I’m afraid of the divine buzz from heaven,
blowing from behind the doors,
through the cracks and under the windowsills.
God always finds an open rupture in my house.
The angels sing sharply and shrilling.
I hold my ears.
The heavenly song
is a penetrating storm
and a trembling vibration in my weak flesh.
In the mirror I see myself:
I am deformed.
With long legs and a bloated body –
I am swelling with an imaginary moon sickness.
The angels sing to me
about heavenly spheres.
They sing that I have been chosen.
I’ll see and hear things,
as others cannot see and hear.
It is a strange curse.
I wake up in a dream.
The sun is licking me.
And I’ve got an eye on the forehead
with that eye I can see God himself.
And Satan seeks for me.
His voice is a freaking whip,
and I’m a receptive flesh.
Around me are dead flowers.
A strange fire
has incinerated everything.
Satan’s drought crackles like a mighty bonfire.
“I’m going to be the new gardener”,
I say to myself.
Jesus will be the water.
God the very life,
I can dream into existence.