Confessions of a Wannabe Writer

380 Pigalle

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 10:37:00 +0000

380 Pigalle

Steaming like an oven-fresh tart,
lying there, waiting, legs apart,
Gitanes and absinth on your breath,
your ambassador flicks a Cancan
over teeth and lipstick glistening with lust

Your half-mast gaze on me,
lashes fanning gleaming coals;
your throaty whispers lick my ears,
your husky moans and groans
staccato, oh yeah, big boy

Sensual, lavish, rose scented:
your silhouette sashays on the curb
in stained velvet and scarlet-nailed fingers
circle the grotto of heaven's trade.

Ooh, yeah, a well learned rattle
to increase the rhythm,
harder, faster, come on,
until the masks shatter
to a last grimace

that sets us free at last
and throws us back out,
one poorer, one richer,
into the rain-splashed streets
of Paris by night

379 Wanted

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 09:40:00 +0000

379 Wanted

I want an IPhone IV drip
And full-body dialling
And press my nose for #

I want a quad-core chip
Added to my brains
With high-speed Internet

I want to have the Third World
Flushed down the Toilet
Or my bad conscience surgically removed

I want a bazooka to get rid of
Those car drivers and lazy strollers
Delete the world of real people

I want new Wi-Fi contact lenses
To cover this ugly world
With Google Street Views

I don’t want you to speak to me
Just tweet me or comment on Facebook
Or send me an email

I want an ESC-button
For those ghastly nights
When you haunt my dreams…

378 Ordinary Comeback - part 10

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 13:12:00 +0000

‘Remember the library?’ I wouldn’t let go.
‘What was it you did there, already?
Who was it you had a nice time with?’

378 Ordinary Comeback

Part 1    Part 2    Part 3    Part 4
Part 5    Part 6    Part 7    Part 8
Part 9    Part 10

(This chapter is part of my new ongoing novel "Ordinary Whore")

It must have been the last time I talked with my father. Before he died, I mean. I had just visited the flat that should become mine. The unnaturally blonde real estate chick had shown me around, chirping about the apartment’s huge potential and its square metres and the fabulous luminosity. I had almost yawned with boredom before interrupting her mid-sentence, ‘Spare me. I take it.’

Once outside, I dialled my father’s phone number while walking down the bassin de la Villette toward the métro station Jean Jaurès. ‘We have to talk,’ I said.

‘Who is it?’ my father asked.

‘Your son Marc,’ I answered. Jerk!

‘Oh.’ My father’s baffled silence lasted for only a minute. Then he pulled together, or maybe a secretary had entered his office, because he boomed with fake joviality, ‘Good to hear you, son. How do you do?’

‘Let’s meet tomorrow,’ I sidestepped his attempt to exchange civilities. ‘Two o’clock. At the Cité des Sciences, in front of La Géode.’

‘Good heavens, you want to take me to an exhibition?’ my father falsely joked.

‘You’ll see. Tomorrow at two sharp.’ I hung up.

When we met the next day, he seemed in control, like always. Two tall bodyguards followed him. The three really looked the part. My father in a non-descript, creased grey suit, inoffensive, nodding to the passers-by he believed had recognized him. His security clowns in white shirts, black designer suits bulging with muscles, expensive sunglasses on their noses. The three wore more or less neutral facial expressions; my father with some mock heartiness, his guys purely brain-dead.

‘Hi, Marc,’ father said, stretching out his right hand.

‘Hi, father,’ I answered. Then, I pulled him into a hug, taking him by surprise; he stiffened, and his men moved closer, reeking of sudden stress and Kenzo.

Father had to wave them off, ‘It’s okay. This is my son.’

I patted his back, then hugged him tightly again, feeling his bulk against my torso.

‘Now that’s a warm greeting,’ father disengaged himself very fast.

I sensed his embarrassment. ‘Don’t get false ideas,’ I murmured. ‘I just wanted to make sure you don’t have a tape recorder in your pockets. Now, send away your goons, will you?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because I don’t want our conversation to be overheard. That’s why I’ve chosen these premises, father.’ I gestured towards the huge, sparkling glass sphere in our backs. Then, I pointed to my ears; the Cabasse musical clock, I implied, would cover up what we had to say to each other.

‘Alright,’ father shrugged. ‘Wait for me in the car, boys,’ he ordered the two men. They walked off somewhat reluctantly.

My father and I looked at each other. Our slightly contorted reflections in the curved mirror panes behind us did the same.

‘Now, what is it?’ father finally asked.

‘I’ve visited a flat yesterday,’ I answered. ‘And signed a sales agreement.’

‘Good for you,’ my father said. Then, he sat down on the stone balustrade of the water basin in the middle of which the huge Géode sphere was built. ‘You get settled at last. Now, what are you going you do with your life?’ He didn’t sound interested at all; he might as well have asked me what weather I expected that summer.

‘What have you done with yours?’ I snapped back. ‘Anyway, we’re not here to discuss my career. I need money. Your money.’

He didn’t ask ‘How much.’ He didn’t ask ‘Why?’ He didn’t say ‘You must be joking.’ He simply nodded, then said, ‘No.’

That was my father. ‘No’.

No needless questions asked.

‘I think you will pay, though.’ I smiled.

‘What makes you think so?’ my father smiled back. His smiles always had that dangerous edge, as if he was a viper ready to bite.

‘Because I know certain things you might not want to be debated in public,’ I sneered. ‘Remember when I was ten, or eleven? When you took me to that château in Normandy? To see – umh, what’s his name?’

‘Alain de la Rochefont,’ my father whispered. He had imperceptibly blanched.

‘A ghastly weekend,’ I continued. ‘It was raining all the time. Of course, you didn’t spend a minute with me. You never did. And why should you? You found yourself a more pleasant pastime…’

‘Stop!’ Father had to wipe his glistening forehead.

‘Yeah, I guess that weekend didn’t turn out ghastly for all of us,’ I pretended not to hear him.

‘You’re bluffing,’ father almost groaned. ‘You can’t have…’

‘Remember the library?’ I wouldn’t let go. ‘What was it you did there, already? Who was it you had a nice time with?’

Father looked away. His voice sounded breathless, strangled. A drowning man gasping for air. ‘How much?’

>> will be continued

PRO DOMO (13): About resolutions and food

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 09:56:00 +0000

My dear sweeties,

I’m thrilled to announce my New Year’s resolutions. Well, of course, I didn’t decide them on New Year’s Eve nor on Jan. 1st. First, I don’t do New Year’s resolutions because I know perfectly well that I won’t keep them. And secondly, I’m always way too pissed all around New Year’s Eve to form even vaguely coherent thoughts, let alone make resolutions.

