every time I try to wake up

I start counting sheep

or tanks

until I reach 50 the dreams disappear

outside the days are holding hands together shouting at me

country, country, we want soldiers *

I spit in my palms

dash ahead and plunge forward

no day can catch me

I look in the mirror and wonder

how the hell will I look like when I’m old

if I had the power to choose

I’d prefer the looks of someone like kris kristofferson

I stop here

maybe someone is already old

and looks like me



in front of my block a kid is pulling along some pieces of polystyrene

imagining he is a railway engine mechanic

old chap

he’s shouting at me

how long does it take to get to my mum


what crime what sin did I commit last night

I was standing on a roof I strangled my name with a piano chord

or a spider web

I took my identity card the reporter licence the driver licence

I carved them into pieces threw them in plastic bags

the garbage men saw me

I gave them a beer to shut up



from now on you may simply call me

the pickhammer man

I drill holes into the sky to see

where the hell to die


I don’t know what got me

for a while I’ve been writing with fury

I write as if I were lashing christ

come on you jade get on golgotha

I write as if I hadn’t gone through the confessional for twelve years now

I do not want poetry any more

I want penitence


sometimes I feel like believing that god is using me as a human shield

in front of the volley of paupers who put themselves to death

they have no excuse from me

if I wake up pick up my body and walk

then I expect from everyone to do the same

because every day is a bone that makes a stray dog happy



every day is a glass of combination brandy that makes a homeless happy

today I learned one more thing

if you stay at the table with the death or with the silence

don’t look her in her eye

only when she goes to the toilet

drink her damned cup and run




when I grow up I will become

baron Münchhausen

I will travel on a cannon ball

to be closer to you earlier

when I grow up some more

I will learn this stupid British English

and after I grow up completely

I will think I am a poet and write about all these things





* = a game for children, when they hold hands tightly not to let someone break up the chain of hands when running up in their direction