EXCHANGING WITH GOD

If I could,
I'd trade places with God.
Not to escape—
to be heard.

Wear my body
like a coat
that reeks of fear.
Stumble
over memories
that no longer have a home.

Sleep
in rooms where walls whisper,
where the bed
always stays cold on one side.

Love
without echo,
speak to backs.

Pray
without answer,
sing
to emptiness.

Walk in my shoes—
just too tight,
torn at the places
where longing wears thin.

Say:
"We matter,"
and watch
how the world
shrugs its shoulders.

Cry
where no one looks,
break
without sound.

And only then,
when you too
can find no words,
will you feel
how silence
speaks louder than who you are.

Hichem Touati

The Dark Lord Poet

@dark_lord_poet

AFTER THE FUCKING GLOW

Berlin, Saturday night—
tourists sweating
like supermarket meat,
music loud enough
to swallow thought.

Sina sprawls across from me,
whiskey-sour grin,
mouth sharp
as broken glass:
“Only God can cancel me,”
he laughs; embers of words
spark against my chest.

I shoulder through bodies
into the stall
where truth comes bare.
Skirt down, I tug gently
at the cotton bullet
blooming dark red—
proof my body
is still a church,
a sanctuary
spilling iron prayers.

Six relics rest
neatly in black plastic,
secret artifacts
the world forbids—
evidence hidden
yet fiercely kept.

At Sina’s flat
paintings scream from ceilings,
madness streaked
in crusted ultramarine:
HELP,
I HATE MY FRIENDS.
I tape my truth
behind his canvas,
seal it forever
in the camera’s
white flash.

Thank God
for madness,
assholes,
and bruised childhoods—
for wounds
that bleed art,
vivid, iron-rich,
unsilenced.

Miley whispers broken promises
through cracked speakers,
easy love
I'll never trust.

A tram screeches outside.
I slam the door,
wake Schöneweide,
step into cold darkness,
rain-boot wet,
bleeding
beneath indifferent stars.

My phone pulses—
“Are you okay?”

And smiling
into the night,
raw, red,
and beautifully alive,
I answer—
Fuck yes.

NERHÖRT / LEIPZIG

Concrete splits beneath the dancers,
bass reverberates in urban lungs;
posters blister into manifestos,
graffiti exhales rebellion—
a half‑spoken truth.

Fists blaze at Conne Island,
ink still wet, chants selective:
“Nie wieder” dims to silence,
names scratched off bathroom walls,
voices drowned in reverb—
Wer schweigt, stimmt zu.

Palestine drifts through cigarette haze,
history compressed into slogans,
danced but never sung;
it will resurface at dawn.

Outside IfZ nuance is ground
under boots.
A kiss erases doubt—
“You think too much.”

Someone must.

Leipzig whispers Goethe,
brands itself Klein Paris,
erects barricades of paradox,
flyer by flyer, beat by beat—
Kein Zurück.

I searched for clarity in strobelight,
found contradictions luminous:
cracked bricks whispered doubt,
posters paled by dawn,
bassline ebbing in my chest,
diesel clinging as the first tram passes.

At sunrise Leipzig asks, raw, unfiltered:

Bauen wir Mauern oder Brücken?

Even contradictions dance—
and dawn reveals everything.

No turning back.

Silence
means consent.