So, this year’s resolutions are no resolutions as such. I will (probably) not quit smoking; I somehow wanted to do it before turning 40, then simply decided against turning 40. I will not start going to church as even constant prayers will not prevent me from turning 40. I will neither get obsessed by my age nor deny it. I will remain my unwrinkled, gay and sunny fabulous self.

But I was thinking. About me, about writing, about this blog. You want me to be honest? Blogging in this space takes much of my energy and time. Moreover, inspiration has fled me lately. Oh, I’ve still got ideas aplenty, but they just don’t seem to find their way from my head into my fingers on the keyboard. It’s not writer’s block as such, it’s a certain weariness that prevents me from being what I want to be: an excellent creative writer. The only worthy texts I seem to be capable of producing at the moment: poems.

At the same time, I felt I had to try out something new. What with this blog’s relative good reputation and handsome visitor statistics, I was tempted to simply transform my “Confessions of a Wannabe Writer” into a… Foodie Blog. Talk about a major change in tone and subject! Well, finally, I’ve decided against it. It just didn’t feel right, it just didn’t seem fair to those of you who have been following my writing attempts on here. I’ve decided that this blog will remain a space for my creative writing (I mean, inspiration might come back any moment).

Yet, I still wanted to have my Food & Cooking blog. I wanted to share my passion as a hobby cook, my recipes, I wanted to write something less serious, something more light-hearted and light-headed.

And – ta-daaaa! Said Food & Cooking Blog has been launched some days ago. Me being me, i.e. me being fabulous, it’s subtitled “The Fabulous Food Blog”. And its name? Might be a teensy bit longish but I found it quite amusing: “Should we finish off the beluga or should we have some smoked salmon nibbly things?” A quote from the hilarious BBC-series Absolutely Fabulous.

Worry not. Here, I will continue to post my odd poem, my odd short story, my odd update to either my Biofictional Novel or my Entirely Fictional Novel ‘Ordinary Whore’. I’ve even started to translate the only novel I’ve finished so far, the famously multi-rejected Murder Mystery whose English title might be “Don’t Mess With Damien Drechsler”. Or something else. I’ll probably post the first episodes on here very soon. It will be up to you then to tell me if it’s as shitty as the German and French publishing houses have politely explained in their form letters, or if you actually like the story.

In the meantime, why don’t you stop by my new blog and read my first posts about Vanillekipferl (alright, that one is a recycled post from here), about “What is better than sex?” and about how to prepare a home-made Sauce Vinaigrette. Feel free to follow my new blog as well, feel free to comment, tweet, stumble or share otherwise. I guess, with all those great Foodie Blogs out there, I will need all the support I can gather.

So, I thank you in advance. Big kisses ‘n’ hugs.

377 Inventing Christmas from scratch

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 08:55:00 +0000

377 Inventing Christmas from scratch

Far from home and Mama,
with untimely spring gusts
messing up the pines’ hairy tops,
and snow but a remote dreamcloud,
we invent Christmas from scratch

Crooning on with Frank and Dean
about ye faithful and red noses,
then helping Eddy gobble down the stuffing
and Patsy getting tipsy on Bolly-Stolly
until the sun sneaks away

At last, we stuff ourselves
with Foie Gras, salmon and champagne
while the central heating crackles,
the dog whimpers in her sleep
and candles flicker sympathetically

Bright lights twinkle on the tree
as we, the red nosed faithful,
open presents – then we play away
all that remains of Christmas Eve
on Wii Sports Resort

376 I could have been a painter, don’t

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 11:22:00 +0000

The Brewer twins – aren't they just mouthwatering?

376 I could have been a painter, don’t you know? Portraits, landscapes, still lives, abstract subjects and subjectless abstractions, you name it. I happened to be quite the artist in my younger years. Loved to paint, loved to draw; with some talent, I daresay. For a child, that is. My humans always looked like exactly that: humans. I didn’t simply go “big circle, two dots, straight line, curved stroke – you’ve got a face”. I tried hard to draw real eyes, a real nose, a real mouth, real facial features.

I even hung three drawings of mine in Mister P.’s flat. A half-abstract, colourful rendering of Stravinsky’s Firebird in the bedroom. And in the living room two very personal drawings, featuring one of the Brewer twins each. Taken from an ad – was it for Gautier? Never mind. The original photo showed them back to back, eyes closed, faces emotionless, hair wet, both in striped sweatshirts. I cut the picture in two, added anger to one face, arrogance to the other.

When I left Mister P., I couldn’t take the drawings with me. There simply wasn’t enough space in my rat hole flat up in the 18th arrondissement. Mister P. sneered that he didn’t want to keep them, didn’t even want to touch them. So I picked them off the walls and threw them, frames included, into the waste-bin in a fit of cold fury.

So I knew how to draw. Duh, big deal. Does that predestine one to become an artist? I mean, a painter? Please? For a starter, talk about a no-win situation. How does a painter make a living, in today’s hypercompetitive world where the winner takes it all, the loser’s standing small? Where the ultimate gauge is how many k$ per year you make, and how many people you help loose their jobs, and how much chances you take with those high-risk shares you buy in the stock market? Where art is no longer about creativity, but about selling? Where the most important things is who you know and how you market your hypertrophied intellectual pee with ambition and some brain-wanked marketing phrases.

That’s so not for me. I’ve got no ambition. I cannot market myself.

Spanish actress Rossy de Palma:
I find her Picasso-ishly gorgeous...

Plus, it takes more than just draw faces that look real-life. I mean, Picasso! Only Rossy de Palma resembles a Picasso (and I do love her for that). Shit, anybody can draw a face that looks like a face. There’s nothing to it. But that guy had talent! That guy was a genius! A genius who knew how to sell, alright; a genius nonetheless.

Whereas, alas, I guess I’m not.

I could have been a teacher. Was even bound to become one. I didn’t start my doctorate for nothing, after having finished my Magister-degree. I wanted to teach Political Sciences. Then came the one-year-hiatus from university. I went to Paris. Worked as a German assistant teacher in one of the poshest lycées in town. And realized I wasn’t patient enough, indulging enough for that job. If only today’s kids were a bit more interested in learning History, languages, literature, poetry rather than yearning for IPad-pod-phones, Nintendos, XCubes, Facebook-Google+-msn, Tommy Hilfiger’s latest fashion and what have you not.

