Somewhere Nowhere

Somewhere Nowhere

Somewhere a heart beats an unsteady rhythm until it falters. It gives its soul the possibility to flee its miserable cover.

The now dead body is only an empty, flabby cover, which soon is going to wear the features of rigor mortis.

The parties of grief and heir moan and lament at the death bed, while calculating the legacy and estimating, how much grief seems worthy and suitable.

Somewhere up there, a stubby gentleman sits on a candy-cloud. He asks each spirit into his office and looks deep-down their souls. He inspects them to decide if they’re worthy enough to await the paradise behind the shed and have filled in the forms correctly, of course.

Somewhere down there, another gentleman waits for those souls, the one up there thinks of as unworthy. Besides he calmly cleans his fingernails with his hideous prick.

He moves his behind to position himself more comfortably on his red velvet cushion. He inhales the air, which’s got his preferred temperature of 180 °, through his enormous nostrils.

In between hiss a few winged castratos to and fro, tell weird stories about heaven and hell to offer the gentlemen some kind of amusement…

…and…

Right in the thick of it, the human sits in his church, freezes his buns off and is scared shitless, because his doctor told him about an increasing risk of heart-attack.

Amen.

© Sybille Lengauer
Translated by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on Januar 8, 2009 at 1:10 Kommentar schreiben

A day as usual

A day as usual

I may, I want, I’d love to
Murder everyone I see
Today, I’d like to stand
In human blood – up to the knee

With my axe I want to go
Through the alleys and the street
Up and down and up and down
To see their human brains bleed

On human remains I want to feed
As the biggest monster I want to seem
Slaughter the women and their children
Until only the men do scream

Ramming the axe into their bones
The blood splatters merrily aloft
These are the chilling tones
To feel as good as never before

© Sybille Lengauer
Interpreted by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on at 1:09 Kommentar schreiben

Hirnwichsen

wen es interessiert -> www.myspace.com/hirnwichsen

Veröffentlicht in: on at 1:08 Kommentar schreiben

Tirade 1

Tirade 1

.. ..

Words, which want to scream out of every fibre of your body. These you’d love to puke directly into the mugs of those notorious nodders, those yes-saying idiots, as you are yourself in real life, 24 hours day per day…..

.. ..

Empty words written on virtual paper. An experiment based upon the psychological advice that writing down everything sometimes does help…oh really?….

.. ..

Sentences, which beat upon your ego like clubs. They burst your wall of thought like soapbubbles, which was built up by the brain as self-protection…..

.. ..

You write, cause you can’t scream. They sewed your mouth, directly after birth…..

.. ..

Damned to emotional neutral since the lump of flesh that you’ve once been, was raised to being human – or demoted…..

.. ..

It’s like an itch, where one can’t scratch oneself – directly under the skullcap…..

.. ..

You still remain silent and watch yourself waste away. You eke out your ongoing miserable existence that you personify up until the great final, while your brain forms bubbles…..

.. ..

The powers that you’ve called on to beg their support or an enormous lightning strike that puts an end to everything…they can’t hear you…..

.. ..

Well, when your brain gets burned, cause those fascists of thought impose their ‘logic’and falseness, you can’t say nothing without leaving your social cover and get conspicuous or….

.. ..

Insane/….

.. ..

Behavioural disordered/….

.. ..

Socially unsuitable/….

.. ..

Unsound minded…..

© Sybille Lengauer

Translated by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on November 22, 2008 at 3:14 Kommentar schreiben
Tags: , , ,

Jesus in a jam jar

Jesus in a jam jar

The other day I discovered Jesus in a jam jar that I was about to finish and throw away afterwards.

He watched me reproachfully and asked to take the spoon out of his countenance. I had to say, this event did amaze me.

The dear God appeared to be in my jam of all jams. In former times this would’ve been a reason to canonize or at least burn me.

But in our alternative and Christian liberalized days He may appear…no one bothers anymore.

And this indeed was his problem, as he told me after a short introduction of participants. He amplified that he was Jesus and why he could draw such first-rate circles through the back of his hand.

No one pays attention to a godly messenger anymore!

Good gracious, I wouldn’t have expected all this. I thought his stirring appearance in my jam quite impressive.

