Soap & Skin
Lovetune for Vacuum

Here she comes, our little sad girl.
Here she is with her tousled hair.
With her bruised face. Her eyes like pitch.

Here comes the piano. Stern, elegant. Always present.
And then music boxes. With brains and broken hearts replacing the dancer.
The little voice, tender like a child's. Becoming a woman. And shouting. And freeing itself.
Whirling spirals of synthesized sounds. Chemically altered. Unripe.
The fingers glide over the keyboard. They strike. Down they go.
At least ten centimeters. Into the air, and then down.
Insistent and nagging melodies. You fall in love with them.
That pass through the dollhouse. That pass by the cemetery. Through the flower fields.
And it’s always dark. The light is white, sickly.
There were many demons to disturb her.
Now they are defeated.
One last round of electronics.
And Anja is free again. She wanders among the rubble. Rebuilds houses and little houses.
Little rooms.
And what beautiful packaging, damn it.
A cardboard box set. With a photo of her. That looks drawn. Rough cardboard.
A plastic case inside. Transparent, reflective.
The disc is yellow-orange. The label.
Underneath it’s all black. Have you ever seen a black disc.
The colors blend.
Chaos and calm.
Scream loud, vomit out the gases, the poisons, the toxins.
Let the strings play. The keyboards again.
Black herons and white doves fly. Streaked with blood.
Rip away the skin. You are naked now. Completely. Without a hair out of place.
She was here with us yesterday.
After Ferrara, playing Nico. A life along the borderline.
Then Milan. Canceled date: may God strike you down.
When will you return, little Anja? When?
For we already have the ripe peaches.
The good wine.
The tender meat. The sharp blades.