That’s the problem. Who can build a career with if-onlys alone?

I could have been a writer. Fiction, non-fictional stuff, whatever. But nobody wanted my writing; no, make this nobody wants my writing. Present tense. I gather my only hope is to become famous after I’m gone. A post-mortem-career that doesn’t pay any bills anywhere, for sure.

I could have been a musician. Sang in a choir when I was a little child. Even learned the violin from age eight to fourteen. ‘Piano hands you have,’ many adults told me when they saw my long fingers. Most kids of my block, though, called me Thekla, after the violin-playing spider villain from the anime television series ‘Maya the Honey Bee’.

Anyway, to become a good musician, you have to exercise each and every day. Teenagers willing to do just that are rare. I wasn’t one of them. I’d rather listen to Udo Huber’s Top Ten on Ö3 and yodel with Kim Wilde and Cyndi Lauper than play the violin. And finally gave it up, much to my parents’ distress.

Finally, I became a secretary. Something I'd never have thought of. And worse, more weird than that: I became a bilingual secretary in a catholic publishing house in Paris. I mean, working for the bigots? Let me laugh. But, well, yes, that's how things turned out in the end. I had lowered my expectations in order to fill up my bank account. Putting so much water into my wine that I didn’t taste neither alcohol nor grape juice any longer. Ended up in a good old depression. And decided to steer my destiny with my own hands again.

Thus, I became a graphic designer. Little by little, learning by doing, going through all the painful motions of trial and error.

But first of all, I found myself at home, sitting at my new, light-coloured wooden Ikea-desk, gazing at my 17”-screen, lovingly caressing my blue-and-white state-of-the-art MacIntosh G3. Doing the same tedious work I had to do before: the layout of a catholic monthly with prayers and hymns and psalms and other holy texts.

Yet I loved it. I could stay clear of Christiane and her erratic, irritating working patterns, her illogical demands. As a sign of my newly won freedom, I’d listen to Marylin Manson’s ‘Antichrist Superstar’ booming through the flat while arranging my sentences and paragraphs and pages. In my spare time, I’d try to penetrate the mystical and complicated world of photo editing and vector drawing. Biding my time. Waiting for something better to come my way.

And it was Liese who offered me the first real opportunity. It turned out an unpaid disaster, but, hey, didn’t I say trial and error? Some things you have to learn the twisted and difficult way, am I not right?

PRO DOMO (12): Merry Christmas, my darlings!

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 11:16:00 +0000

Well, that time of year is there again.

I hope you all will spend a wonderful Xmas Eve with those dear to you.

Me and sexy Santa (look at those eyes – hey, no, I said EYES!) wish you the very very bestest and merriest and swellest...

Big hugs 'n' kisses!

375 Marie-Jean du Rosaire, the CEO of

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:49:00 +0000

"… My guardian angel (or Prozac – you choose)
must have lent me courage, strength, persuasiveness,
intelligence. And the right vocabulary.
In the end, all’s a question of vocabulary, isn’t it?…'

375 Marie-Jean du Rosaire, the CEO of

To understand what's going on, you should either (re)read chapter 4 of my novel or the last episode published in this space in February 2011.

Marie-Jean du Rosaire, the CEO of the catholic publishing house I was working for. An imposing man, a natural leader. In his early fifties back then, I gather; very tall, rather bulky; his greying hair always a bit greasy and a bit too long, too carelessly cut for someone his position. Strong facial features, with a determined chin and strangely light grey eyes. His seemingly cold, emotionless stare combined with an enigmatic, unreadable smile could intimidate more than one.

He had a deep voice, slightly scuffed from constant smoking. Normally, he’d try to be soft-spoken, almost oily, as if he knew that he shouldn’t abuse of the massive silhouette and that booming bass voice of his, lest to frighten people. Everyone in the company feared to trigger off, unintentionally, one of his Homeric tantrums and fits of ire. Still, we knew that he had a high sense of justice and knew the power of little words such as ‘Thank you’, ‘Well done’ or ‘I’m sorry’.

Married since his young age and father of eleven or twelve children, he was living with his family in a château in the countryside near Paris. He was known to be a fast and reckless driver, collecting traffic infringements as if they were precious stamps. I always considered he was a womanizer; not that I ever imagined him cheating on his wife (they were, after all, vehemently devout old-school Catholics) but his eyes would warm up in a barely perceptible manner whenever a pretty woman was present. He appreciated female charms, see; he appreciated good manners and polite yet honest talking. You could call bullshit bullshit when discussing with him; he’d never be the last to use swearwords.

Well, this said, I have to confess that I wasn’t looking forward to seeing him in his office after I had more or less blackmailed my head of department, Christiane. I’d rather have preferred that she alone negotiated the whole deal of me working at home. She did, to be honest; that is, the biggest part of it. Still, Monsieur du Rosaire asked to talk it over with me. He seemed ready to accept the arrangement Christiane and I had found but wanted to hear me personally defend my proposition.

That was a tricky one. I’ve always been a lousy plotter, an awful preparer. Spontaneous action and speech are my fortes; to me, anticipating, planning, scheming don’t come naturally at all. A good plotter needs to know how to lie; or, to put it less harshly: how to disguise the truth behind an ingenious camouflage and how to proceed with diplomacy. Moreover, Monsieur du Rosaire asked of his employees to be loyal. A highly commendable attitude, alright, but one that didn’t make my mission easier. I couldn’t just sit down in his office and tell him Christiane was a walking work disaster, making her co-workers want to alternately slap her or shun her.

Some are born diplomats; I was born a frank and blunt babbler.

Thus, the day I was summoned, I entered du Rosaire’s office with understandable apprehension. ‘Sit down,’ he said and smiled his undecipherable, somehow almost menacing smile. We took place around the huge glass table in the centre of his huge, richly decorated room: all in dark green and leather and wood, with thick, springy carpeting. In one corner an oversized, antique desk with the largest computer screen I’d ever seen. To get the picture, remember that this was still pretty much the pre-flat-screen era.

Du Rosaire put his folded hands, as big as paddles, on the table and looked me in the eyes; another of his intimidating techniques. ‘So,’ he said, then unclasped his hands and lit a cigarette.

‘Do you mind me smoking?’ I asked.

‘Of course not, go ahead,’ again that smile. ‘Now, tell me exactly what it is you want.’

And I pulled it off, masterfully. I swear I did. My guardian angel (or Prozac – you choose) must have lent me courage, strength, persuasiveness, intelligence. And the right vocabulary. In the end, all’s a question of vocabulary, isn’t it?

