One day your songs will
thread as the sun does when it
shines through honey jars,

there will be no need
for shut windows, doors and bars
keeping us inside,

we’ll open them wide,
to make room for freezing air,
flush out the staleness

clinging to our bones,
there’ll be summer in your hair.
Things won’t be the same.


1 2 3

There was nothing more
arousing than to see that
smile twist those red lips,

observe that wry curve
slanting unevenly from
one end to the next,

hiding a yearning
even tripartite structures
would fail to reveal.

1 2 3


Out in the darkness
the patter of naked feet
resounds from afar

in this empty place
spacious, forgotten, lonely
not a single light

reaches the eye here
where all your fears come along
for an endless ride,

where you can’t be but
afraid of the things to come,
that is what they say.

So take up your heart
wand’ring erratically
through that cavity

as lightless and still
as the void surrounding you
and make it glimmer

’till it’s bright aflame
blazing with the golden light
oozing through your veins

and cauterising,
as it runs through your body,
all your open wounds.

Make your heart beat hard
so it squeezes the gold out
through your tired skin,

the soles of your feet,
so you leave glowing footprints
wherever you tread
burning holes into the dark.



Der Sommer
war kurz dieses Jahr und
schweren Herzens
muss ich zugeben,
dass nicht einmal
meine blanken Füße
genug waren,
um mitzuhalten
mit diesem geflügelten Schritt.

Ob es einen Unterschied
gemacht hätte,
meinen gesamten Körper
zu entblößen,
um der Sonne
Raum zu geben
mir die ledrige Haut zu bräunen,
nicht sicher.

Mit nackten Zehen
bloßer Erde
Gras darunter
hat sich allerdings besser angefühlt
als vieles Andere
seit Menschengedenken,
denn gemacht sind Füße dazu,



He came in during the night shift, somewhere around half past two in the morning when everything was still in the hospital. It had been a quiet night so far, one of the nurses was making coffee in the break room, while the second one was reading the latest novel by her favourite horror story author and the third one was mentally going through the preparations for her husband’s birthday party that weekend watching her patients, those restless sleepers, tweaking the seating plan.

He arrived in the dead of night as an emergency patient who had woken up rather suddenly at home and couldn’t really tell what was wrong with him, only that something was wrong, that something felt most disturbingly wrong and he couldn’t for the life of him tell what it was. When he was brought in, he was still responsive, so they asked him: had he taken any drugs, pills or medication? No. Did he drink too much alcohol, any alcohol or did he ingest any other potentially harmful substances? No. Could it be anything he ate? No. Did he have a medical history, any diseases that he was aware of? No, not at all. He was put through all sorts of tests but his body was in perfect working order. Was he absolutely sure that the pain came from his stomach? Yes, he was. He had an enormous, twitching fist in his belly, opening and closing repeatedly, compulsively, making the rest of his body throb to its rhythm, making him sick to that very stomach. He couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t think, after awhile he couldn’t even focus on the doctors’ questions any longer

Naturally, something had to be done and because nobody could think of a better idea, they finally decided to empty his stomach, to turn it inside out. First, there was nothing but after some time from the tube leading out of his belly there started to flow strands of bright, walnut-coloured hair that, even though it was covered in all sorts of bodily fluids, lazily gleamed like the loveliest honey under the cold, artificial lamps hanging from the white-washed ceiling and there was no end in sight.



“Things kept disappearing until there was nothing left on earth.

It all started with inconspicuous things like the rustling of the leaves that accompanied the swaying of the branches in the wind or the sound the night makes when you open your window and listen closely to the wee hours of the morning. But once things got properly going, others soon followed: every twelfth shaft of sunlight, the odd breeze at the very end of March and even a fraction of the second right before sunrise, all gone from the places they had been just a moment ago.

The vanishing did not only concern inanimate objects and phenomena, if that is what you were thinking. The cat, ready to pounce upon an unsuspecting mouse pawing through the mud disintegrated into thin air as soon as its feet left the ground when it closed in for the kill. The raven, now still cleaning its feathers, disappeared from sight the moment it took flight (some of the feathers lazily lingered in the air, painting it with inky streaks before drifting to the ground gently) and when one of the numerous fishes broke the surface of the ocean in one lively jump, it melted softly back into the sea on its way down, never to be seen again.

There were no regrets, this was the way it happened. Not only for the animals but also for humanity (although, admittedly, this division is sort of unfair, humanity also has its own wolves, cats, maggots and beetles, probably even more so than animals do in the first place). The canvas was wiped clean once more or rather wiping itself clean, I do not want to suggest any divine intervention whatsoever, neither in painting nor in erasing, not even in observing the picture; this was simply the way things went.

This is not a parable about the extinction of endangered species or something like that, mind you, but about the actual act of disappearance, of ceasing to be once and for all. It was as if in every organism, even in matter as such (nobody would want to forget the rocks and the stars, those unlikely siblings, or the sky and the sea, for that matter) there was a built-in switch, once flipped shutting them down, snapping them out of existence for good like any old light bulb.

Sometime after this had started happening and when finally there was nothing left, it became clear what –“


The King of the Hollow

The King of the Hollow, His Royal Majesty of the Void, Lord Protector of the Empty greets you once more. He rules wisely, wielding His sceptre of dust, His magnanimity displayed by His coat of arms that is not. His Majesty’s decisions are just, for His decrees lead nowhere, as do all the roads within the bounds of His vast kingdom, where you can travel for weeks without encountering a single soul (rumour has it that His subjects do not even have souls at all, they are mere vessels). As far as the eye can see, there are rolling plains, He rules over lands filled with the absence of presence to the brim where the only thing that prevails is gone. The King is dead, long live the King. Three cheers for the Undying One, for He has never lived. Three cheers for that which never was and never will be for this is how things work around here at the brink of all there is, of none there is not there is not there is notthere isnot thereis not

The King of the Hollow