine ich dann oft, ganz ohne jegliches Zutun laufen würde, als müsste man sie nur aufziehen, kurz vor der Vorstellung, danach: ein ewiger Gang.
Sie allein ist schon Erlebnis genug, denke ich mir, wenn ich sie beim Spielen erlebe, ein Atemapparat, eine Wüste der Verzweiflung, selten: Wasserfall des Glücks.

Willig lässt Ich sein Geplärre vom einsetzenden Orchester und dem Gelächter des Publikums übertönen. Das Maschinengewehr war eine Einbildung des Autors.

Pakabumm (sound poetry)

Jakob Reichsöllner — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 23:13:59 +0000

Pakabumm (sound poetry)

Fantasie in G

Jakob Reichsöllner — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 12:06:59 +0000

Fassen Sie mich nicht mit zarten Fingerspitzen an. Ich beiße, ich verzahne mich in Ihren Köpfen und Herzen, nehme Sie solange in Gebrauch, bis Ihre Münder erschlafft, ihre Glieder müde und die eintönige Musik Ihres Arbeitszimmers keine Musik mehr, sondern Störgeräusch dieses sonnigen Tages ist. Legen Sie den Text weg, wenn es kein sonniger Tag ist. Lesen Sie ihn mit Ihrem Nachbarn, und wenn kein Nachbar vorhanden ist, lesen Sie ihn besser nie. Versuchen Sie währenddessen nicht zu essen, die romantische Idee, sich vor lauter Begeisterung zu verschlucken würde ja doch nicht aufgehen, es geht hier nur um einen Text, nur um mich, um das Vertreiben lästiger Fliegen die meine mühsam am Balkon gezüchteten Chilis davon abhalten, mich an herrlichere Zeiten zu erinnern. Und natürlich geht es um mehr. Beißen Sie zurück! Verletzen Sie mich nicht, denn das Eingemachte an das ich mich nun wage wirft das Zerrbild eines Spiegels zurück, den ich nicht beschreiben kann und für dessen Beschreibung ich mir zwar nicht unbedingt meine Zähne ausbeißen muss, die ich aber für den einzig möglichen Weg halte, um meiner unausbalancierten Existenz einen Stab in die Hand zu drücken, mit dem ich meine verschobenen Grundpfeiler immer wieder auszutarieren vermag. Gehen Sie mit mir um, wie sie mit den Tasten der unzähligen Klaviere umgegangen ist, auf denen sie spielt seit sie sieben Jahre zählt und die sie wohl alle mehr geliebt hat als mich.
Wenn sie die Augen schloss, ihre Hände ausstreckte und meine Haut auf ihren Handflächen fühlte, dann war ihr manchmal, als ob sie ein Meer rauschen hörte, dessen Brandung an ihre Fingerspitzen stieß, die Poren ihrer Haut erbeben ließ und schließlich den ganzen Körper, nur nicht das Herz erfasste.
Auf und in ihr schwammen dann alle Erinnerungen der letzten Jahre: das sachte Anschlagen von Klaviertasten, der Duft von vertrocknetem Schweiß unter meinen Achselhöhlen, kokette Streitereien während einer ganzen Nacht und gleichzeitig das gemeinsame Hören von Mahler, immer wieder das Adagietto, immer wieder ihr Aufstehen danach, pochenden Herzens ohne Schlaf sich vors Klavier zu setzen – zu spielen; Anne war nicht mehr und nicht weniger als ihre Musik. Sie wusste alles über Chopin, spielte Beethovens Sonaten hingebungsvoll mit geschlossenen Augen, aber vom Leben wusste sie, wie sie mir zu verstehen gab, der sich immerzu mit Rotwein vor ihr betrank, wenn sie in der erschöpften Stunde nach dem Üben mit abgeschlafftem Körper auf einem Stuhl saß, nichts.
