The poem

I would like to write literally while I live
while the wound is still suppurating
the tear falls
rage explodes in a roar
while the fourth note of the laugh still sounds.

I would like to express the emotion instantly
in words
create from the raw feeling
- in vivo -
take advantage of the spark of flame
distill the now while it still is.

However        - against my luck -
only when time passes and poses
the impulse in my skin
          slowly
                       naked
memory speaks
she relives the feeling
the verses come to me
and the poem     - like a phoenix -    is born.

Only when I take perspective
and I see the grounds
my last feeling speaks
and always        - I swear it always is-
less intense but harder.

It is my past      - then -       who speaks to you
   my maturation
        my tombstone
you read           - then -        the life of what was already
of what I am no longer
but it's the offspring that sustains me.