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To you, ever-changing god, I pray!
Oh, that you, the soul of passion,
The heart of music, the eye of art,
Would direct your rays to me,
That you would grace my searching thoughts
With the fleeting glance of inspiration!
Oh, Apollo, beautiful, desperate luminary,
You magnet of metaphors,
You synopsis of symbols!
How much ink have you swallowed in your long days,
How many chords have your holy ears heard?
The most wretched of us humans,
Artists, Musicians, Poets,
We sing your praises, day and night.
Can you not hear our strained voices,
Our devastated pleas?
How many hours have we not spent searching,
looking,
praying,
wishing,
hoping
For you!
Because, knowing of your inexistence,
We can't help but depend on your absence.
You are our blue flower,
Our promised land,
Our holy grail.
And we will not let you go,
Unless you bless us.

Fluid motion in old patterns, you and I.
See, I even used the polite form.
Not that you'd appreciate that.
Do I know you? Do I even want to?
Will your spell be strong enough?
Will your promise keep it's word?
Or will you wither and die?
Will you bend with the remover to remove?

What ever is it I want from you?
I want you to be my muse,
Be my inherent poetry,
Draw from me my last breath,
Pull on my last string of words,
Make my written worlds crumble and fall
And help me live out of nothing but love and red wine,
Space and poetry,
Beauty and verses.

I want you to tell me of blue flowers,
To give me a motive
And tell me to expand upon it.
Be my resistance,
Be my impediment.
I want you to make me waver,
Make me shake with the sheer power
Of poetry,
Make my skin itch with tortured sentences,
Make my imprisoned words dance,
Make my verses restless,
With the promise of freedom.
Make me
unhinged
and derailed.

One last time,
raincleaned Beijing-streets
through the windows of a bus
Blue and white.
You're th incomprehensible,
wild and untamed pulse of this city,
beating my heart
to race your rhythm.
Chinese men between street lamps,
hitting, sitting, fighting, laughing.
Your many women,
Cut ups.
Feverishly pulsing their way through you.
There is a girl,
drowning in your stream.
With freshly cut hair and wordless feelings,
she's pulled with you
and watches
and loves
even herself.

Alles Liebe,
Mer-Yan