walkin away,
knocking on wood was never good,
it’s time to punch the walls.
zooming in, zooming out,
tokk, tokk, tokk,
there comes another knock,
never knowing from where it came,
smile and keep on traveling.

there is no sense of regretting the blood,
the broken bones and the swelling eyes,
knock, knock, knock,
here comes your tokk.
tap, tap, tap,
won’t help you as life won’t stop,
it’s not been taken to the cage,
facing it each day.
tokk, tokk, tokk,
time to open the door. let me in.
appreaciate every minute,
and maybe you will win.

sometimes it’s time
to let it all go,
leave the mess behind
and give your things away.
keeping all that stuff,
is just another form of slavery.

stacking, stashing, packing, storing.
the life of a collector gets pretty boring.
getting rid of the stuff,
that doesn’t give happiness,
might be hard, but I will forget what I once owned in no time.

no matter how hard we try,
we will never be complete.
you can buy whatever you want,
take a credit,
pay off the bills,
ask others for more money,
beg for a raise,
and put the stuff you buy with that money,
on top of the shelve,
living life like everyone else.
just waiting for the dust on them
to fall like the snow on a fresh winter day.

chasing the dreams projected by hollywood,
never forgetting, there might not be snow,
but suicides in those hills,
even though those heros can have everything.

and that’s still not enough.

I want it warm,
steaming, smelling the fragrance of right being made,
no matter if it’s late,
even during my shortest break.

not fearing the fear.
rejection, not receiving satisfaction.
not giving ass about
other people’s perspective,
only about my own retrospective.

seeing what I want to see
sabotaging myself
instead of approving what I have.

happiness is more than a word,
as it takes more to write, spell and speak it
to actually have some.

speaking a mantra is the first step,
to never forget,
that being awake,
is not much more than a state of sleepwalking.

our dreams are what makes us human,
living in our own reality,
shaping our destiny.

that’s why we have to face,
a self help market,
telling people, who are to weak to stand on their own,
how to improve,
instead of simply living a life.

choices have to be made by me and you,
it’s not the decisions that others make for us,
that bring us happiness.
standing alone is frightening,
but I do not fear the fear,
as it will make me stronger.

zick zack, stand still.
salute me, as we keep
in place.
some people call me stuck
I call me sticky,
being always broke,
as a good artist should,
not carin ’bout the money,
so ramit can nag, about another penny lost,
as there is no income,
to automate.

In the morning I awake,
too tired to stay in bed,
going to keep the eyes open till ‘vening
running from here,
to there,
to anywhere.

just moving,
not tripping,
not dreaming,
simply moving to places,
where I want to be.

When I wake up, it is already day,
the rays are kept out.
Missing the sun going up,
in her same old ways.
Being a moving static,
I know how she feels,
as we dance around,
and she does not move.

Stuck in the static,
like my toys in the attic,
I swing my feet up,
over the edge.

leaving the warm, comfortable shed,
shocked by my feet,
who get hit cold, cold by the wooden floor,
underneath my bed.

Do I move to the shower,
or is it too late, to freshen me up,
and eat my breakfast at eight?

I am running late,
have decisions to make,
is it the fresh smell of soap,
or my stomach filled?

I vouch for the second,
to chat with my love and eat a few crumbs,
before the clock hits 8.35, and we have to leave
our warm cozy home.

Forgetting the morning,
once I have dinner,
to remember it again,
when I wake up.

Every time I visit the porcelain dump shrine,
I dream about the perfect time.

whenever you find a toilet offering books
it’s usually the same old humping bunnies
or sad old joke collections,
maybe some magazines
or boring bauble.
Nothing more than printed toilet paper

either let me alone with my thoughts,
or drop something I’d love to find.

Calvin greeting Garfield,
Gaston working for Obelix,
or Spirou chatting with Spider.
childhood memories, for grown up
shavers.

entertain me right,
or it will smell all night.

I know all the wars, the pain and the horror
not half as good as someone
who actually witnessed.

TV shows it all, so does it the web and
all the celluloid.
never been shot at, leave alone the old cam,
tortured or terrorized
but know all the moves, the weapons and techniques
to bury the innocent
that believe all they see.

tell me what i want
i tell you what i need
no matter what it costs
virtuality gives it for free
can’t touch it
can’t taste it
can’t smell it
can’t hear the sound if it drops to the ground and breaks
time to cherish the pictures
of all the stuff
i’ll never own

all money is gone
I can just sing a song
and dance all alone
in misery.

must all artists suffer
to spice up their output
or can they just dance
all nights away?

living the life
striving for fame
the crash is so easy
so easy to see.