Ich sah sie daraufhin meist nur an, schwieg, umfing sie manchmal mit meinen Armen, tänzelte mit ihr durch die Wohnung und blies meiner “Muse”, die mich wohl zu nicht mehr als zum Trinken inspiriert hatte, Rauch einer Zigarette ins Gesicht. “Lern mir Leben”, flüsterte sie dann oft und bekam nie mehr zurück als ein Lächeln, ein Strahlen in meinen Augen, welches sie dann am nächsten Tag noch vor ihren Augen hatte, während das Metronom in ihren Ohren krachte, der Rhythmus ihres Lebens. Anne war Gefangene ihres Selbst. Getrieben zum Spiel, das sie selbst nie Spiel nannte, sie nannte es Üben. “Wann wirst du spielen?”, fragte ich sie.
Wenn sie von sich erzählte, erzählte sie immer nur von Erlebnissen anderer, von einem Virtuosen auf der Geige, der irgendwann nach seinem dreiundzwanzigsten Geburtstag aufgehört hatte zu sprechen, wahnsinnig geworden war, in hellen Momenten weinte, und letztlich nicht nur seinen Mund, sondern auch das Instrument verstummen ließ. Oder ihre flinken und gewissenhaften Augen sangen das Lied ihrer Großmutter, von flackernden Streichhölzern, zischend im Wasser erlöschend, wonach die schwefelige Brühe um den Hals gestrichen wurde, sie erhoffte sich Heilung;
Ich saugte all dies auf wie ein halbtrockener Schwamm. Ich nahm ihr alles was sie hatte. Sie fühlte sich nackt.
Wider Willen, aber jedenfalls um etwas zu ergründen, kramte sie eines Tages aus ihrem modrig und anheimlig riechenden Keller einen Werkzeugkasten, entfernte den Rost, öffnete ihn gewaltsam, und mit dessen Inhalt sanfter dann mich.
Zunächst entfernte sie behutsam mit ihren Fingerspitzen die Haut, die meine Brust umspannte, schnitt ein Rechteck über meinem Herzen aus, faltete dies sorgfältig zu einem Papierschiffchen. Im Geiste sah ich Matrosen darin herumklettern, hisst die Segel, auf zu neuen Landen, lichtet die Anker, der Wind kommt von achtern. Mit der Unterhaut tapezierte sie dann ihr Schiffchen, ungeachtet der Proteste ihrer Mannschaft, Rot sei keine Farbe für das Seemannsleben, blau sei die Welt. Spitzfingrig schnitt sie das Fettgewebe heraus, wählte eine dreieckige Form, drehte und wendete es, setzte dem Schiff Segel, die sie mit kleinen Splittern meiner Rippen verstärkte, gefühlvoll nahm sie diese heraus, so dass sie später jede davon wieder auf ihren Platz setzen konnte. Ihr Herz pochte, als sie die Rippen spreizte um mein Herz zu sehen, das pulsierend im Herzbeutel auf und ab schwamm, und in ihren Ohren klang wie die Wellen des Meeres; Vor ihr lag die Welt, lagen all ihre Geschichten, lag sie selbst. Sie sah wie der schweigende Meister der Geige im Schnee erfror, fühlte das Zittern seiner Glieder in ihren eigenen, spürte seinen Atem schwächer werden, fing selbst an zu schreien, zuckte mit ihren Gliedern, schlug, als hätte sie selbst ein Instrument in der Hand, auf den Tischen und Stühlen herum, traf meine Oberlippe, sah Blut fließen, bekam keine Luft, ich hielt sie fest, sie war haltlos, ertrank, wurde langsam, und griff, in ihrer letzten Sekunde, nein, sprang, huschte, schrumpfte, in ihr Schiff. Habtacht! So standen die Matrosen da und warteten. Es war still. Anne im Schiff. Auf die Größe einer Spielzeugfigur zusammengeschrumpft umflog sie mich, schwirrte um meine Ohren, hielt inne, erzählte. Ich war ihre Perspektive satt. Als sie dann Anlauf nahm, in mein Herz eindringen wollte, wendete ich mich ab und beobachtete aus den Augenwinkeln ihr Davongleiten in den Himmel. Geheimnisvoll schimmerten die Segel in der Ferne. Versinke!

