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Jan Hauck Poems
The sun is hiding behind clouds, I did not invite her. My night ends, your day starts, But we are all tired, so tired.
This is my life among sprites and dryads, The moon is my sun and I bring death, Longing, mournful, silent death By beauty, by kisses, a fairy tale nightmare
The Art of Glorifying a Corpse
You must be happy where you are, Relieved from the imperfection, The imbalances that killed you - A different person, a different woman,
What is art other than your point of view? Your judgment, interest or boredom, I sit you down as a group of strangers, Look at this thing in front of you!
Lord of the Flies
It is summer again, always that time when Flies come inside, through windows and doors, You would think they are trapped But they are not, forced by instinct,
They look at me when I eat Raw meat. Straight protein like a cat, A carnivorous animal,
Exits and Keys
Death is no mystery, It is only a door I can slam shut. Can you promise me it will be better, On the other side, can you?
This dark space of creation, writing, This room of wonders, of examination, Vivisection, taxidermy, jars with preserved Emotions, memories, a dusty light bulb
A paranoid intensity, anxiety, the almost Unbearable need to break out, To rationalize joy like a birthday clown, And I feel, I feel and I cannot think it away,
I remember the mental hibernation, Crunching boots trying to keep up Life had to go on as usual in white, Depression interrupted by Christmas
They say God makes no mistakes, He makes no broken machines, And I believe that. But does He make spare parts?
I want to find words to describe it, To understand it and to help you understand, The feelings towards authority, the cringing, The threshold, a raised voice makes me run,
A tingling in my arms is the first signal, Run, it says, run! But I cannot run, so I implode The heat wave filling up my chest,
I try them on like shirts or shoes to see if they fit, And have my own Venice carnival, I create them for fun, sometimes, but more for protection, Those masks that people call by my name,
Comments about Jan Hauck
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
The sun is hiding behind clouds,
I did not invite her.
My night ends, your day starts,
But we are all tired, so tired.
The same sort of tired, birds know it first,
I wish you a good night, I go to sleep,
Locking the sun out,
The blanket is a better friend than busy light,
The birds do not know that.
And then my self goes traveling,
I leave you all to it,
Your toils, lawn mowing and driving,
I do not know what is more real to me or you,
Eight hours here, eight hours there,
But the sun will be gone again when I return
To my morning, the...