Biography of Jan Hauck
Jan Hauck Poems
The sun is hiding behind clouds, I did not invite her. My night ends, your day starts, But we are all tired, so tired.
When absence of clear thought is like a curse, The mind preoccupied with just itself, I spread myself across the empty earth.
A grey, cold morning, one of many, so familiar, And I think about walking away, Just for a while, into the snow, this dreaded snow, So deceiving in its purity, so white and clean,
This is my life among sprites and dryads, The moon is my sun and I bring death, Longing, mournful, silent death By beauty, by kisses, a fairy tale nightmare
I force you out, I push in pain, Sweating, screaming, the agony Of joy, I look forward to you But I am afraid I might not like you.
A part, a piece, well loved and nurtured, Hidden away, denied, not missed And yet no completion, conclusion, without. Why do you come back?
What is art other than your point of view? Your judgment, interest or boredom, I sit you down as a group of strangers, Look at this thing in front of you!
Lord Of The Flies
It is summer again, always that time when Flies come inside, through windows and doors, You would think they are trapped But they are not, forced by instinct,
They look at me when I eat Raw meat. Straight protein like a cat, A carnivorous animal,
Exits And Keys
Death is no mystery, It is only a door I can slam shut. Can you promise me it will be better, On the other side, can you?
This dark space of creation, writing, This room of wonders, of examination, Vivisection, taxidermy, jars with preserved Emotions, memories, a dusty light bulb
A paranoid intensity, anxiety, the almost Unbearable need to break out, To rationalize joy like a birthday clown, And I feel, I feel and I cannot think it away,
I remember the mental hibernation, Crunching boots trying to keep up Life had to go on as usual in white, Depression interrupted by Christmas
They say God makes no mistakes, He makes no broken machines, And I believe that. But does He make spare parts?
I try them on like shirts or shoes to see if they fit,
And have my own Venice carnival,
I create them for fun, sometimes, but more for protection,
Those masks that people call by my name,
Personality that wears off with every rain
And crumbles under the heat of the sun.
The public decay of an acting corpse.
Who would you like to see today, my audience,