A Summer’s Day

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 01:59:17 +0000

in a crazy summer came

on a dark wave in

an abundance of white cream.

shooting through space

where air was lost

and hearts vanished akin.

hands floating like little birds

calm and in a daze

surrounded by water – most darkest.

hair as white as it’s thin

grasps like tentacles

looming over us like a creature of the sea.

abandoned what was left of us -

crushed bones and empty vessels

stretched long like eels.

gone blank from horror

our eyes lost their colors.

but what did come from this maliciousness

apart from death in the sea and

hearts gone lost like venus long ago?

The Night Belongs To Lovers

Matthias Jäger — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 11:28:34 +0000

Deine Maske bröckelt,
wenn du glaubst du bist.

Sie jubeln dir zu,
du drehst am Pegel,
lauter, besser, einfach du.
Sieh nur wie sie fällt.

Deine Maske bröckelt.
Sieh nur wie sie zer
fällt

floating

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 22:53:55 +0000

I want to be a whale to take over

what is left of that sunken ship –

borne by sea foals and algae,

grounded in the sands of time,

the depth of the sea.

Gone, my love, gone and

still your wreck is my loved one.

Heading nowhere while counting swarms

of bubbles on the way,

going inside and not astray.

Starfish cradle sunlit particles of light,

dolphins whine and dodge through unlit foamy pastures,

while sparkles circle round crying out in mournful plights,

and rocks sink motionless from surface to the muddy banks

gaining speed with unseen gestures at arms’ length.

Wailing, but the whale is gone.

Dreaming nevermore and still forlorn.

Floating dreamless without a shape to come,

When, just when will I be the one?

neuro-torrator-eun

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 02:31:18 +0000

anvils, heavily laden – guilt and tremor,

dropped from skies – borne through tempesteous weathers

to nothing but squash all men like flies forlorn

while water rose from every pore of earthly soil,

and signifies the cry ‘bout loss nonetheless being scorn.

Kippenberger’s Requiem

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 02:09:19 +0000

Vergänglichkeit – das Brennen einer Kerze.

Nichts wert, entbehrlich – das Ende, das vererbt ist.

Zu sterben – ein Leben letztendlich wertlos?

Im Geist’ wie strömend Wassers Winde

schweigt wie plätschernd Orkans Bächlein,

aufbrausend, doch gebärdend wider Worte,

ihre Flamme – im Dunkel des Nächtens.

Zerronnen, entronnen. Entkommen – keine Kerze.

Vergänglich’ Leben – Treibsand schwindend. Schwere.

Verschlossen. Einsam nähert sich – Schwärze.

crab siege

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 09:37:22 +0000

bottled up my mind -

‘gone fishing’ with hindsight.

in the sea of memories and failures -

found what floated with a note crammed in it.

it read:

“thoughts like anchors dropped heading to the muddy banks

to get a grip on chaos as laid out with my own hands”.

self-consciousness a lethal trap -

self-confidence a lethal weapon.

pathetic? worn-out? lost?

naw, just too strained of a self.

a self. not the self.

an image – dazedly faded

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 13:46:54 +0000

I could think about the rain kissing our faces and us naked.

I could think about time and count the days that I’ve been wasting.

I could think about time and wait until these days are wasted

I could think about the rain and keep wishing to see our faces.

Though, what keeps me thinking for ages is

when will I see your face again as if it’s sacred?

keen bees

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 01:10:15 +0000

Flashbacks seem to take

hold of the mind,

grasping dream-like fantasies

like real moments,

shared entwined.

Not merely from

time to time,

instead though

with our most

inquisitive inner eyes.

Still, the powers

our bodies exude,

fresh sweat-soaked

words not at all

mute.

A vivid embodiment

engendered

by the mass

of our thoughts,

we circle in

and around us

as we look upon

those feelings

that throb in our hearts.

the notion of…

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 03:04:38 +0000

Inconceivable, by and large, in every motion,

continuously, I cried my heart out onto you as

if somewhere in the midst of a great ocean; like

sprinkled by waves with water every few seconds anew,

your face so precious that it did not ever seem to

have altered, just as my wish to be again with you.

Leaving you and leaving me like leaves

swayed so softly as by soothingly a breeze after

so calmly a storm crushed our longings and made us

quietly die in a mess on our own. We,

now, like the sands of time blown by shyly with

our hearts conscientiously bumping never again, but

rather separated and all alone; love seems

unpredictable like flying pebbles, sticks and stones.

