from day to idle day
reading the lines of your hands
hot air shivers, blurs sight.
i merely survive this. 
we’re living in a cycle
just enact, just enable
pictures of..
myself,
this restive city sleeping,
an angel on a bicycle (passing by),
a drugstore closing down,
the scent of fresh cut grass.
this rivulet of blood on the tip of your tongue
is misleading and my focal point is offset
i cannot follow your words anymore
it feels as if they were melting.

you’ve changed so much.
while i still feel so the same.
for you too.

the numb joy of saturday nights
sick with joy and glee
there’s constant friction
of bodies agglomerating
to beaming lights and swelling noise
their forcing stares
and them making me
look away.
i cannot feel content
and there’s this instinct to flee
slowly crawling up my spine.
i’m in panic.

look. it’s urban and fiction.
we just fight down the symptoms
from the ailment of construction.
swallow, ease, never cease fire
and never break down.
as if we’d have to keep working
in order to stay asleep.

this dogma of function
our act-out god
to always bear in mind and hand
see, this is no drama
yet this city plays itself
it almost feels as if it self-constructs,
is self-aware
everyday i pass certain places
they have changed, evolved

in a time of forecasts
insecurity is a sickness
which must be cured, they say
prognosting health and safety
through surveillance.
to all who fear and still believe:
there is no shelter
and there is no safety 
in a scrap
and what else is a city
than a scrap?

our home is convoluting
them folding landscapes to mountains
and them building houses on houses
bridges over streets
railways under towerblocks.
in front of my window
there are little girls drawing asterisks
instead of stars with chalk on the pavement
i know them, since their birth i know them.
we live in the same block.
it feels almost rural watching them
embraced by this microcosm of phantasy
i wonder, is this what we call safety?

in this anxious stillness
every blinking light
is a heartbeat.