GOD 31.5.2019, Berlin
GOD.
They say my body’s an illusion –
but then who are you?
GOD.
If I’m part and you’re whole
why didn’t you make my eyes bigger?
What have you got to hide?
GOD.
They say you want to experience yourself through us –
that’s why we’re alive
that’s why we’re put in this awkward position between life and death,
feeling we’re eternal, thinking we’re out of time
GOD –
what’s in it for you?
If you’re almighty – couldn’t you have built a mirror for your reflection instead?
Did it really need to be us, floating dust, suffering from question to decision,
broken fragments of trust, blown inside your nostrils.
GOD.
When you sneeze, world wars begin.
GOD.
I don’t want your love to end, I want it to begin.
GOD.
Sometimes I wonder if you’re alright –
GOD –
out of the two of us is it me or you who writes?
Who tries? Who fights? Who pretends to be nice?
GOD.
You create me a snake, expecting me to walk.
Cut off my tongue, expecting me to talk.
Suffocating my hunger with a cushion, expecting me to listen.
Pretend that I’m a woman with attributes like German, or anxious, or intolerant to bicycles on pavements.
Someone who digs you in form of Krishna,
who thinks you’re the worst heart breaker in this world.
GOD – please grow up!
GOD.
We both know I’m thinking of you, ‘cause no one else is filling this space.
GOD.
Next time we meet, I’ll wear lipstick, you’ll take me to a bar with a jukebox,
I’ll dance and shake hips,
and take charge for some time, direct my own play for some time,
‘cause
GOD.
I know you mean well
but your sense for aesthetics makes me
question my ethics
and since I still think that time exists,
I’ve got none left for staying ugly.
Sarah Helena was born and raised in the sylvan countryside right in the middle of Germany where once the Brothers Grimm got inspired to write Little Red Riding Hood. She understands life as a fairy tale. After spending her childhood and teenage years using the same four guitar chords for every song she wrote, she finally succumbed to her laziness of perfecting her musical skills. Instead she sat down at an old typewriter in her old room in London, where she escaped to after school, to let a stream of strange words flow out. She realised, the person that lived inside her had a few things to say, so she continued writing and eventually read her work out loud at open mics in Paris, where she later lived of cheese, wine and poetry and worked as a waitress which all felt quite bohemian. She now resides in Berlin continuing to write, albeit with pen and paper since the ribbons of her lovely old typewriter went dry and the thought of ordering those on Ebay makes her anxious. Sarah likes 60s rock’n’roll, sandalwood incense and the thought of a free Tibet. She dislikes pollen, people who walk slowly in cities and the Chinese Communist Party.
PARIS POETRY 