The body, I am forever at a loss of, at last, not

attached to any of my scopes, made me write

a poem in favor of shiningly wet moss

to contrast the crushing of those everlasting dreams and hopes

that gave as cold as be to me a grasp in my

defying of the odds thereof.

Winds, the waters, and the earth; you, ever

intrigued me more than all of them combined, left my

heart scorched forever, bound up with yours afire,

while knowingly you were the only gusts and gravel and

drops that ultimately put me out of desires. And still, not

having figured them of ever having ceased to be my

burning props, a theatrical depiction of my heart’s loss

is what this whole time I have been thinking of…

la nuit, c’est moi.

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 03:31:47 +0000

Moi!

Moi, moi.

C’est moi.

La nuit, c’est moi.

Schwarz wie Pech,

gegossen

aus zinnenen Behältern.

Von weit und

hoch oben

über mein Haupt.

Mich umschließend in

wallenden Gewändern.

Ein Körper, verkörpernd

Fleisch gewordenes

Misstrauen.

Stein um Stein

mit Fugenmasse

aus Erinnerungen gebaut.

Funkelnd an Ecken und

Enden, mit Luft zum

Atmen kaum.

Wie Sterne in endlosen

Gebärden,

kommunizierend

in unendlichem

Raum.

Ich,

das Luftschloss

aus meinem Traum.

Weiß wie Schnee,

gefallen

aus dichtesten Wolken.

Von nah und

fast unten,

vor und hinter mir waltend.

Mich umfliehend

wie vor Katz’ die Maus.

Materie personifiziert

durch nicht vorhandenes

Zutrauen.

Raum um Raum

von Steinen

mit Erinnerung’ kaum,

besonnen, mir die Luft

zum Atmen zu rauben.

Wie Sterne

am Himmel der Nacht

sich anschweigend,

in beängstigender Stille

eines nie endenden

Traums.

Ich,

ein Nichts

im leeren Raum.

La nuit, c’est moi.

C’est moi.

Moi, moi.

Moi!

vv

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 02:43:17 +0000

To have broken

someone like you –

grabbing, and pulling,

and crushing slowly

every each of your bones,

but then again lushly

loosening the grasp around you,

you and your throat.

Having used words

like heavy tools

to disassembly

the cold and metal

statue of you.

Having operated with them

like a surgeon,

scalpels swaying around –

so patiently –

cutting and shaving and stabbing,

and blowing the air right out of you –

literally

and catching your last breath

by verbally squeezing your neck.

A triumph –

you, my trophy,

in the face of a defeat,

my verbatim victory –

indeed.

Wirr wie wir.

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 04:26:34 +0000

Wirr, wir, wie?

Wir hier, uns spüren.
Strange, unsere Haut in Berührung.
Du mir, ich dir.

Wir hier, uns küssen.
Strange, die Zehen von unseren Füßen,
wir spüren.

Deine mich, meine dich.

Wir hier, uns nah.
In Unendlichkeit, wir spüren.
Wie greifbar.

Wir hier, waren.
Uns nah, nicht emotional.
Ich dir nicht, du mir nicht!

Wir hier, waren.
Des anderen Atem,
wie gehetztes Tier.

Ich nicht deiner, du nicht meiner!

Wir hier, aber wie?
Ich dir, du mir.
Nie nah!

So nah?

Sturm und Strom.
Glück und Gold.
Pech und Schwefel.

Was wir wollen!

Niemals mein, niemals dein!

Wir hier, niemals nah!
Uns sind, das ist klar!

Nie spüren, nie fühlen!
Wie wollen, wie berühren?

Reine Willkür, wirr wie wir.