He wouldn’t deny this fact, but, as he assured me, his usual attempts of manifestations were ignored and even intolerated several times.

When he tried, for example, to use television as his medium to communicate, people just switched off or started turning madly at the antenna. The only possibility to cause an effect was a variation of the burning bush.

Only people started to run away, screaming, or extinguish the fire on their electronic devices, rather than sinking humbly onto their knees.

Even Maria got it bad, as she appeared to the people in a crisis zone. They prepared to rob and rape her, instead of lowering the heads devoutly and listen to her Annunciation.

Yes, this is how far it had gone with mankind, he summed up sadly.

I bit, downcast as well, in my bread with jam and chewed lost in thought. Jesus climbed out of the jam jar, smoothed his halo and went without blinding me with his godly physiognomy.

Instead, he only sighed gloomily and scrounged a cigarette, which he inhaled in just one breath.

He sighed once again, dropped onto the chair and told me, he couldn’t stand the pressure anymore that he’s been exposed to.

The stress, the godly task came up with as well…on long-term, he couldn’t cope with it

Oho! I had to admit, this didn’t sound too good. It sounded like a blessed burnout.

So I sat down with him and asked how I could help him. Cause this at last was the reason why he’d appeared in my jam.

Yep, quite so, he admitted.

He needed help, maybe even from me, one of the last decent earth inhabitants there are.

This flattered me. But on the other hand, I’ve been irritated, cause: I’ve smoked, I’ve drunk, I’ve desired someone else’s man, sometimes even woman and further on I’m unbelieving. What was he talking about decent?

Jesus assured me, he wasn’t as fastidious as his old Ego was.

Sins, heinous crimes and suchlike weren’t his territory. He needed help and I’ve come into consideration. Buttered up this way I might have even reddened.

But I’ve never done anything really productive in my life, nor have big or bright ideas crossed my mind.

Why me?

The Lord leaned forward, grasped my bread and broke it with a shake of his head.

He’s been a bit hurt cause of my doubts and stuffed the freshly blessed loaf into his mouth. With his mouth full, he told me about his idea of getting born again.

Born again? I screamed throughout all my senses, BORN AGAIN?

That’s been why he’s been sitting on my chair, feeding himself poor on me and didn’t even look embarrassed.

Cause he wanted to be human.

Through me! Me? To be the second Holy Virgin?

Wait a moment, there, I discovered a new impossibility, next to my absolutely missing approval. I surely couldn’t come up with virginity, all advanced deity aside.

But Jesus just shrugged. This too didn’t matter. If I was a virgin or not didn’t matter, it was just a matter of tradition, he added sarcastically.

He wanted to come back to this very planet, wanted to restart his odyssey to free mankind of all their sins.

Today it’s more necessary than ever, otherwise the world would come to an end, he constantly indicated.

His babble of the world coming to an end didn’t stir me much, as I have to admit. The big finish, I’ve already expected it several times. I’ve even been hopefully looking forward to the great final, how could this message shake me anyway?

Jesus didn’t approve of this attitude. He talked unceasingly to me that I HAD to grant him a ticket to reincarnation, cause at least I’d come to enjoy The Holy Trinity and everlasting live.

I could argument against all this, I’ve never dreamed of being ever existent and I don’t care about threesomes.

Jesus was shattered.

He howled, I’d be unreasonable and selfish and I’d miss some believe and mercy. I couldn’t deny it, but I didn’t even want to.

God unnerved me.

Impatiently, I stood up, started clearing the table and posed as a very busy person. Jesus sighed several times, gave me accusatory looks and disappeared, just like that! Without another word.

Shortly afterwards, I had already suppressed our meeting, cause I often enough have to deal with different derivations. I’ve had some practice suppressing unpleasant visions.

But then, my period failed to appear and I started thinking of Christian selfishness and godly omnipotence.

I decided to consult a doctor, who heartily congratulated.

I was healthy, brisk and pregnant. Jesus has settled back in my tummy…

The medic babbled about medical check-up, a vitamin supplement, he wanted to prescribe me. And my consumption of cigarettes I had to reduce drastically.

I was responsible for two now, not just one. I had to change.

Me and Jesus. The Saviour and me.

I’ve been completely at a loss.

I aborted him yesterday.
The pressure, that I saw myself exposed to, was just too big for me.