Du Rosaire just kept nodding me on, smoking cigarette after cigarette, asking the odd question for details. To my immense surprise, he agreed with everything. Henceforth, I would work at home. The company would advance the money for computer, screen, printer, software. I was to come to the office once a week to discuss work proceedings with Christiane. I was still asked to attend the editorial staff meetings twice a year.

Basically, I was free.

Near the end of our conversation, du Rosaire suddenly squinted his eyes. A shadow of suspicion crept into his voice. ‘Now, tell me frankly: has your decision anything to do with those… uhm, rumours?’

A blank. Then, ‘What – rumours, sir?’

‘You haven’t heard them, then? There are rumours that we’ll move…’

‘Are there, now?’ I hadn’t heard anything. But then, what with my week’s sick leave, I hadn’t been there much. ‘And?’ I couldn’t help asking.

Du Rosaire laughed good-heartedly. ‘Well, I guess now I can tell you. We will indeed move. For financial reasons, our shareholders have decided that we’ll leave this nice arrondissement and move near the porte de la Chapelle in northern Paris. But hush! I’ll announce it in a few days. Until then, I trust you not to talk about it.’

‘Promised,’ I declared, dancing an internal Twist. I had jumped off the ship just in time.

Or so I surmised. Not knowing what lay ahead of me.

374 Cooldom

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 07:56:00 +0000

Cooldom

Do you remember this?
The two of us walking barefoot
on a silver beach, backs ablaze,
glimmers hopping on jaunty waves,
our own shadows cooling our feet,
our skin reeking of coconut oil and liquid sun
and grilled octopus,
our arms shiny with tiny white crystals,
fluffy reed greetings floating in the air,
a gnarled olive tree inviting us
to sit down and make sweaty love?

Because I seem to remember it this way,
even if I know we didn’t make love,
no longer under olive trees,
our story getting transparent,
the first fresh turmoils replaced by
whatevers and shrugs and a new cooldom,
and still I looked at you with
pink lenses, the pink lenses of ignorance,
and still we found things to talk about,
little buoys we’d cling to.
And I remember how inconsequential
my unhappiness felt…

373 Where does Christmas hide up, this year?

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 08:54:00 +0000

Delicious Vanillekipferl… that's how
Christmas tastes…

373 Where does Christmas hide up, this year? I’m not talking about the date; I know all about that. You can’t miss out on the fact that it’s a mere two weeks away. Decoration has been hung up in the streets some weeks ago and is blinking and sparkling me back home in the evening. On telly, it’s Christmas this, Christmas that, with smug talk show hosts sitting next to Christmas trees and talking about this winter’s It-gifts and featuring coverage about gleamy-eyed kids and fake Santas and stressed-out parents roaming the local Toys ‘R’ Us.

But it’s the spirit, the mood I cannot find. For one, temperatures have remained disappointingly mild. Last year, we’ve been wading through knee-high snow; we trudge under lukewarm drizzle this year. As we don’t go back home to my mother’s for Christmas Eve, either, we won’t do any Christmas shopping. And, well, I don’t know. It must be me. I feel unable to put myself into the genuine Jingle-Bells-mood.

Still, I remember. And sweet, nostalgic memories they are. Of the times when seasons were real seasons. When I was one of the gleamy-eyed kids. When each month would hold a quality moment, even in autumn. Take October. We used to make things with our own little hands at school, you know. Kites it was in October. We’d go out and fly them in the autumn winds blowing down from the mountains, our cheeks apple-red from the cold gusts.

In November, we’d make multicoloured paper lanterns. There was Saint Martin’s Day in early November. In the evening, wed walk through the fields, a procession of warmly wrapped up kids proudly holding their self-made lanterns, a burning candle inside. There’s this song we’d sing and which I still remember, too, ‘Ich gehe meiner Laterne, und meine Laterne mit mir. Dort oben, da leuchten die Sterne, hier unten leuchten wir…’ (‘I’m walking with my lantern, and my lantern’s walking with me. Up above, the stars are shining; and down here, it’s us who are shining.’)

Then Advent would begin. You’d have to count back four Sundays from Christmas Eve in order to know when it started. My mother would put our Advent wreath on the low living room table, a wreath made of dried fir branches and cones on which stood four red candles. Each Sunday evening, my family would gather around the wreath. We’d switch off the lights and light the candles, starting with only one on the first Advent Sunday, then two, then three, and finally all four on the last Advent Sunday. Each Sunday, we’d watch the flickering candle light, singing traditional songs and carols, playing baroque tunes on our flutes.

We’d have a foretaste of Christmas on December 6th: Saint Nicholas Day. A public holiday in Austria. Before going to bed, my sister and I and thousands of other children throughout Europe would place an empty boot in front of our bedroom door. We knew that Saint Nicholas would come during the night and fill them up with chocolate and tangerines and nuts. But only those children who had been nice and easy throughout the year would be thus rewarded. The nasty ones, we knew, would only get a rod with which the parents could punish them. Most of the time, though, we’d get both the sweet rewards and the rod, which worked as a warning; and nice we’d be as best as we could until Christmas. I still think of our excitement each time I smell tangerines.

Mid-December, my mother would start to bake the traditional Christmas cookies, too. She’d always make at least ten or eleven different types. My sister and I would sit at the kitchen table, watching her prepare the dough, waiting for some leftovers to be snatched away and rapidly eaten lest she saw us.

I know it’s up to me to bring about some Christmas mood myself. Sweet memories and nostalgia won’t help. I have to do something about my own spirit, right?

My mother has given me this family recipe last week, urging me to try it out. So, I’ve asked Seb to switch on the lights on our Christmas tree. Bing Crosby and Dean Martin and Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra are crooning away on ITunes. And I am standing in the kitchen now, preparing the traditional Vanillekipferl, swinging my hips to ‘White Christmas’ and ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. Little by little, there’s something swelling in my breast. Something that makes me want to share. This moment. And the recipe. Alright, I know that this isn’t a culinary blog. But first, it’s my space, so I publish whatever I want. And second, isn’t cooking and baking just like literature that you stir and knead?

So here we go. Be warned, this is a traditional Austrian recipe (my Granny’s, to be more precise). So if you suffer from diabetes or are on a diet, uhm, it’s hands off for you, I’m afraid.

