The Old Book

After a long time
The past is arriving today
The dead woman reading in an ancient book

Paula wrote it
The book opened
- in the room of enmeshment

Like a big church register
Binding out of paperboard - soft and often touched
Hand dipped paper - fibrous, gray, strong

Nine squares on each side - lined with copper
Silver moons at every intersection
Filled with signs and symbols

Day after day she weaved her life into the book
created oriental ornaments
from turquoise colored ink

At the end of the book
little silver bags filled with pigment
hay-harvest red, autumn red, cardinals red, violet red

Stapled like a fan in the book cover:
dehydrated slices of sausage
- mummies out of the larder

At the far horizon the sun
the sky coloring with orange red
1850 - time of the sunset...

Four Moons

Morning sky
Silent the man at the window
The full moon takes its course

Hushed jerking of the sky mechanism
The moon is sowing three trails
Disoriented is dancing the Earth

With bated breath fear interferes
Rolling in the orbit
We drift out of the system

The world is quivering
Joy embracing sadness
Disorienation becoming liberation

Beacon

Asphalt in the night
shining moist and straightforward
- attention is scattered

Curved black ribbon
takes its way through foggy clouds
into the heavenly dark

Pausing... a glance back...
reflecting - orientating - admitting
kindled is the fire of the earth

The Secret Order and the Big Tarocchi

- a dream in thirteen images -

Sacral Space
No residence permit - don't let them get you.
Two men wide awake - their corpses laid out as an experiment
The public must not find out

Middle Arcade
Long dinner table laid with damask cloth
Place of the secret order
nobody knows of it

Secret Society Members
They imagine I am a spy
The secret knowledge is in danger
Hidden glances full of suspicion

On the Way to the Altar
Silent whispering in the high hall corridor - sacral vibration.
A Blues Brother is standing there
Enticing me with concealed gestures

To the Table of the Lord
I follow my own way
My way is following the enticing man
Sparse sunlight falling through high windows

First Revelation
The Brother tears away a piece of brittle paper
part of an old painting
fingertips gliding over it - fumbling

The Creation of Eve
The painting lies open
Lecherous his glances on my face
Love players - bodies plastically - sensible

Reaction
Cool changing colours
Interesting variation of sexual stimulation
His hands trembling

The Solution
The "Hanged Man" - covered by yellowing
The man thrusts out his finger
- towards the divine light

"The Lovers"
Four times four pictures - one card is left
The old order re-established
Big arcanum - Arabic numerals

The Game
Powerful effect, intensified by the holy place
Yes, it is forbidden to me!
The man nods satisfied and remains silent

The Spy
Snooper with dark hat - hands digged in the coat
Paper stripes wrapped loose around his head
Eyes only to guess between slits - evoking fear

The Uncertain
His face concealed in the dark - peeping looks
Maybe he recognizes me!
With slow paces I leave the room...

Apple Blossom Land

Broad meadows, mild summers,
Gentle-pink flows into chalk white
The sky radiant with blue joy

Time passes itself
From summer to fall
Leaves – green and golden

I am a nothing in a jug
High grasses sing swaying
Love protects from crushing

Years... Lifetimes...
Nostalgia - everything passes
and new things develop

Orange red country of full warmth
develops after my time
- the pain is sweet.

Stairways

Stairways

The Water Trolley

The past – a sea battle.
The ocean heaves darkly
spitting broad white sea spray
Little ships dance up and down high waves
Classical melodies ringing in the back –
Carried along with heavy, nearly painful ease.

A little pert man in a black frock
with white skirt cuffs and long collars
black narrow pin trousers and gaiters.
A tiny hat straight on his head.

His eyes wide open, searching horizons.
His mouth gaping astonished: Ooooooooh...
Not at all frightened out of sheer surprise
pumping the lever of the water trolley up and down,
carrying him steadfastly over the endless sea.

His nose in the wind – hands gripping the rails tight.

In the Forest of Ruebezahl

Beside the brick building a container with onions. The brown onion skins are removed fast. It is good to go the way without unnecessary burden.

Warning: take good care – storms sweep over the country with thunder and lightning!
The thunderstorm – an old gnarled little man with a long beard, felt hat and a shabby suit – coming near, raving, seizing us.

Age-old trees rustle and murmur with whispering voices. The trunks strong and knotty. The crowns shake their deeply disturbed dark-green leaves at the gnarry old branches. The roaring wind whirls up things long dead. Violet-blue clouds hang heavily and deep – pressing down everything.

In the middle of the dark forest: a Russian basilica - ancient and artless. Whitewashed walls, an old lancet window – yellow and coloured glass in rough mosaic. Our bodies whirl like leaves through the holy place.

So please flee, please do it and flee!!! Leave this place before its downfall, before its perdition!!!

I glance to the window, the sole exit.
The only problem: I would not like to destroy anything!

The powerful trees bend and groan in the storm:
”Get ouuut...! Get ouuuut...!”

Ruebezahl