All the Fun at Tumblr.

Turns out, keeping this blog updated didn't happen. For the time being, I feel more comforable blogging at clarityandchaos.tumblr.com. My poetry still is at christophschumacher.blogspot.com - there even is a new one!
See you around.

My Poetry Has Moved! And More Changes

For quite some time now, it bugged me that my poetry site (this one) and my pop culture/politics/etc blog used the same title: Clarity & Chaos and clarity + chaos, respectively.

Since my band Union Hills finally called it quits on Saturday and I now want to embark on adventures on my own, writing and - some time in the not so far future, hopefully - producing music to my texts, I decided to change this situation by - for the first time ever - publishing under my 'real name.' I know! Just like a real author! So may I proudly present: christophschumacher.blogspot.com!

But this doesn't mean the death of this blog! I'm also not satisfied with the mix of longer, more original writing on feminism, pop culture and politics on my tumblr. So that content is moving back here! And the tumblr will be the site for links, findings, pretty pictures etc.

Confusing! I know! But fun! I promise!

Crisis at Starbucks

Hand in hand they
lost each other
between sips of foam
and swirls of caramel.

When they met, they
had to choose between
food and Foucault.

They'd both been
unhappy in happy relationships and
happy in unhappy relationships.

They joined forces,
became allies.
Countless days
 and even more nights,
afternoon walks and
midnight fights.
Distributed clothes and utensils
in their cabins
until they found a home. 

A home.

But between quiche forms and
high thread count bed sheets
they stopped talking.
Osmosis replaced communication.

So they went where
modern campaigns started.
To end it. To talk.

They took a final sip,
licked foam
off their lips,
opened their mouths
and -

"I'm claiming the right to be unhappy."

They smiled. And it all came back.

One Bench.

One old couple
holding hands
on the park bench where
you kissed me for the first time
- carefully -
not spilling a drop
of the coffee I bought.

Chinese hipsters pass by
the old couple
sneers together
like they've done
for years
and will for
one more.

Too.

The
too slow walk of the
too young man -

too alone with his
too long beard framing his
too old face, his
too battered coat and
too worn out shoes, pulling a
too small cart
too full with
too many bags with
too few bottles -

reminds me that I -

too

- could be that man.

Just Like This.

On a night
     just like this
In a place
     just like this
Nothing special
     happened
And it was just
     fine.

The Man on the Corner

"The wind is the worst"
he nodded
barely holding on.

"but I'm used to the cold."
Snot freezes in his beard.

No one buys newspapers anymore.

Not For You

This song is not for you.
This beat is not for you.
This beer is not for you.
This laugh is not for you.
This dance is not for you.
This drink is not for you.
This street is not for you.
This house is not for you.
This kitchen is not for you.
These friends are not for you.
This room is not for you.
This bed is not for you.
This body is not for you.
- waking up your smile meets hers and you know:
This night was all about you.