Vanillekipferl (Granny’s Recipe)

350 g of flour
200 g of butter
100 g of sugar (granulated or powdered sugar, whatever you prefer)
1 packet of vanilla sugar
100 g of ground almonds
1 egg (well, I added a second one)
A bowl filled with powdered sugar

If you want to prepare these cookies, don’t forget to take the butter out of the fridge in time; it has to be mellow.
First, you have to knead the flour with the butter (uhm, sorry, you’ll have to do it with your hands; the whole process, by the way).
Then, you add the sugar, the vanilla sugar, the ground almonds and the egg (or the 2 eggs, like I did).
You knead until you’ve got a nice, compact dough. It should be crumply but not too much (mine was, that’s why I added the second egg, and from then on, everything went just fine).
Switch on your oven, 180-200°C.
Put baking paper on your baking sheet (you wouldn’t want the cookies to stick to your sheet, now, would you?).
Prepare your dough by rolling it between your hands until you’ve got three or four even ‘rolls’ or ‘sausages’.
Then, you cut little pieces off each roll (approx. as thick as your thumb). Roll each little piece again, then shape it into a little crescent and lay it on the baking paper.
When you’ve filled the baking sheet, put it in the oven. It takes about 10-15 minutes for the cookies to be ready (they should harden but shouldn’t get burnt).
While the cookies bake, prepare another baking sheet.
When the cookies are ready, take them out, put the new baking sheet in the oven.
While the cookies are still hot, you put them into the bowl with the powdered sugar and cover them entirely. Then, you take them out and let them cool on a plate.
When all the cookies are cold, you can store them for a month or more in a nice little box, preferably in a cool and dry place.

I hope you’ll enjoy. They do taste like my mother’s, I’m proud to say. And I hope that by sharing this recipe, I succeed in sharing my Christmas mood with you, too.

372 Late afternoon walk

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 10:35:00 +0000

Late afternoon walk

Spooky skeletons put on white winter coats.
A frosted silence sinks on twilight slopes.
The crunching carols of my steps ring out,
unheard, on twinkling hidden paths.

The river, almost solid, bubbles underneath
an icy crust encasing silver silhouettes.
My misty breathing leads the way back home,
the pale sky endless, with a timid sun, askew.

My nose fills with the smell of burning logs and coal.
And when the day slips cowardly away, I’m joined
by lines of ghosts wrapped up in cloaks and lantern light,
and bells, angelic, chime me safely through the dark.

371 Every morning, when the dog and I

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 08:52:00 +0000

Not my navel, alright. But if we want
to gaze at a navel, believe me, this one
is much yummier than mine…
just convince yourself this could
be mine...

371 Every morning, when the dog and I walk down the short lane with the pine trees, we go past that vaguely U-shaped, beige-white, one-storey villa. It has got a bathroom in the first floor. I know it because ever since the nights have started to reach out and squeeze the days to ever smaller dimensions, the villa’s owner can be seen behind a brightly lit frosted glass window. It’s a guy; at least that’s what the blurry silhouette suggests. Most mornings, he does the obvious movements of brushing his teeth; once, he has just been stepping out of the shower (or so I surmise from the fact that I could vaguely make out a naked torso being dried off with a towel); sometimes, he’s studying his face, looking for whatever you can look for in the mirror: wrinkles perhaps, or a pimple, or the tell-tale white spot on the nose where some moisturizer hasn’t been adequately rubbed in.

I do feel like a voyeur. Yet is it my fault that the dog chooses that exact spot, right across from the window, to have a pee? I don’t get the full picture anyway. I can only guess the outlines; my imagination fills in the gaps. I don’t even know how old the guy could be. Fortyish, I’d reckon; but he could well be older.

Gazing at a frosted window and trying to guess what lies behind: that's how it feels when I try to remember the painful events of my recent past. As long as I’ve been living in that not so overtly comfortable flat in the 18th arrondissement, I’ve remained too involved, psychologically and emotionally. I told you about the mix of negative feelings I went through each time I mentioned Mister P. Sadness, resentment, scorn, anger, disgust, self-pity. Indulge in any of these if you aim for unhappy living and a bad karma. As long as these emotions bubbled up in me with the mere thought of Mister P., most episodes involving him have proven hard to write. Writing felt like going through all the motions again.

But now that I’m living in this posh surrounding and in blissful comfort, go figure why, everything looks more remote to me. As if I tried to stare through a frosted glass window, struggling to guess what is what and who is who and how things felt back then. This sensation makes it easier to pick up the thread of my tale again. To continue where I stopped rather abruptly. To examine what has been going on in my life, how everything has led up to my walking out of that door in Montrouge one day with my dog on the leash, some clothes in a big bag and my laptop in my rucksack, waving a final goodbye to Mister P.

I left without waving, of course. You don’t wave a breezy goodbye to your ex-lover, who has just thrown you out on the street, do you?

Yet making up this image of myself almost waltzing out of that door shows me one thing: most of my anger is gone. The fury, infuriating in itself, has been packed into one of the cardboard boxes we used when we moved to our new flat. And has been left there. Now, it lies somewhere in the cellar, between the fish tanks and the ancient clock that doesn’t work anymore and the useless trinkets and unwanted kitchenware. And it will probably be thrown out one day together with those fish tanks, because, like them, there’s no need to keep it any longer, thank you very much.

Well, that means we’re back on our tracks. I’ll try to entertain you with the most important subject of my life: me. I’ll carry my cardboard box out into the daylight for you. I’ll brandish events, I’ll probe and stroke emotions. I'll reinvent those things I might have forgotten in the meantime. I'll embellish those episodes I don't deem beautiful, or poignant enough. I'll charm you, I'll charm me into believing every word I write down.

I’ve started all this; now I’ll finish it.

Yes, it’ll be literary omphaloskepsis again. That’s a new word I’ve learned recently. Omphaloskepsis: navel-gazing. I hope you don’t mind joining me: let's gaze at that navel of mine.

370 It feels so good to come home

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 11:36:00 +0000

370 It feels so good to come home. And it feels good to be home, too. I guess I’ve always been a stay-at-home guy anyway. Still, I remember the time when things were different. When I was happy, relieved, liberated the moment I stepped out of my flat to go to work. That would have been during the last months of my relationship with Mister P., of course. That time of my life when a hollow strain, an unbearable weight filled every hour, minute, second at home. When smoldering conflicts and withheld reproaches and ultimate truths, untold because hurtful, permeated the atmosphere of our life together. When only glass after glass of gin-tonic or vodka-orange and heavily loaded joints could hold the final downfall, my final downfall, at bay.