THEY (Part III)

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 01:05:56 +0000

Under any circumstance, Reginald could not resist dreaming up an epiphany in the lands of clouds and purest air, which could be like nothing, in particular, belonging to his angel and its brothers and sisters. Obviously, where in a dream-like scene Reginald posed a pressing question – How and when, is it possible for me, then, to become of my previous state, a human, who I were – so, so inane? In their beloved secret territories, then, was a young man’s fate composed by as brute as unsightly a feint destined to be no longer constrained of having no hands, no knees and no face.
A prerequisite for being redeemed from being a frog, descendent of the streams, that seemed to have found love, in a girl who is being so keen, Reginald, You have to end the regime that the brother of yours imposes like a tyrant on his followers by taking him down – single-handedly. Devour his heart, as black as hell never was seen and make peace be prevailing in order to become king who soon then marries his beloved queen.
Precious love, sweet caress; Zoë intertwining with her new lover – of blood and flesh at last – like two enticing flowers making love in dew-scented beds of grass. Then, becoming branches of trees, in stroking motions their hands as serene as floating leaves, swayed by as soft a breeze as the other’s exhaling pleas to be lovingly relieved of longings as thick as their former grief, their snuggling bodies finally embody what evilly was kept away from them for so long – metaphorically.
Their sweat and steam, finally, makes them seem like a part of the sea, coalescing like the highest waves with crests everlasting in shape, appearing there like gently floating logs of trees, with expressions on their faces like most astounding mountains’ capes, tied together like two broken, but mended fates, making love forever like lost in time and space. In longitude not measurable, but estimated by its weight, their love started to evolve by evading every single place with their ever so passionate embrace.
Too many nights by so many miles, in separation still, their longing grows, certainly, close to insanity, like not being most feverishly ill but more like an affection that chills and thrills. Reginald, in preparation to kill his evil twin, plotting against him, by his own will, writes six letters in one day. It is as if he is right besides her, reading aloud those confessions – emotionally charged – and breathes those lush words lustily into her small ears, transmitting his passion towards her like his hand on her heart.
You, like inspiration so subtle, make me explode in brightest colors but quietly saturated on every each of these sheets, made out of brothers that crackle in the winds, I write to you – you are the greatest of my sins. Memories, consisting out of soft and joyous grins, encircle me like as if inhaling your tears in order to drop them most gently into a lake, to see you floating in the waters I am able to produce only for your sake.
Splashing around, splashing around I feel like one of those tiniest waves collapsing on your breasts, your neck and chin, your heart and your waist. I am about to fulfill what I have agreed to, I will dedicate my attention then again to you. In love, forever scorched like the tallest candle lit by you, I will be brave and come back soon.

fin.

REGINALD (part II)

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 04:24:16 +0000

Before those precious times to come, in a place unknown to none bearing the name of a most famous hoodlum – Ronaville – warrior of the sea, strong like 10,000 tons, and through and through made out of steel.
A father to Ronald and Reginald, twins of the polished iron – cold, slippery and wet; who, caressed by the steams of rawest power and penetrated by most salty waters, on their skins like needles and pins, fought with greatest vigor at the side of their father.
On the crests of the sea, where whales whined and dolphins dodged, Reginald and Ronald where born with eyes the color of an abyss and hair like rough and old and golden strings, their clenched fists quick like thunderbolts and also equal in strength.
Greedy – both – for being heirs of their father’s might they plotted against him, together, to make him drown in the reigns of his so honorable life. Ronaville, dead, killed by the conjoining hands of his sons, most brutally struck in the back of the head, died as if the first chapter of more misery to come.
Ronald, more clever than his equally old brother, driven by the forces of evil – disguised – is quicker to fulfill his dream of reigning all on his own, accusing Reginald of being the murderer of their father. This move genially culminated in his brother’s imprisonment, him, settling in a dungeon like dark clouds before a thunderstorm, ravaging on the surface in a valley in the midst of their homelands.
What saved Reginald from scratching his soles to little stumps, while in delirious daydreams of gory carnage, plans of breakout, and bloody revenge, was a girl that ever so softly hummed, in close proximity to where, in a cold, slippery, and wet dungeon, he was kept from ending up hung on the gallows, encircled by young wantons.
What shortened Reginald’s days into bearable hours, prolonged his nights into what seemed to bear more power – journeys of the mind, absent of his body. Where epiphanies make good company, and clouds caress him as if in his mother’s grasp – in touch with crystalline, glistening, and glittering splashes of the sea – night in, night out an angel watches him, faithfully.
Heaving up and down and down and up in his sleep, his body seemed as if consisting of raindrops, his breath like their rattling on the ground, or even the sea, his body shaking like breaking tides. Swoooosh! Down and up and up and down – six times in ten seconds. The angel speaks in high-pitched tones, but he does not comprehend. Circles around him, is above him, and on the ground, surrounds him – so safe and sound.
You can end this misery yourself. Choose to live on life in the midst of your mother’s siblings. Nobody will ever recognize you as Ronald’s twin. However though, you will find this hard for yourself, bathing day in, day out in the puddles, lakes, and swamps. Down and up and down and up, diving deep into unknown lands, hearing treasures in a girl’s chants, finding peace in yet so childish hands.

