8. Ausgabe - März 2026 / 8th Issue - March 2026


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If Triggers Avoided

Begins with excuses, or even before
pupils bright as stars, and massive black holes.
Slow cooking in oven; either microwaves:
Strong fear crossing eyes; or in mind, fast rave.
    
The first requires sharing, and dynamic groups.
The next, smoother path: easier direct clues.
As previously said, one chooses first time,
But opened the mouth, most of triggers shine.
    
Achieved top of pulsion , the exam starts when
The mind blurs on kiss: «could I act?» «Sure, yesss!!»
No victory on brain, two people there meet:
If seen you've been craved, most pathos on lips.
  
Action and reaction: if tongue well explores,
Palms never stop moving and saliva flows.
Sweet performing well: one hand wants all back
And after some minutes, slow licks on the neck.
  
Nothing left apart: harmonies preview,
With aroused voice, what's like in the rooms.
Most of time too much, is shown in foreplay;
Arrived to dressed eros: better leave the place.

  
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Review of DIE URNE (in Postdamer Blattstoffe, 7th issue)

We are at war. Of course we are. Us.
  
From the ranks of the dead, the flowers bloom. Another soldier (poet) steps onto the battlefield in place of the fallen. It’s you. This is the trope of war propaganda. I remember Colonel McRae and his fumbled verbs:

   In Flanders fields, the poppies grow
   Between the crosses, row on row,
     […]
   Take up our quarrel with the foe:
   To you from failing hands we throw
     The torch.

As war becomes a constant, the contradictions of the old lie of regeneration become clearer. The surplus of dead flesh topples over the lip of the urn. Nature is not rich and teaming with life ("The larks, still bravely singing, fly / Scarce heard amid the guns below." also McRae). It is skin, stones (of varying sizes), tides (also made into stone; steingebrockt) and guardrails (autobahnplanke). The circle of life, “king, worm, fish, beggar” (Hamlet, act 4, scene 3), has closed. The mountains reveal (verraten) hunger. The joints are crying. The sinews of the dead drip into the mouth of the poet, who can do nothing about it. At least Benn’s little Aster, the violet daisy, get’s a chance at life in the stomach of a dead drayman. DIE URNE’s poet is a cannibal, and we too as readers consuming the dead poet, and the poem itself is a dead vessel for the dead and decaying alike; a colourless and dead urn.

I for one look forward to the next poem from this urn.


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