Then, things had changed. I had withdrawn from that unhealthy surrounding, I had left that unfair equation where Mister P. played all the numbers, and I was reduced to X: the unknown quantity. Again, I loved to come back home to that damp, tiny, crammed nest I had created with Seb over in the rat-hole of a flat I rented in the 18th arrondissement. We could hardly wiggle a toe; the kitchen corner was so small that to prepare a proper dinner felt like an achievement; my books and my administrative documents started to mold on their shelves; sometimes, the air was so thick with cigarette smoke that I could barely make out the computer screen on which we watched telly. Yet, that was home. A snuggly, cosy nest in spite of the rest.

And then, we have moved. Yessir, we have moved again, two months ago, and quite head-over-heels, if I may say so.

Remember Anne-Cécile, our baroness friend, the one I have met in Greece several years ago? Well, she has been living in a nice little flat in that posh suburb west of Paris. Sometime in May or June, she has called to tell us that she’d be leaving Paris and move to the family château in central France in order to assist her aging mother. And she has asked if we’d be interested in renting her flat, whose owner was an aunt of hers. We have contacted the old lady’s step-son, in charge of finding a new tenant, and fixed the deal in no time. Although the rent is much higher than the one I paid in Paris, after some bookkeeping and calculating, we have figured out we could afford it.

So, in early October, we have moved in. That sounds very harmless compared to the workload the whole process has turned out to be. I spare you the details. Days of filling cardboard boxes and carrying things to a car, then up four floors. The smell of fresh paint and sweat. Seb and I, standing in the middle of a mad mess, scratching our heads, dazed and unsure where to begin. Too many pieces of furniture, too many boxes, carpets, bibelots, and a freaked out dog sitting in a corner, trembling. Me thinking we’d never see the end of this. But a depressed sigh and a cigarette later, we simply started with one box, then another. We worked hard, for two days, storing away the china, the kitchenware, the clothes, the linen, the books and papers, the candleholders and paintings and statues.

And now, this is our new home. A real home, for once. Everything has found its place, more or less. There’s the massive, old, wooden chest of drawers in the entrance, where I lay my keys after having come home from work. There’s Seb’s sofa in a corner, with the low Malaysian living room table where you’ll see a Buddha head and a sitting Buddha. There’s the high, wooden Henri II, a Renaissance cabinet; and the vaisselier, the 19th-century kitchenware cabinet that holds our china, our crystal glasses and our silver cutlery. The big table where we have our breakfasts and dinners. The huge flatscreen TV. The ancient bonnetière in the bedroom: a cupboard used for storing away nigthcaps (bonnets) and linen. The two huge carpets on the floor. A big bathroom with a bathtub. The white kitchen with the washing machine. No more gruesome doing my laundry in the laundromat.

The flat has central heating. That’s a real change, believe me. Yesterday, when we came home from our weekend shopping, shaking off last drops of rain, we were welcomed by cosy warmth. And a real gratitude for modern comfort filled me up.

Later in the evening, I was standing at the open kitchen window (we don’t smoke elsewhere; the kitchen is the only smoking area) looking into the semi-darkness of the sleeping suburb. Some last yellow leaves aflame in the neighbour’s garden. Pine trees, higher than our fourth floor, swaying their evergreen branches under the drizzle. The entire forest ground of the bois de Boulogne stretching under my eyes. The posh, marble-white villas spitting out tiny fumes through their slender chimneys. It really felt good to be here. To be home.

On top of the Eiffel Tower, there’s that lighthouse beam turning slowly around at night. And while I was gazing at the fast clouds, the white beam turned them blueish-grey, then passed high above my head, then disappeared. I didn't see the tower itself, hidden behind a huge building. Just the beam. And I sighed. As long as the Eiffel Tower night-beam passes above my head, I was thinking, the acrid taste of cigarette smoke on my tongue, everything will be fine. Nothing can ever harm me again.

369 Ordinary Comeback - part 9

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 11:00:00 +0000

"… a porcelain chandelier is swinging lightly above their heads,
brightly illuminating a small circle where the silver candleholders
on the damask tablecloth reflect its white light…"

369 Ordinary Comeback
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
Part 9

(This chapter is part of my new ongoing novel "Ordinary Whore")

Three people sitting on massive, high chairs in the old-fashioned dining room, surrounded by dark wooden panelling and sideboards where the family china is stored away. Two sisters, a brother. Two prosecutors, one accused. A porcelain chandelier is swinging lightly above their heads, brightly illuminating a small circle where the silver candleholders on the damask tablecloth reflect its white light. Spring evenings tend to be rather cold and damp in these regions, so a fire is blazing in the fireplace.
‘What’s the deal?’ I refuse to show my nervousness and fill my glass, despite Raphaëlle’s warning. My question is followed by a long, heavy silence. The grandfather clocks in the nearest rooms tick-tack-tick-tacking precious life-time away. A log cracking loudly. Apart from that, it’s just three people breathing and old stone and mortar decaying with painful slowness.
Finally, Raphaëlle holds out her glass, too, without a word. I refill it, blood-red liquid running into fragile crystal. I’m looking at her but she won’t meet my eyes. She takes a sip, clears her throat. ‘Alright then,’ she states, ‘let me tell you what’s the deal.’ She fixes me with a bad, bad expression: bitter, or sour, or spiteful, or whatever – I don’t care to analyze anymore. ‘For a starter, you won’t have a penny from our father.’ She pauses dramatically, as if expecting me to protest.
‘Okay,’ I shrug. ‘I don’t want his money anyway. I haven’t been waiting for him to peg out in order to pay my bills, you know?’
‘You don’t get it,’ Raphaëlle takes another sip. ‘Nobody won’t have anything. Mom… mother is supposed to keep the house, of course. But she hasn’t worked out yet if she can afford to. As for the rest, the shares, the money, well, there is none. No rest. Zilch.’
Somehow, I’ve been half expecting a weird last-minute deception from my late father, but this? Talk about a surprise! ‘You mean he blew all his fortune? Where the fuck did it go to? Christ, he was the lolly-man of the family; he had heaps of dough!’ I really don’t understand. He had always earned more than decent salaries. And after what Jane has told me – all that surplus bribe and corruption money, where has it gone to?
‘How would you know?’ Raphaëlle snaps, nearly knocking over her glass as her upper body shoots forward. ‘You didn’t have any contact with him.’
‘You didn’t need to be father’s right hand to know he was loaded,’ I answer coolly. ‘That’s common lore.’
‘It was only lore then,’ Angélique says sadly. I turn to her but she seems to have finished what she wanted to say. Leaning back on her chair, she stays out of the chandelier’s light circle. I can’t see, let alone read her face.
‘There’s nothing? Like, “zero nil nought” nothing?’ I ask.
Raphaëlle laughs sarcastically. ‘You see?’ she turns to our sister. ‘I almost bought his nice line about not wanting father’s money. Do you believe me now?’
Angélique winces and retreats even further on her chair.
‘Hey, I do not want any money from that old creep,’ I punctuate each word by knocking my knuckles on the damask. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested in learning how all his dosh has disappeared!’
Raphaëlle gulps down the rest of her Bordeaux, then points a finger at me; I notice that it ends in a sharp-looking flashy red fingernail. ‘You should know, of all people!’ she accuses.
‘What?’
‘As if you didn’t know! He paid for your goddamn flat, after all! And God knows how you managed to make him cough up the money. Blackmail would be my best guess.’
Touché. But how does she know?
‘I think you owe us an explanation,’ Raphaëlle crosses her arms. ‘And it had better be a good one.’