ZOË (Part I)

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 07 Jan 2009 08:24:40 +0000

Once upon a time, there was this little girl in a place unknown to some and of no particular name, but still there… somewhere, out there. So, yeah, it was a girl, five years of age, with brown hair and eyes of the color of hazelnuts, ripe, hanging from sun-lid trees somewhen in autumn.

And this girl, she wasn’t at all like the others, even her name – Zoë – five years of age, brown-haired, with eyes in a color alike. She used to jump when she walked, and lisp when she talked. Zoë – just not like the others – always looking upwards when she was supposed to look ahead, counting clouds up there in the sky, but still, the woods, these were her greatest passion.

With eyes squinted she counted clouds high above her head, always counting. Just like with trees, their leaves, arching in unknown heights above her. Ever exploring, but also counting the nature that surrounds her.

So on one of those strides through bright green pastures and high-hung arches of trees as huge as she would never be, leading her on paths that weren’t there for anyone but her, Zoë, a kid of the woods, the sky, animals, and the air.

Boulevards she could stride on all by herself, unknown to others in the midst of her homelands, counting her steps and the little jumps in between them, separately – naturally.

Zoë, a child of mother earth, she, whom brought her up cradled in most enticing flowers. Zoë’s hair reminds us of her, colored like freshly dug earth, still a bit humid like her hair as if freshly washed in the waterfalls, now, cradled by the nature that encloses her, a girl who lisps when she walks and jumps when she talks.

Zoë – five years of age, on one of her adventures, finds a friend in a frog, the girl counting his verrucae – once, twice, and thrice. Twenty, she said to herself, affirmably, twenty. How often he breathed, or rather sucked air in, or most exactly how his capillary skin helped him with it, during a count-to-ten.

Zoë loved the frog right away, him with the twenty verrucae on his capillary skin, breathing six times in ten seconds. A frog, who goes by the name Reginald, due to him being a descent of the waters – rain, streams, and swamps.

Oh, how many raindrops would he be existing of? Reginald, son of the wet and the earth, breathes six times in ten seconds with bulbous eyes watching a girl named Zoë, descendent of the sky and the trees, the earth and the sea.

They watch each other for hours a day, unseen by others, counting and breathing, breathing and counting, unseen by others watching each other for hours. They both grow older and miss each other more and more, yearning for the other, seeing their reflections in the eyes of the other while thinking about each other when they only see theirs in mirrors out of water.

Zoë, now, jumping higher than she ever did during her walks, climbing on tree-tops for seeing it all and calling out loud numbers she counted the instant she is done, from the tree-tops towards the grounds, fields and ponds, seagulls, ducks and hawks, squirrels, foxes and yaks, beetles, spiders and, of course, frogs. But no one of them listens as closely as Reginald, with eyes bulged out like rocks in a road, humming so softly when trying to float with great effort not to sink down under the water.

lvlss

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 19:42:57 +0000

Sleepless, indeed, we shared a bed.

Kisses like wordless gasps

hovering through the air

like white pigeons dying away

by the darkness fast

shimmering

in your cunning glare.

Skin like a sea of bubbles,

we floated in.

My hands tightened

with the grip of your hair.

A paradise within reach,

contagious in every motion,

sloshed over me,

like the most tumultuous waters.

Words,

like never-ending streams of red wine,

floated out of our veins,

through the room’s humidity

and into our mouths,

rambling like Bukowski babbling about

old pussy covered

with a bush of whitest hair.

Your breath,

colorful like a painter’s despair

in trying to capture beauty

- almost rare -

with a smile,

blinding like the son of light.

