perfect imperfection

Perfect Imperfection

We are born and we die, and in between, we live perfectly imperfect lives. This collection of poetry explores the shallowest and the deepest realms of human emotions in the most perfectly imperfect way. Every copy of this book comes with a personalised dedication and a handwritten note. Price includes handling and shipping worldwide.


There it is, the first of my publications that will find its way to the Luxembourgish national library. Quite official. Preorder yours now. Ships on or around March 1st. (Also available on Amazon)

Golden Shovel No2

Each Saturday in February, Monty shares a prompt to create a Golden Shovel Poem from. I was a bit late for the first, only wrote something late at the last minute. But this time, I am early. Feel free to join in.

“Cocoa in pods and alligator pears”

The Tropics in New York by Claude McKay

I remember her skin, it looked and tasted like cocoa

In the shadows I hide to see her chest rise as she breathes in

She knows it well; me and her, we are like peas in their pods

I cannot be without her, but I am not allowed to near her and

Every day ends with new soul-wounds; deeper than alligator

bites. I stand still. I see her, having breakfast. Eating a pear.


As always, let’s not overthink. But this reads a bit creepy. Hopefully others wrote something a less stalker-ish.


I stood in the storm, not the storm in my head, but the storm weather systems created for us. The wind blew my hair in every direction and whipped the rain into my face. It was cold and dark and loud; a little bit scary too. I raised my arms and looked up into the skin. Something happened in this storm. Not the storm raging outside, but the one inside. It felt cleansing. And despite the headache raging on, I smiled. I couldn’t stop. I am the storm.

one day

One day, she will become quiet. She will not drop everything for a moment with him. One day, she will stop caring. One day. Maybe then he will understand what he’s lost and how much she mattered. One day.


Your naked body should only belong to those who fall in love with your naked soul.

Charlie Chaplin

I stumbled across this one today and I have to say: YES. In these modern times, this is truer than ever.

I admit…

I just write. I have no idea about styles and how this or that form is called.

I just write.

And the more I think about how much time real poets and writers invest in their writings, the more I feel like an imposter or a fraud.

I mentioned it before, everything I write is impulsive. Most poems are written in 10 minutes or way less. It’s just the way I do it.

I just write. And I write because it feels right. It feels good. It sets my mind free, I admit.

Golden Shovel No1

I completely missed this little “Golden Shovel” challenge, hosted by Monty Vern. But, better late than never. Here is my very impulsive try at last week’s prompt.

“Time says hush. By the gong of time you live.”

The Gong of Time by Carl Sandburg (Honey and Salt)

We cannot miss it this time;

The voice that says

In soft tones: hush, hush, hush!

And as the days goes by

And at the begining of the

night. We hear the gong

A sign; a reminder of

the new time.

A time to breathe; to be – You.

You are. You exist. You’ll live.


Thank you, Monty.


My soul is a bit of a can of beans and I am very happy to be home; by the way I am going to bed now.


Entirely written by hitting the middle button of the suggestions my phone made. I started with ‘my soul’ the rest is entirely my phone’s opinion. It’s hilarious though.


In 2020, I ordered this piece of art:

And now, in 2022, I ordered another piece, that one unseen. Blind. I received it yesterday in the mail.

The artist is Lee Zimmerman. Look him up, he does great things with a pen and paper.



What do you think? I think, both weirdly suit me.


Have a great weekend.