>> Part 10

368 November Splinters

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 07:55:00 +0000

"… through the mist, a lonely cow…"

368 November Splinters

1

You’re gone,
you surely are,
or not?

What’s left:
a candle flickering
on a mound of earth

So tell me, why
would there be drizzle
on my face?

2

And in that hazy vision,
the train came to a stop
in a curve

And in the mist,
a lonely cow
crossed a grey field

And the cow gazed at me,
chewing the cud,
looking solid and thoughtful

And I was thinking, too,
and wondering whose thoughts
could make a difference

3

The frail silhouette
of a young man
in an unlit room,
a tight turtleneck
encasing a bony chest,
a pullover as black
as the man’s eyes
and mood
while he’s considering
dark love
that he might hide
forever

4

Things I could do without…
tedious paperwork for soulless administrations,
appointments with the doctor who might tell me,
walking through cold rainy days,
parents and their kids agglutinated in front of an infant school,
and near empty Gin bottles

367 Lab Angst

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 08:18:00 +0000

367 Lab Angst

Why do you look so scared?
Your young face shines wanly
like a mid-December morning,
flattened by neon-angst,
your red hair screaming
against the roughcast walls

But your hands don't tremble
as you plunge your thin steel
into my bloodstream,
and the samples of my life
trickle into your glass tubes

Will you detect small particles of death
mixing and soiling my hemoglobine?
Or do those toxic bits of me
remain undetectable, still held at bay
by daily combination therapy?

'You can unclench your fist',
you say at last, and it sounds sad,
and while the needle slides out of me,
you avoid my gaze, unsmiling,
then you shout 'Next!'

And I step back out into the cold,
hoping, cursing, lighting a cigarette

366 The Human Game

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 12:17:00 +0000

View over my posh suburban neighbourhood…
playing the Human Game…

366 The Human Game

We dwell in central-heated opulence,
behind red velvet curtains,
with smells of beeswax wood polish
and Jean-Paul Gaultier perfume
and roast pork à la Orloff,
leaving finger prints on the window pane,
our breath blooming and blurring the view,
but just so little

From across the street,
the pseudo-Greek white facades
of Riviera-style villas taunt us
between pine trees,
and the turquoise swimming pool,
exposed by autumn's undressing,
mocks our petty ease

We can see ourselves quite well,
sitting at that pool in August,
sipping chilled, pinkish daiquiris
and picking leisurely
a juicy, imported olive

We would do that, we would!
We wouldn't fly off to Cannes
or the Seychelles, or the Hamptons!
We would inaugurate the roof top terraces,
put them to proper use
after so long a wait

One day, we swear –
and swear we do, each day,
under our breath! –
one day, we'll live there

on the other side
of the road

365 Foxhunt

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 09 Nov 2011 15:01:00 +0000

365 Foxhunt

With fright in my pocket and holes in my socks,
I jump over ravines and dead leaves and rocks,
through menacing shadows I slip like a fox,
up and fast

The wet, rotting ground slipping under my feet
shows muddy dark puddles wherever I tread,
from hollow paths echo my steps of defeat
while I run

The egg-white of birch trees glows in the rain's sigh,
nude branches scrape over my arm and my thigh,
a buttery moon howling up in the sky,
run, rush, cry

The foes in my back send their hounds after me,
I sense their hot panting, their barks, their cruel glee,
pale, coffee black mists swirl around an old tree
like a shroud

My freedom offensive, heretic my speech,
they hate me because I'm beyond their cold reach,
they want to suck out my free thoughts, like a leech,
but they can't

I keep stumbling on in this forest of night,
hear shouting -- smell anger -- continue my flight,
I know they might catch me, still I hold on tight
to my life

And when I fall down -- too exhausted to rise --
the stench of their dogs tearing salt from my eyes --
the breath of their hatred -- their joy -- their loud cries
coming close --

I smile for my thoughts will continue to strive,
my body surrenders, yet my mind survives,
I know when I fell the dogs' teeth, sharp as knives:
I am mine…

364 Ordinary Comeback - part 8

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 12:25:00 +0000

"… I can see that chestnut tree. Autumn after autumn,
I’ve been fascinated by the change it goes through.
The leaves turning a flaming yellow,
the treetop enveloped in a fierce lion’s mane
that shakes in the October winds. And each time,
when the rains and the gusts pick off the last leaves
and send them sailing down on the dark wet pavement,
I deeply resent that loss of beauty."

364 Ordinary Comeback
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

(This chapter is part of my new ongoing novel "Ordinary Whore")