Recurring every few seconds

brighter than dusk seeming

halfway through a stairflight.

fog I-IV

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 01:56:11 +0000

hidden homes helplessly
left love lonely
beneath blinding brightness
sudden soft skies
evolving endless enigmas
of occult otherness

gone ghastly gaze
following frozen fields
harshly hoping heights
in infinite incidents
cast cries calling
upon unreflected universes

how to write a lonesome night’s romantic poem

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 12:53:32 +0000

imagine a late sunday night. you lying in bed – tired and exhausted, but you can’t sleep. somehow you feel lonely a bit. not enough to put you in a depressive state of mind, but rather a kind of depressive feeling that generates your creative senses.

now to my last night’s experience:

i imagined that someone i wished to be at my side lies down beside me. the imaginative person that could be you (who by now should already have read what i’ve written to/for you) kissed me on the cheek and a sudden urge to capture that moment’s atmosphere came floating toward me. it was as if i’d been kissed by my personal muse and the outcome was as follows, entitled ‘you and i – together’:

wrestling like a pack of young lions

we could lie down exhausted

with our backs being shone on by

the red sun of the night

watching the star-lid sky

we could fall asleep together and awake to bright daylight

amusing ourselves with self-portraits of past times

giggling side by side, seeing each other’s smiles

our feet touch and every movement stops

frozen in a suspicious position

eye to eye, toe to toe

your gaze – a second expanded infinitely

my heart – bumping monotonously

I hope this goes on forever

you and I – together

and what follows now is a short explanation of how i’ve put those lines together:

imagine me lying on my red bedspread (i.e. my back being confronted by a mass of red -> line 4!), covered in walt disney’s lion king beddings, which on one side display simba the lion king with his father and on the other side an array of blue stars on white background (lines 1 and 5, by means the superficial you and me would lie beneath the star-sprankled blanket!). not being able to fall asleep i somewhere feel that constant longing for someone beside me. then imagine me gazing at my own self-portrait on the other side of the room, 120cm by 120cm from years way back (see line 7!) and the slow formation of a poem in my mind.

so, in conclusion, you now know that i have a longing for someone. but it’s not just like that, this longing generated a wonderfully poetic description of a scene that most likely could happen in my own room. you therefore additionally now know that marlon is sleeping on a red bedspread at times, and these days covers himself with beddings of disney’s lion king. but still, that’s not everything. i also have a huge self-portrait tugged to one of my walls and i’m probably a hopeless romantic… however i certainly was doped, too.

i’d love to read similar entries of other people’s longings here. maybe this could help as a starter… flowery phrases (i.e. “floskeln” in german) of course need to be added in order to round one’s own lines off with the right portion of romanticism.

that’s it.

Ein erster Satz

Jakob Reichsöllner — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 09:38:11 +0000

Mit einem Satz sprang ich auf sie zu. Er brach in seiner Mitte ab, zerbröckelte in Buchstaben, verlor sich zwischen ihren Fingern und wenngleich auch alles, nein, nichts klar war, so wollte ich in diesem Augenblick ein ganzes Buch darreichen. Von der Wucht so vieler Sätze getroffen sah ich sie nie wieder.

Freecard

Jakob Reichsöllner — Wed, 24 Sep 2008 09:36:22 +0000

Freecard Lesen macht hungrig

we ride – our orleans, right?

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 10:45:46 +0000

we were like trees’ crests passing by.

infinite rows of them leading us the way,

blurred and not vine.

we were like those trees’ branches

with emptied minds

like they’ve got rid of their leaves.

spring.

gray.

and grayish walls running

beside us, endlessly.

we.

sharing the same way.

and ‘oh’, the birds.

like single strains of hair

who just loosened themselves

and in grief mourning, they

slowly fall or rather seemingly

‘no’, infinitely seeming to fall.

consciously led to their ends

and just like one of those –

doomed – we pretended to be falling

to the ground, too.

our mourning grievously re-

echoing, but almost like

silence, from the blades of

grass who surrounded us.

growing tall around us

like in an embrace

comparable to how they

welcome birds, now, on their

last flights towards their

graves.

we.

they.

spring.

