Marks of kisses and tears.

Poems by Hans Gerlach

Index. Marks of kisses and tears Drowning crickets Cosmic gulfs Shadow Discouver me 4 5 2 3 1

Bodysigns The game of signs Ashes Summer Fire Butterflies Once upon a time Mirroring Signals

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Marks of kisses and tears.

After so many sweet and salt senses I scraped signals on white sheets. Every rear or trembling of brains and body I wanted to take, to break, to bless to damn. Against the mindless flood of thoughts I wanted to throw up a dike. The blowing up dust by galloping horses may not fade out the sparks of her eyes. The rustling of your skin may not evaporate in the wind of dawn. The ever again rising tide may not efface the salt and sweet marks of kisses and tears. Leaning against the storm I want to count my rings women and children first.

2 Drowning crickets.

Noiseless she's walking barefeet in her darkred sarong. Through the twilight of the cooler evening monotonous gamelan sounds are floating under the whistling palmtrees. Through the flagrant sirsak juice I smell the warmth of her smooth, brown skin. Softly she is humming joyfull chilhood songs, whispers exciting secrets in my ears. Then our blood is waked by the rustle of cicaks diligently and naked our hasty heartbeats drown the deafening crickets while we hold our breath to save the wonder.

3 Cosmic gulfs. Octaves higher than chinese girlchoirs spacy cosmic tunes are reaching feather tender my hearing's borderlines. Gulf after gulf more shining eyes seathing sultry twincklings in our pallid cooled blood. Safely flowing glassy fleeces around the sunken skin muting naves are filled again. Then we are divinely connected with the sitlent stars and planets our ancient gods their men and ladies are returning to their former temple places. Once so timid stolen gances are drawing in an endless shutter time lightning traces from eyes to eyes from ears to ears from skin to skin in the nightly gloom. In the altar of Our Holy Lady a young and bashfull mother is solemnly crowned as a pope.

4 Shadow. Sometimes helped by strong emotions the shadow defeats the self and takes over re-member-s his hidden ghost putting her open soul in the farthest corner filled with anxiety crying from irrational fear like a canope that lost the heart. Then only poison can manage him let him fly hesitating leaving the old house with broken windows unclosed doors. After months the heart returns still death untill the self breakes the stones and laughes silently.

5 Discouver me. This song is born from the mirorring of far blue mountains in flooded sawas from the smiles in women's eyes from the rice and flowers at every houses gate from the coloured prawa-sails strikes before darkness from all abundant bananastalks countless cocospalms and wildly rempant greens. Their perfumes tell about your nearness birds are singing about your presence crickets are scraping highly your solemn welcome song. I hear around to every sound I sniffle as a hound in the round of every shell I raise my nose to every kind of unknown smell hoping that I'll find thee or that you shall sooner or later discouver me.

6 Bodysigns. Dark bright eyes black waving flagrant hair in the languid smokey air blossom colours on their subtle moving clothes silent feet apparently without any hasty aims the smell of baked meat in endless quiet evenings with ancient, holy treats. The world is young and new again animals and things have not their common names sparrow and flying eagle are "finger wave" and "armwide beast" talkative with body signs we read what never ever could be said in our smiling eyes.

7 The game of signs. What sort of thermal gloom is penetrating in my chest whatfore a singing voice is lodging in my head? You paint your rosy signals with softed fingers on my pane you whisper very loudly through the seducing springtime birds. Your hairy smell of just fallen rain dispells the still remained grey illuminates appearing greening and cracks the last not melted ice. The warmth of your foreign members is planting roots into my flesh the trembling of your silent life is twinkling in my bloody dwell. I am trying to escape you mates, do string the ropes aroound my skin but you slip into my dreaming and draw me into your game of signs.

8 Ashes. Wingless my laughing bird is spilled from her youthly joyfull flight. Soulless she's sitting now in the fruitlessly teared sand of her cracked glassy cage. Silently in minor she's sobbing over and over the same irrational desperate refrain. In sack and ashes I........ am raoming in the city and steal the smallest smiles on ladies' cheeks secretly I....... am drinking the seducing gleams from their moistened lips. The vaguest sparks from their shiny eyes I....... am catching and plant them cautiously in my allmost cooled hearth. With far too bulging cheeks I........blow and......blow into the whirling whitely ashes longing more and more for a little warming flame.

9 Summer. In summer the whole city is full of angels as if there's a nest of them nearby. They materialise in the warmth of the sun and mix themselves among the mortals. They don't wear their long, chaste dresses of christmas times but from under their mini skirts they show their long, brown legs and under their coloufull little tops their bare breasts unveiling their sexy naves. Eagerly they try to attract men of flesh and blood longing for the feeling of the ardous fires of human love burning heavenly and flying lovers to the paradise that they never felt. Afterwards you never know whether she was a girl or an angel because many of them addicted to love ask succesfully for asylum all over the world or stay for a hot winter.

10 Fire. May we gather our sparks and throw them in our fire of communication. May there be a chained reaction discouvering all our hidden sparks. May our angels meet, whispering our secret thoughts. May the birds of our souls descend in our dreams explaining our deepest wishes so that tomorrow we will recognise them in the mirrors of our eyes. May out of the ashes a fleet of multicoloured butterflies separate the waves of defense of the ocean of time concreted in our muskles and the trembling of our hands reaching to our forlorn halves from centuries ago.

11 Butterflies. Before he was lost in her eyes he became aware of a pink rose just between her slopy dunes. Thousands of butterflies instantly began to hover just under his now too small couver. Only a moment later after the first opened buttons of her decent summercotton she whispered in his ear "Just follow the roses, you are very near." His path was strewn with countless roses off and on he found a spot that no rose had got. Once laid on her flowerbed with only flowers in his head overwhelmed by her honey flagrance he released all his butterflies. With every honeywhirl they sang a lovesong for that delicious flowergirl.

12 Once upon a time. A tragic, lonely clown met in his mind a lonely, naked nymph who loved him forever. He wanted so strongly that it should be true that he changed dreams for reality. He heard her playing erotic tunes and dreamed ecstatic nights together. He thought to love somebody did not see she had no body that the wife in his mind was nobody. Awakening on earth he thanked the nymph for the happy dream and never forgot it really!

13 Mirroring. Only dreams did warm the fibres of my soul till glassy smokey floods were gliding on my beach couvering my feet. In the salty mirror one hand was snatching phantoms roaming in the shivering mist. The other one was holding tenderly a small ladies' wrist making together a quivering fist. Frightened I closed my eyes looked secretly through my chinks to the revealing mirroring.

14 Signals. Let us go to the blue lagoon where the water mirrors in your eyes and the tedious sable resists our strokes. And when there shall be only two pairs of staring eyes left white doves will fly around with little letters in ther beaks with our signals of love.