Author: Dr. Stephan Pflaum

EN: It’s DaDa. Don’t search for (non-)sense, cause it’s senseless. Just enjoy the colors and the short story dada mind trip to break your Alltag. The larger figure carried the smaller one not on his shoulders but in the space where thoughts turn into neck muscles. “You are my conscience,” said the front figure. “I am your mischief,” corrected the smaller one, adjusting itself among the diagonal stripes that refused to run parallel. Pink touched… read more – weiterlesen Der unangenehme (?) Schalk im Nacken / The Uncomfortable (?) Rascal in the Nape

EN: It’s DaDa. Don’t search for (non-)sense, cause it’s senseless. Just enjoy the colors and the short story dada mind trip to break your Alltag. The face had been thinking so hard that it relocated itself by accident. Yellow thought it was a forehead, but purple corrected: “You are actually a cheekbone from last Thursday.” The colors had been laid down in the wrong order—green before turquoise, orange after coral—and now no one could remember… read more – weiterlesen Die Überlegung und Verlegung / The Reflection and the Relocation

EN: It’s DaDa. Don’t search for (non-)sense, cause it’s senseless. Just enjoy the colors and the short story dada mind trip to break your Alltag. The figure wore seventeen temperatures at once, layered like arguments.Behind her, the world had broken into rectangles and forgotten to apologize.Each color was a different month she’d carried from somewhere else.Purple said: “I am a sweater that remembers being a question.”The body became a stack of decisions, rounded at the… read more – weiterlesen In Winter People Have Much On and With Them / Im Winter haben die Menschen viel an und bei sich

EN: It’s DaDa. Don’t search for (non-)sense, cause it’s senseless. Just enjoy the colors and the short story dada mind trip to break your Alltag. Magenta swallowed Tuesday whole and spat it as a ring.The ellipses multiplied like rumors, each one narrower than truth.Orange claimed it was the center but green laughed from three dimensions over.Someone painted stripes inside the gravity, vertical against the spin.The circles forgot how to stop so they learned rotation as… read more – weiterlesen The Circles Forgot How to Stop / Die Kreise vergaßen, wie man aufhört

The Glass Had Opinions About Its Contents The Glass had been holding Sekt for three hours when it finally admitted the truth: champagne was a stupid drink. Not bad, not unpleasant—stupid. Lacking the intelligence of water, the honesty of coffee, the philosophical depth of red wine that understood its own darkness. “What makes a drink stupid?” asked the Sommelier, who’d been called to investigate why the glass was vibrating with chromatic disagreement. “It celebrates nothing,”… read more – weiterlesen Sekt ist eigentlich ein blödes Getränk / Champagne Is Actually a Stupid Drink

The Person woke on Tuesday and couldn’t remember which pieces were essential. Every memory, every habit, every opinion had separated into small colored fragments—turquoise certainties, pink hesitations, coral enthusiasms, purple regrets—all drifting through the space where a coherent self used to be. “Can you describe yourself?” asked the Identity Specialist who’d been called to assess the situation. “I’m approximately three hundred colors moving in vaguely coordinated patterns,” said the Person. “Some pieces still remember being… read more – weiterlesen The Person Became Weather

Poem: Revolution by Rotation The Sun King woke and decided to spin— not rule, not reign, just rotate until his body became opinion instead of flesh. Each pirouette released a different color: red authority, green doubt, yellow decree, magenta uncertainty about the divine right of anything. By noon he was geometry, not monarch. By evening he was movement, not position. His courtiers watched him fragment into chromatic democracy, each piece claiming equal right to the… read more – weiterlesen Der Sonnenkönig tanzt sich kunterbunt / The Sun King Dances Himself Colorfully

Poem: Vows in Magenta The Nun took her vows in black and white, but her prayers came out in magenta diagonals. Every genuflection released lime green curves. Each rosary bead turned cyan, then yellow, then doubt. The colors claimed they were her true calling— not silence, not stillness, but chromatic confession. “You were never meant to disappear,” they whispered. “You were meant to argue with yourself in public.” Her habit unraveled into geometric disagreement. Her… read more – weiterlesen Die bunte Nonne / The Colorful Nun

Poem: Emergence Protocol The moth woke in seventeen directions at once, each wing a different opinion about flight. Magenta insisted on rising, orange on diving, lime green suggested diagonal as a compromise. The black lines—her sketch, her memory of being drawn— scratched through every certainty, reminding her she was once just an idea that forgot to stay two-dimensional. She opened wings that were also arguments, flew in colors that refused to blend, left a trail… read more – weiterlesen Die bunte Motte erwacht / The Colorful Moth Awakens

Poem: The Empty Convention The bottles gathered for their annual meeting, each one claiming to have once held something important. Purple swore it contained wine that turned to philosophy. Magenta insisted on perfume that became memory. Blue remembered water that forgot to stay liquid. But the tallest bottle—turquoise and certain— admitted it had never held anything at all. “I was born empty,” it confessed. “My spirit left before I was filled.” The others fell silent,… read more – weiterlesen Die Flasche ohne Geist / The Bottle Without Spirit