Passing By

Like an itch you cannot scratch
because it’s buried deep
in your muscles
wires sparking in cold tendons
and if there was air, there would be fire
exploding you forward, into action
but you sit and watch

the world go by
the sun go down
the idea of mountain forests fade away

Bat Calls

The flutter of a bat
against wires
connecting nocturnal minds
sends glowing shivers
down neon-drenched cheeks and necks

echolocation in ultrasonic tears
staining the unreal spaces
in copper and candyfloss

as high-pitched calls
trace back to whining rotary phones
hidden away in digital caves
and belfries covered in cable cobwebs
where the old days hang
from the rafters

idling in their own embrace:
a forgotten handset
dangling from its cord

Ballad of the Boy in the Wall

She fell through the cracks
of the moth-eaten fabric of society
and she fell in love
with the boy in the walls

Her darkling darling,
stuck in Victorian times
and trapped by the curses
of those who wove the tapestry:

You don’t conform,
you get confined
in brick and mortar
tricked by lies

They spun around
his disappearence
when wall was papered over
in arsenic green

His face erased from
the sole family photograph
and his name erased
from the younger siblings’ minds.

She who fell into his room
in a whole new century
caught his interest,
felt him stirring

His sighs becoming audible
as he stretched his ghostly spine
through the length of wall,
deeply inhaling

Her lively vividness,
her intent listening
to his hands brushing paper
and the fiery spirit of

His light-browed lovely,
living in a different time
but so much likeness,
so much dreaming

They could dream together
and they spent so many hours
her sitting on the ashy floor
with her face towards his wall

Him telling her the stories
of the world before her time
and of his times confined
just listening in on

Them all living through
their lives not wasting a thought
to the ears they gave
their walls

Him seeing, hearing all the secrets
of a family now gone
and the dead one now,
the sole survivor

Her hanging to his unseen lips
and drinking in
the age-old gossip,
the iron claws of irony.

Live History

Half asleep, the working day done
laptop in bed: a slow evening ahead
of mindless entertainment

a message flickering: a riot

and we crawl out of our time zones
hurrying to catch directionless trains
of images streaming by
not sure where this is going

but the notion: history, live

and all around the world we hover
fingers over keys, screens, numbers
information flooding brains
already tired of scrambled months

on the other side of the globe: chaos

and we know it’s no coincidence
no event singular, in isolation:
it’s a tangled web and a tangled world
and we’re only a few steps behind

but currently: hands tied

and we stay up beyond midnight
catching stained bits of data
from shaking hands holding our vision
in corridors of crumbling hopes

asking for a safe future: please hurry

Data Is Soulless (2.0)

Only digital ghosts keeping me company while I’m
waiting for something to happen, something to shift in the neon maze of cyberspace, now mostly switched to off, the remainders dimmed, muted, grey light mingling with faint voices, echoes of steps not really taken by anyone.

I try to fade myself into
some alcove of this fleeting texture woven from millions of messages not meant for me and pictures passing by and vanishing again, streams of code I cannot see but feel, non-physical machinery grown over decades, partly build, partly thrown together haphazardly, brick-a-brac output of innumerable human minds and their creations.

Connected, but alone:
watching more data float by in a minute than my ancestors would have been able to access in a day, a month, a year, and – way back – a decade or a lifetime, even.

Data is soulless, disembodied from its purpose, if viewed somewhere between point of origin and destination and most of the time it’s not interesting enough to encourage looking for the creator, the recipient, and make sense of the intention put into whatever it is that just drifted by.

Watching the web at night is being a ghost hanging in limbo in a stacked mirror void, treading water among the ghostly trickles, currents, and maelstroms of information

moving along invisible grids, for a moment lighting up like a meteor just to fade again in the distance, already forgotten. Everything is sped up and yet time seems stretched like thin skin over monitors, small red vessels beating diminutive reminders of life, of precious moments running out, but

I still stare and wait:
something might occur at any given time, watch, wait, be there, but everything that happens will in turn fade and become part of the backdrop, the black void of waiting.

Data is soulless, and it’s a bad companion.

Attempt at reworking the original version (; WIP


Otherness calling otherness
misfits reaching out to misfits
crawling through the crevices
between flashing ads
and the web of lies:

we are spiders, we are flies
we’re slipping through,
we’re slipping


to the realms of otherness
making the walls slip


and we’re reaching in, reaching


finding likeness
in mirrors
miles of wires away
and there are

hands slipping notes
to hands in the distance

and distance
starts slipping away

(but we couldn’t stop time
and our lives started slipping
apart again)