One More Saturday


Every week or so,

the handcrafted bowl on the kitchen table

is filled with apples.

Rarley are they eaten.


And so

every week

the apples, soft and without shine

are thrown outside for the birds,

who dont eat them either.



His girlfriend went to Berlin,

he moved into her flat.

Now he is allowed to mess around

and other things like that.


He brought himself a new guitar

then severed all the strings

and promised that he`d sound a note

if she would only sing.

A Domestic Scene

Street light pours


through the second story apartment window.

Outstretched arms of a candelstick

paint still shadows

over a punched tram ticket

and several small coins.

And still,

I think about neccessity.

With You


With you


it took so long


to get dressed each morning.

Your Neighbours Garden


Your neighbours,


Who named themselves artists,


Kept in their garden


All they needed for creation.


We stole the picture frames but left the religious statues.

Some Mornings

I wake to lovers being put to bed.


I still can’t listen to their favourite songs.


Now the silence between us,


is all we have between us.




(From a while ago)

Twenty Eight

A friend wrote me a message on my birthday.

In the message he noted that Dostoyevski was my doppelganger,

and attached the photo for me to see for myself.

I could see the resemblenace.

Only in the shape of his face, and maybe nose and eyes.

My friend had been saving the picture for some time, as he knew a would like it,

because occasionaly I can be a vain fucker

and preoccupied with lesser things, as boys are.

He then stated that he had wanted to send it earlier,

when I wasnt able to attend a concert with him and a close group of friends,

because i wasnt around.

However, the concert was cancelled and so instead, he sent it to me on my birthday.



Bern, Summer 2013.