from the fantastic patterns of dreams to the surrealistic behaving of reality

written in Dinglish (that's Germanic English)

Nürnberg, Mittelfranken, 2005-06-10 - 3:03 a.m.

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Bad Poetry Declaration

my writing in this diary doesn't mean to be poetry or lyrical. My english is too bad for that. I can express myself in english & I hope quite understandable. I use this as a valve for my emotions to communicate, to tell what I see, what I think, to tell memories, to just tell & or make fun of curiousities of daily life, to reflect, to point sometimes at things that are wrong in our world, tell my mind, but not the very secret parts - depends on the mood I'm in - my english maybe sometimes sounds funny - but I don't care - if Americans talk German it also sounds funny to me & I don't care.

If you do poetry then it's a piece of art - like a sculpteur you need fine chissels & have to know to use them well & have a clear vision of your goal. In doing poetry - words, idioms & language use are the tools you have to rule your word art expression perfectly well, to weave word & idioms by your vision to the pointed fragments of poetry you had in mind - each word in it's right position - afterwards you can oversee it & use your chissel of words - removing, changing & adding words to their final position - till you think - it's a fine piece of art work & exactly what you wanted to express. - In most cases (including mine) you could do that only in your native language, if you're expearienced & virtuous enough to use your words well. In English I am very unsure, whether my words are set well, feel clumsy & sometimes I have to use my dictionary & sometimes I'm quite unsure whether my sentence structure is correct, just awkwardly stumble my way along through english word sequences & patterns that flow through my mind & sometimes some of the words have another meaning, I imagine them to have.

So my entrys are not poetry, nor even try to pretend it - even in German I lost my sense for the fine words of poetry I once had in my youth & till I was about 26 - then cruel, sober life destroyed piece by piece my lyrical sense. Poetry is nourished by dreams, imaginations, a magic of the perfect theme - disillusion makes you doubt & you begin to mistrust any of your set words - Charles Baudelaire, who's poems, like Opium got since I was 24 in my mind, once wrote: "be always drunk, either by wine or by poetry" - Oscar Wilde wrote about, to make your life a piece of art & set the art-ificial life above the real - I think after 'jail in Reading' he had lost his, these illusions -

no - I don't have a lyrical mind anymore (my life later on wasn't lyrical enough), but I still have a true sense for it - you don't have to be a musician to listen to wonderful music & you don't have to be a painter, to be able to recognize eloquent art pictures!


I just tell, what's in my mind & come to the point & attack the lies & fakes in our world by the sting of the unicorn.

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