© Sybille Lengauer

Translated by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on at 3:12 Kommentare (2)
Tags: ,

The clock translated by Gio Letizia

The Clock

(a shortnight melody)

.. ..

I’m sittin’in the kitchen and listen to the clock, it’s cutting the hours…..

TICK….

I’m starin’at the wall, it’s got cracks, it’s as yellow as nicotine and ugly…..

TICK….

I’mexaminin’ the shelves, the scraps of wall paper, wilting plants…..

TICK….

I’m lookin’at my hands, which are lying on the table, which is sticky and old…..

TICK….

I’m gettin’up slowly, holding the chair behind me, which’s got a loose leg…..

TICK….

I’m goin’into the bathroom, see the mirror and behold the horror as expected…..

TICK….

I approachthe window, it’s dirty and smeared, I see walls and rain…..

TICK….

I’m takin’my pistol out of its casket inside the cupboard, it’s colourless and dusty…..

TICK….

I put inthe magazine, position it on my temple, forgot to load…..

CLICK….

TICK….

I’m goin’back to the kitchen, load and shoot this god damned clock!….

TI-BOOM….

Since then,I’m merry again, ‘cause time stands still, at least in my kitchen….

.. ..

FOREVER….

© Sybille Lengauer

Translated by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on November 12, 2008 at 1:17 Kommentar schreiben

stopped translated by Gio Letizia

Stopped….

.. ..

I’ve stopped to believe that I do exist…..

I’ve stopped to insist on being a living creature…..

.. ..

It doesn’timprove anything. It doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

I’ve stopped to seek the good in a subject…..

I’ve stopped to tell myself that it’s got a sense. No matter which one…..

.. ..

It doesn’timprove anything. It doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

I’ve stopped to ask myself questions…..

I’ve stopped to wonder…..

.. ..

It doesn’timprove anything. It doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

I’ve neverstopped to tell lies…..

.. ..

This doesn’t improve anything. This doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

It justmakes everything a bit easier…….



© Sybille Lengauer

Translated by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on at 1:16 Kommentar schreiben

Stopped….translated by Giovanna Letizia

Stopped….

.. ..

I’ve stopped to believe that I do exist…..

I’ve stopped to insist on being a living creature…..

.. ..

It doesn’timprove anything. It doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

I’ve stopped to seek the good in a subject…..

I’ve stopped to tell myself that it’s got a sense. No matter which one…..

.. ..

It doesn’timprove anything. It doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

I’ve stopped to ask myself questions…..

I’ve stopped to wonder…..

.. ..

It doesn’timprove anything. It doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

I’ve neverstopped to tell lies…..

.. ..

This doesn’t improve anything. This doesn’t change nothing…..

.. ..

It justmakes everything a bit easier…….



© Sybille Lengauer

Translated by Giovanna Letizia

Veröffentlicht in: on at 1:13 Kommentar schreiben

Es ist Zeit

Zeit


Es ist Zeit der Nornen fleißig’ Fäden boshaft zu verwirren,

sie zu Knoten aufzutürmen, ihr Gewebe zu beirren.

Es ist Zeit des Leuchtturms Leuchten irre kichernd abzutragen,

die Lichtgefäße zum Verzagen tapfrer Männer auszuschlagen.

Es ist Zeit der Götter dogmenhaft’ Dekrete zu negieren,

ihr Gewäsch zu ignorieren, nicht die Wange zu servieren.

Es ist Zeit des Weges Wagenrad allein voran zu lenken,

nicht durch andrer wirrem Denken von der Richtung abzuschwenken.

Es ist Zeit der Mächt’gen Machenschaft’ mit Argwohn zu durchblicken,

das Schaumgeschwafel mit Entzücken augenblicklich zu ersticken.

Es ist Zeit der Uhren Ungemach ein Ende zu bereiten,

ihr ew’ges Laufen zu begleiten, das Vergehen zu bestreiten.

Es ist Zeit des trägen Tickens würgend Halt zurückzulassen,

sein Gestade zu verlassen, neue Verse zu verfassen.

Es ist Zeit den atemlosen Augenblick verzückt zu spüren,

die Lebensfreude anzurühren, gold’ne Zeiten anzuführen.