When I come back, exhausted and shivering with anger, sadness and cold, the château is still frozen in its deep winter sleep, unconscious like a fairy-tale princess in a glass coffin. My sister’s car isn’t to be seen anywhere, which makes me think sarcastically that her parish seems to have extremely complex matters to deal with. Or she’s avoiding us. At last, when I pass before Angélique’s room, I detect the sound of human presence. She and Emma must be up and awake then. I hear playful romping around and shrieks and laughter. Again, I feel left outside alone.
I take a long shower. Afterwards, I sit on my bed, naked, longing out of the window, my mind empty and numb. It hurts to know the few persons I’ve ever trusted have betrayed me so. It hurts to feel like a complete stranger to my own siblings, especially as these last weeks, my two sisters have done everything in their might to create a semblance of family life between the three of us.
From my loft in Paris, I’m remembering, I can see that chestnut tree. Autumn after autumn, I’ve been fascinated by the change it goes through. The leaves turning a flaming yellow, the treetop enveloped in a fierce lion’s mane that shakes in the October winds. And each time, when the rains and the gusts pick off the last leaves and send them sailing down on the dark wet pavement, I deeply resent that loss of beauty.
My life looks as bleak as the chestnut tree right now. All my hopes dangling precariously from my branches, waiting for an arctic wind to blow them away into final decay.
Angélique’s betrayal hurts me most. We’ve always been getting along very well. My little sister and I have been through so much together. We’ve always accepted and respected each other. We share a mighty secret, one that doesn’t only concern the two of us but Emma as well. Emma… the most precious little being in my whole life. What makes Angélique act the way she does? I don’t get it. Except genuine despair, I can’t see any valid reason. Yet, what could make her so desperate? What, or who, could force her to sell her soul?
By and by, the downpour outside ceases, the sky lights up, rays of pale sunlight pierce the clouds and make thousands of droplets in the park shimmer and glitter. I stay seated on the bed without dressing, still gazing out into the park, wishing I had never stumbled upon Raphaëlle’s email exchanges, wishing the world was another place altogether. Craving to be a chestnut tree in spring.

And then we have a very awkward dinner. I’m trembling with the barely restrained need to have everything explained to me and frustration that, in Emma’s presence, I cannot express my feelings. Raphaëlle and Angélique, oblivious and apparently best friends all of a sudden, chat about non-essentials like that darn Parish Committee Meeting and other village trivia as if nothing more important was at stake. I feel helpless, writhing on my chair, searing inside. All I want to do is yell, tear apart things, destroy. Yet I have to endure endless stories about the local bakery, the new priest from Mali, births, deaths, tales about cattle, sheep, poultry, and other stupid nothings of rural Normandy.
It gets even worse after dinner. Emma insists that we play charades. My sisters cheer their approval, so I have no choice and play along as well.
It’s astounding how good an actor I can be. Not necessarily where charades are concerned; I turn out rather clumsy, to be honest. One must concentrate in order to win. And my thoughts are completely elsewhere. Still, I show a happy face, I interact with Angélique and Raphaëlle, I sip some wine, I clap my hands when Emma finds the right word. If an uninformed spy watched us, he would take this for a perfectly normal, harmonious and charming evening.
Then, it’s time to put Emma to bed. And our masks and smiles fall suddenly when Angélique returns from upstairs. The rooms becomes chilling.
‘So,’ Raphaëlle says sternly and folds her hands in her lap. ‘Alone. At last.’
‘Some more wine anyone?’ I ask, holding on to my neutral facial expression, hoping the following moments won’t be too horrid.
‘Cut that out,’ my sister snaps. ‘We’ve got to talk. And you’d better not be too pissed before we’re finished with you.’

>> Part 9

363 Almost there

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 09:22:00 +0000

363 Almost there

Smoked salmon sky
lighting up pallid buildings,
blind windows sighing
with a sleepy peace

Leaves raining down
from quivering chestnut trees;
yellow sugar memories
floating on icy winds

Soon, there will be snow
and tangerines and beeswax candles –
still a sfumato future now,
a sotto voce chime…

362 A Halloween Nursery Rhyme

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 08:48:00 +0000

We don't really do Halloween
over here in France.
But this year, I just might give it a try...
watch out, Séb! ;-)))

Halloween this year
turns out a merry eve
with you

All I need is here:
an axe, a saw, a spoon,
and you

Kids knock on the door –
'Trick or Treat!' – I smile
at you

Face blood-smeared, eyes wild,
I offer cookies made
of you

On the table lies
your scraped out and skinned skull,
and you

gaze through empty eyes,
candles flickering
in you

361 Alice in her party dress

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 07:51:00 +0000

361 Alice in her party dress

Alice in her party dress
strides calmly down the river bank.
Her eyes cloud up with anxiety,
her face chalk-white and resolute,
smeared lipstick like a crimson scream
echoing bracelets, dripping red.
The weeping willows sadly hum
a lullaby while naked feet
carry her heavy emptiness…
A siren wailing in her skull,
a siren she calls Craving.

Alice in her party dress
chooses to yield. She understands
her tears won't dry with Radiohead,
Marylin Manson cannot yell
her anger anymore, nor can
celebrities act out her dreams.
Against her will, things suddenly
started to grow: her breasts at first;
then body hair; emotions next;
minutes, and nightmares, in the end.
The demons she has struggled with,
murky and tortured animals,
sat on her chest night after night.

Alice in her party dress
lays back her head on river waves,
her long hair floating like a swan,
red streamlets drifting from her wrists…
The river's force tugs at her clothes,
the bottom deep and black and sweet.
Her life, that daily sigh which lasts
eternities, swims off at last.

Alice in her party dress,
swept down a river without name,
dragged deep into a water womb,
Alice lifts up and disappears
into the
painless
whiteness…

360 Another vision

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 06:55:00 +0000

360 Another vision

The world as seen
from under the brim
of my umbrella
is mostly feet,
criss-cross, in haste,
bespattered slacks
and muddy tights,
loafers, sneakers, heels
on black-washed sidewalks;

small black pools,
distorted lights and
evening dimness
swimming in them;

in the gutter,
raindrops burst,
creating circles,
foamy gurgling streams;

at the edge, the cars
swish-swash by;

city life in
balanced fragments,
rain-blurred, zigzagged,
wet and cold.

359 Autumn morning cigarette

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 11:41:00 +0000

An open window, a lighter flaring…
Morning freshness stings the fingers
while a sparrow nearby shivers
off last drops of sleepiness.

A hesitating, pale moon lingers,
witnessing the day's slow rise,
the faraway a blurry pink,
a bloody smear on high, dark blue.

Early joggers puff white clouds,
bodies shielded in steam,
feet rustling on sidewalks paved
with leaves, a withering colour patchwork.

Two ravens sit and mope and shudder
on shiny cables thin like hair.
Cigarette smoke and coffee smell
fade into autumn decadence.

358 Gnossienne

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 13 Oct 2011 08:00:00 +0000

Sweet lover, rest on your pillow of trust,
breath flavoured with sleep and safe dreams.
I sit here and watch over you,
my naked skin wearing the night like a light coat.

Satie piano tunes drip in the dark,
pentatonic pearls of knowing and melancholy,
cautious tears dropping down from the moon's eyes.

The sleepless city, rippling away outside,
glows up into the clouded sky.
Broad pine-trees sway in the gardens below;
their tops dancing merrily with the dark.

I feel grounded, complete, my senses at peace.
My lips pray a silent thank you to
whoever, whatever…