Montag, 5. März 2018

Drei Fotos von meiner Lesung aus PSEUDO am 27.2.2018 im Hanging Garden bei Go und Kim. Vielen Dank an den Fotografen Axel Schön von Schön FOTOGRAFIE aus der Muhliusstraße Kiel.  

Mittwoch, 28. Februar 2018

Kurzes Video von meiner Lesung aus PSEUDO am 27.2.2018 im Hanging Garden, Kiel. 


Dienstag, 27. Februar 2018

Nicht vergessen:
Heute Lesung aus 
PSEUDO ab 21.30 Uhr
im Hanging Garden.

Donnerstag, 15. Februar 2018

May I proudly announce:

Die nächste Lesung aus 
PSEUDO ist fix: 
Dienstag, 27.2.2018 
ab 21.30 Uhr
Hanging Garden

Kiel, Waitzstraße 91

1-Tritt frei!

Donnerstag, 18. Januar 2018

Die nächste PSEUDO-Lesung

Die nächste PSEUDO-Lesung findet am Mittwoch, den 24.1.2018, ab 
20 Uhr in der "Galerie Seepferdchen" 
in der Alten Mu statt. 

Montag, 8. Januar 2018

Excerpt: PSEUDO, Chapter "Chaostage" English version

1983: Federal Youth Games in Hanover

Except for the window cracks, light could only be seen on stage. The bands changed quickly. Either we were too drunk or the next band was a skinhead band as well. Maybe it even was Beton Combo again? Once more we speculated whether it could be SS Ultrabrutal. Anyway, the band did not announce their name, which increased the chaos here even more. Meanwhile the Korn Street was reducing our energy. After we were here in the beginning with four blokes from Kiel, our little group split up step by step. Ringo went to interview other punks, Hecker got fresh beer and Gerd jolted with punks and skins. There was swinging, amazement and staggering and there was pogoing.
Suddenly it happened, the black-out. This was probably due to the lack of oxygen in the Korn. Suddenly I was maximum pissed, I did not check anything, absolutely nothing, wanted to pee and did not find the toilets.
What followed now was a nightmare sequence. I met my three friends only several hours later at the central railway station again. I have only shadowy memories about what should happen until then. Anyway, I was just going down the stairs when I realized that there was a street battle on the Korn Street of unprecedented proportions. That came like a shock. I had not even seen anything like that before on TV. It was one of the most blatant moments in my young life. The stay at the Korn gave me the impression that it was already dark outside, but it was bright daylight so that it even blinded me. I squinted my eyes and was very confused, because the main exit of the Korn to the street was right in the center of the street battle. To the right of the entrance was the huge police force, on the left the punks were in charge. At first I ran a few meters to the right, disoriented, until I noticed that objects were thrown towards the cops from the left. It clashed, it crashed, it was yelled. I held my arms protectively over my head like running a gauntlet or in a rockfall in the mountains. Farther to the right, the bottles hit, probably stones as well. It clanked. Only now did I recognize the police squadron, armed with helmets, shields and truncheons, backing away.
I thought, "No way!"
I realized that coming out of the Korn I had inevitably gotten between the fronts and walked back in a half-bent over posture. In my half-shredded leather jacket, I still held my hands protectively over my head like a God-fearing man. Finally, I reached the side of the punks. The throwing movements made me first associate the Federal Youth Games. I was still terrified, I still saw objects flying over my head. A die-hard punk in leather with long pinned-up black hair maliciously attacked me: "You coward!"
In my panic, I did not respond, ran a few meters further into the retreat, gradually gave up my ducked posture and felt like a hunted animal. My cheeks burned through my inner heat. Now I put my arms down again and walked briskly and upright to the end of the street, which was overcrowded with punks. My legs felt like rubber. Many sat on the floor and seemed disinterested in what was happening in the other half of the street. The punks were clearly in the majority. The shock that die hard punk with the black hair had given me was still in my bones. He sounded familiar to me, as if it were the punk called Rotzig or another of the die-hard punks from Kiel that were long-lost in Berlin. Now I would have liked to pick up a bottle myself in order to throw it towards the cops. But I managed to control myself. Besides, my bladder was full of urine, and I was afraid that a shit of fear could slip out. Chaotic conditions prevailed throughout the Korn Street. The punks and the few skins here formed no groups, they acted more like footballers before the penalty shootout, that were partly standing, partly sitting and exhausted, but highly concentrated refreshing themselves with drinks for the final act.

I walked a few feet, was disoriented, oriented myself, stopped, looked around, saw faces, saw eyes, saw mohawks. I remembered that I originally wanted to pee. How could I forget that?