No Skeletons In the Black Basement (no. 3)

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The cultural poison sticks, clings like candyfloss,
persistent, razor-sharp, like lacquer on wood, counting the loss.
“Black doesn’t suit everyone,” Im der Zeller said with a frown,
but I don’t care, sweetie, we are burning their town!
Wooden benches, gymnastics horses from the old village school,
sawed down, covered with leather... my sanctuary, my rule!
The place where I could sit without becoming a better person on display,
where the ropes and the tension take their diagnostic boxes away!
Gone against rationalization, traditions, unconsciously inherited greed,
I don’t want a trimmed lawn, I am the habit-breaker they need!

Yellow bucket under the sink. Birthday cake. One fly. Still burning. Nobody made a wish.
Freezer light. On. Off.
I counted floor tiles. One. Two. Three. Don’t look. Four. Five. Smile.
The shop bell rang. She froze. Then switched on, like nothing was wrong.
Customer asked the price. She gave him the beautiful smile. I got the air.
A receipt on the counter said: NO REFUNDS.
I turned it over. There was my name, printed twice.
Once as customer... once as merchandise.

I’ve moved from solution to problem because I ask questions out loud,
because I don’t accept the given, won’t settle for their crowd!
They talk about "forgiveness" – that’s modern among the privileged class.
I laughed out loud! Forgiveness? It triggers my gag reflex, alas!
Gag... gag... gag reflex
Wrap. Cross. Lock. Pressure. Breath. ...Release.

analog pads and layered, screaming trumpet harmonies)

YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR DAMAGED ADULTS!
YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR BROKEN ADULTS!
YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR IMMATURE HEARTS!
No matter how quiet you are—it still falls apart!
TO SIT, TO BE, TO BREATHE! Breathe if necessary!
The closet door is open, but the black basement belongs to me!

But they know only the words, they completely forget the meaning.
These lukewarm worms, holding on to their polished picture frame leaning.
Coat on a chair. Nobody wearing it. Still looks guilty.
Photograph facing the wall. I turned it around. Everybody smiled. I turned it back. Better.
The refrigerator hummed: You are fine. You are fine. You are — next.
I stood there watching what no one sees.
I wasn’t the problem... I was the memory!
I am a civilized homeless person with a mattress topper in the car,
and my raw, unvarnished reality laughs at your museum from afar!

Don’t open that door. ... Too late.

THE CLOSET IS EMPTY! THE CLOSET IS FULL! THE SHOP IS A FAMILY!
THE FAMILY IS A TOTAL MUSEUM! PLEASE KEEP YOUR RECEIPT!
THE RECEIPT HAS TEETH!
What stayed behind—never stayed!

I own no more than the present moment. No more cups. No more stories.
Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there.
Not because I understand. Because I don't. And that—is the whole fucking point.
SUCHNESS. Not freedom. Not bondage. Not sex. Not trauma.
Just this body. This rope. This breath. This moment.

YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR DAMAGED ADULTS!
YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR BROKEN ADULTS!
BEING DECENT—THAT'S THE MEANING! Everything else is noise!
I won’t dance with the black crows, I will hold on to my heart!
The joke is our hunger to turn everything into a story!

The shop bell rang. She smiled. I breathed.
The freezer hummed. The cake kept burning. Nobody made a wish.
The mason is gone. The carpenter has logged off.
I wasn’t the problem. I was the memory.
Three worms on the terrace... still dancing.
NO REFUNDS.
NO skeletons.

3910/7500

My love – my sorrow – my life. The terrace above the basement window. The basement — black as night. I asked for it. Threesome on the terrace, like worms dancing! It wasn’t clunky. Nor was the basement black... until I painted it. The mason, the carpenter, staring: “Why black?” I didn’t answer. Their outrage? Ignored. Closet door shaking in the middle of the night. The past got claws... and it’s ready for a fight. The cultural poison sticks, clings like candyfloss, persistent, razor-sharp, like lacquer on wood, counting the loss. “Black doesn’t suit everyone,” Im der Zeller said with a frown, but I don’t care, sweetie, we are burning their town! Wooden benches, gymnastics horses from the old village school, sawed down, covered with leather... my sanctuary, my rule! The place where I could sit without becoming a better person on display, where the ropes and the tension take their diagnostic boxes away! Gone against rationalization, traditions, unconsciously inherited greed, I don’t want a trimmed lawn, I am the habit-breaker they need! Yellow bucket under the sink. Birthday cake. One fly. Still burning. Nobody made a wish. Freezer light. On. Off. I counted floor tiles. One. Two. Three. Don’t look. Four. Five. Smile. The shop bell rang. She froze. Then switched on, like nothing was wrong. Customer asked the price. She gave him the beautiful smile. I got the air. A receipt on the counter said: NO REFUNDS. I turned it over. There was my name, printed twice. Once as customer... once as merchandise. I’ve moved from solution to problem because I ask questions out loud, because I don’t accept the given, won’t settle for their crowd! They talk about "forgiveness" – that’s modern among the privileged class. I laughed out loud! Forgiveness? It triggers my gag reflex, alas! Gag... gag... gag reflex Wrap. Cross. Lock. Pressure. Breath. ...Release. analog pads and layered, screaming trumpet harmonies) YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR DAMAGED ADULTS! YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR BROKEN ADULTS! YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR IMMATURE HEARTS! No matter how quiet you are—it still falls apart! TO SIT, TO BE, TO BREATHE! Breathe if necessary! The closet door is open, but the black basement belongs to me! But they know only the words, they completely forget the meaning. These lukewarm worms, holding on to their polished picture frame leaning. Coat on a chair. Nobody wearing it. Still looks guilty. Photograph facing the wall. I turned it around. Everybody smiled. I turned it back. Better. The refrigerator hummed: You are fine. You are fine. You are — next. I stood there watching what no one sees. I wasn’t the problem... I was the memory! I am a civilized homeless person with a mattress topper in the car, and my raw, unvarnished reality laughs at your museum from afar! Don’t open that door. ... Too late. THE CLOSET IS EMPTY! THE CLOSET IS FULL! THE SHOP IS A FAMILY! THE FAMILY IS A TOTAL MUSEUM! PLEASE KEEP YOUR RECEIPT! THE RECEIPT HAS TEETH! What stayed behind—never stayed! I own no more than the present moment. No more cups. No more stories. Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there. Not because I understand. Because I don't. And that—is the whole fucking point. SUCHNESS. Not freedom. Not bondage. Not sex. Not trauma. Just this body. This rope. This breath. This moment. YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR DAMAGED ADULTS! YOU CAN’T BE A GOOD CHILD FOR BROKEN ADULTS! BEING DECENT—THAT'S THE MEANING! Everything else is noise! I won’t dance with the black crows, I will hold on to my heart! The joke is our hunger to turn everything into a story! The shop bell rang. She smiled. I breathed. The freezer hummed. The cake kept burning. Nobody made a wish. The mason is gone. The carpenter has logged off. I wasn’t the problem. I was the memory. Three worms on the terrace... still dancing. NO REFUNDS. NO skeletons.

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