gray.

free.

a cloud in mid-air we were

we, the intruders

alienated by the sphere

flying like waste, needles and tins

awfully beautiful

and ordinary

a thunder.

the prey.

like those cloud’s thoughts we were

resembling molecules in love

we, being our own attempts

like every single raindrop

from above.

roads encasing us by thoughts

like a thunder, in gusts of wind

like Venice encased by the sea

you hear?

grainy asphalt we were

pressed together like stones

acting as if being driven upon

a thunder.

the prey.

we.

they.

roads.

gray.

free.

oskar becker

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 03:33:29 +0000

‘a black dog runs at night.’

barks and bellows and stumbles under bright moonlight.

dizzy, the stars do guide him,

listening to his outcries and mournful plights.

his footsteps, gentle like spaces randomly left in between unknown places.

where dawn endlessly rests as if never came sunset.

tracing his own way back in fearful fright of what may come by sudden surprise.

a horrifyingly surreal journey starts at it’s origin.

with a tortured black dog infinitley living as an unfaithful victim,

betrayed by his majesty, she whom is named ‘time’.

speechless

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 00:30:20 +0000

We broke up, however though we haven’t met.

We played scrabble and lost the alphabet.

I shared my dreams to give you insight.

You rejected my heart and broke me twice.

I offered my chest to give you warmth,

But you stood there cold like a stone.

Your body rattled like bees with firearms.

Your gaze empty like after killing someone?

sleep

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 00:27:10 +0000

i shouldn’t lest i did.

windy days, enormous nights.

bodies shaking, breaking tides.

sweat dripping, never stop.

down the drain and out again.

back from hell, lost weight.

there, out of shotgun shells babies were made.

then stopped believing lies told by dazzled eyes.

caught up with what from now on i should call ‘my life’.

> s t e t s <

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 00:09:28 +0000

Can’t sleep.

Sleep is like the hand that keeps him from breathing.

Breathing in, in soft hums somewhere lonely in the distance.

Distance makes him feel numb.

Numb like a hand that’s limp-wristed.

Limp-wristed like ghosts who lost theirs in former lives.

Lives dispensed of loneliness and rest.

Rest that he seeks so desperately.

Desperately as the birds sing when the sun rises.

Rises to crush his longings.

Longings he’s damned to have.

Have sleep is what he can’t.

00

Anna Teresa Angermann — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 18:37:29 +0000

rooms without a view (short story)

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Wed, 05 Dec 2007 13:28:03 +0000

When you flush everything’s gone, everything.

Some say toilets are as neutral as milk of a mother’s breast. When you’re in one of these small cabinets you’re alone, except for yourself. So how do you treat these walls, sometimes not even blank? What do you do with them? What do you do?

Als PDF ansehen…

brian jones

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Sat, 01 Dec 2007 11:14:10 +0000

I want to dig deep into the moat

A cutout heart dies faster than a real one broke

Solely captivated in that bed of mud

Dead, though covered like in a field of rosebuds

Angels dawn on me like luring vultures

Divine I lie there, broken like an antique sculpture

A crippled tree there finally grows

To show that I died of an overdose.

life comes…

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Thu, 22 Nov 2007 13:04:11 +0000

“Life comes…” he thinks, billions of red threads dangling around his head just like memories flashing through his mind.

They make him feel dizzy, resemble what he believes in as himself being trapped in his mind, or rather wrapped up in cosy but itchy thin red wool. It reminds him of the extraordinary baby blanket he used to lie in, colourful and warm, stricken with memories of carelessness. “Start to count them! Start, now – recount”, he keeps replying to the blank white walls, his undemanding audience. Even if they could answer, he would never expect them to. He doesn’t want them to. He likes them to be silent spectators, bearing similarity to him as a youth.

Als PDF lesen…

heroine

Marlon Thierry Laurent Fink — Tue, 20 Nov 2007 11:28:33 +0000

You want to be a star? Yes, one big shiny star constantly posing with a gorgeous smile on and reflecting flashlights, hundreds per second, equal to stroboscopes sending out a blinding light that makes people itch with its nauseating presence while they smile like lunatics and keep up their weird dances?

Als PDF lesen…