Zeit zu Leben, Zeit zu Lachen, Zeit mit Phantasie zu siegen,

Zeit zu Streben, Zeit zu Wachen, Zeit für all die Lebenslügen…


© Sybille Lengauer

Veröffentlicht in: on Oktober 14, 2008 at 1:37 Kommentare (2)
Tags:

Gewäsch einer Depressiven…

 

Ich bade eine Depression aus. Baden ist der korrekte Ausdruck, da mir der trübe Schaum schon bis zur Nasenspitze reicht. Ich versuche die üblichen, verdächtigen Gegenmittel und scheitere kläglich.

Sollte ich ein wenig malen? Ja, später! Essen machen? Später!
Spazieren gehen? Brrr, später! Überhaupt aufstehen? Später als spät!

Okay, für Kaffee tut man doch einiges…aufkriechen zum Beispiel,Wasser aufsetzen und mit irrwitziger Geschwindigkeit wieder zurück unter die Decke fitschen. Hypermuffelgeschwindigkeit. Ich habe den Zucker vergessen. Mist.

In der Küche ist alles klebrig und dreckig. Ich habe das Gefühl der Schmutz reiche mir bis zum Hals. Einbildung natürlich. Gestern um halb fünf Uhr früh habe ich schließlich geputzt wie eine Irre. Irr. Das passt wie die Faust auf’s Auge.

Aber das Gefühl von Klebrigkeit und Staub hält sich krampfhaft an mir fest.
„Natürlich“ denke ich, „der Laden ist alt, morsch und schäbig, aus der aufgelösten Wohnung einer armen, alten Dame um die sich nur noch die Caritas kümmern wollte. Alt und schäbig, wie der Rest ihrer Behausung.“

Und mir fällt wieder ein, wie schäbig ich selbst mich fühlte, in ihrem einstmaligen Heim, diesem dunklen, muffigen Loch zu stehen und mir ihre letzten Habseligkeiten anzusehen. Mit welchem Recht war ich dort? Ich, die ich sie nie gekannt hatte. Kein kleines „Nette-alte-Dame-Teegespräch“, kein kleiner Gruß am Briefkasten, nicht einmal ein kurzes Nicken. Sie war mir gänzlich fremd. Und doch stand ich nun in ihrer Wohnung, ohne daß sie Einspruch erheben konnte, tot wie sie war, und rümpfte die sensible Nase ob des abgestandenen Geruches.

Abgestanden, alt, leer, faltig, verbraucht. Worte stinken!

Die Jugend ist ein Fluch weil man nichts weiß.
Das hohe Alter ist ein Fluch weil man alles wieder vergißt was man zu wissen glaubte. Dazwischen ein paar hellere Jahre in denen man zwischendurch begreift daß das Vergessen ein Segen sein kann, selbst wenn das eigene Wissen ein Witz ist.

Die Küche. Immer noch ekelhaft. Wieviele Male wurde diese Schublade geöffnet, wie oft der Schrank geschlossen, wieviele Brote auf der Anrichte geschnitten, belegt, vielleicht für ein liebstes Wesen ansehnlich drappiert?

Ob sie in der Küche gestorben ist? Vielleicht, ich werde es nie erfahren.

Meine Gedanken treiben umher, sind quietschgelbe Gummienten im fischigen Spühlwasser der Depression. Ich spiele ein wenig mit ihnen herum, belustigt über ihre lächerliche Form, und fülle sie dann nach und nach mit Bleikugeln damit sie untergehen.

Ich fantasiere. Ich träume. Ich scheife ab.

Jemand räumt im Zimmer herum? Falsch, ich räume in meinem Kopf herum! Die eiserne Jungfrau für die unerfüllten Wünsche etwas weiter nach rechts, den spanischen Stiefel für die nutzlosen Vorsätze ein wenig mehr nach links und den griechischen Feuerstier für die naiven Hoffnungen genau in die Mitte. Zur besseren Orientierung.

Ich horche tief in mich hinein, und irgendwo ganz weit drinnen kann ich das Schwein in meinem Schädel lachen hören. Über mich, die Quietscheentchen, den ganzen Foltermist, einfach alles. Es amüsiert sich königlich. „Wenigstens einer hat etwas zu lachen“ denke ich „und wenn es nur das Schwein ist“.

© Sybille Lengauer