Smoking long cigarettes did not compensate for

the loss, inhaled, with hot air between her lips

Remained untasted for aeons of time

There is a figure behind those curtains

slowly vanishing through grey curling clouds

Like memories, blurring

Grey ashes, extinct fires

Silently, she sings an obituary on chances never taken

and the waste of youth, untouched by the hands of time

What if the past was an ashtray full of longings?

Slowly fading out the lights and glimmer

Dry leaves rolled up and burned

Burn the poems!

Burn them!

After all, they are just sticky graves of thoughts!

(And they end up in Purge-a-tory)

]]> http://dasblattwerk.net/2010/07/21/mary%c2%b4s-nightmare/feed/ 3 http://dasblattwerk.net/2010/05/17/visiting-mary/ http://dasblattwerk.net/2010/05/17/visiting-mary/#comments Mon, 17 May 2010 17:09:59 +0000 Julia Elisa Melcher http://dasblattwerk.net/?p=4868 Never expected that it would occur to me like this. How did it initiate its crawling into my restless, pondering mind? Must have been a shot of vivid ecstasy, worth being exorcised, on muggy and hot summer days.

I remember the days back then, I spent in dullness; thoughts drifting afar due to insomnia and assignments that challenged approximately 0.011 percent of my neuronal capacity. That was hospital back then. And you. The personification of a mad scientist. Kept waiting for me, capturing my appearance with your wistful gazes. They were telling stories of devoid and fragile longings; and stories from the hilltop of your lonely pining existence. You were there, pumping life into my fatigued veins, pushing my blood cells into a trance-like rhythmic circle dance, up and down. Else, my hand would not have scorched under the touch of your hand, pretending to perform an incidental gesture. Muted, my body swallowed the unambiguous signs you sent me, indigestible, left somewhere dwelling in my womb. Until the day we separated, both knowing that we would never meet again.

I sat there sobbing, in accordance with the tunes of maudlin love songs, feeling abysmally ashamed by the obvious display of emotions on my face. On one of those weird days, my folly forced me hasting upstairs, towards the church of the Holy Mother, hoping for a glimpse of relief.

There I knelt, my mind all empty, a blank heathen, an educated atheist; unable to recall a prayer from a childhood memory that had never stored such phrases into the psychological realms of spiritual knowledge. THOU LUCKY VIRGIN! HOW WILLST THOU EVER COMFORT ME IN MY AGONY? THOU KNOWST NOTHING! Oh… Oh! How did I envy her in that moment for her ignorance of sexual desire! But while I was staring at her statue in disappointed fury, my eyes tracked the emblem of the consolation I desired: MATER DOLOROSA, PIERCED MARTYR HEART, THOU KNOWST MY PAIN! However, redemption was not at all, what I took with me from the Goddess. I stepped out into the cold and moist harvest fog and while taking a deep breath, I absorbed the mantra, I exhaled: SOLITUDE, I LOVE YOU TOO! Finally, I had consummated copulation with the emptiness of space.

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!”

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.

The lights were broken down – the picture is not a fake!

To be Square
or not to be Square ?

I don`t care
this is not a Square

it only seems to be..

jannuary 2010

emptied spectra filmpack, white chalk, one polaroid

on the back of a canvas.

jan.2.ten

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.