homepage and website of the swiss writer martin frank

Kurz nach dem Mauerfall parkierte ein schwuler Ossie seinen minderjährigen Sohn bei uns für zwei Monate. Für den Sohn schrieb ich diese Geschichte.

mauer fall

Six love stories I told David Streiff in his house in Volterra while he was cooking dinner for us.

Sechs Liebesgeschichten

A long poem I wrote in Swiss German which show what could be done if the Swiss would care to read Swiss German - but they don't.

m läder maasi fater

This morning, I heard Ruben Jimenez sing first time, and now it is afternoon, and already I like all his songs, his face, his sofa and the racing bike poster above his head! What a joy it is to find a new artist, who knows to create beauty with just his voice and a guitar.

INT. kronenhalle

HEINZ in Konis bestem T-Shirt und Konis besten, längsten und weitesten kurzen Hosen, RICHI in Polo und Chinos, JUDITH in einer grünen Shantung Tunika, die mit einem roten Crèpe de Chine Schal gegegürtet ist, NORMA in einem schlichten schwarzen mordsteuren Kleid von Yohji Yamamoto, PATRICK in einem weissen Armani Seidenblazer und mit einer auffällig grossen Uhr von Lange & Söhne, werden von der WIRTIN an einen guten Tisch gesetzt. Die WIRTIN hat die Hand auf Heinz Schultern.

wirtin

chkändis xicht… du bischte boxer

Years ago I was invited at my friend David's house in Volterra. Because I was short of cash for gifts, and long of stories, I told him in exchange for his hospitality every night a gay love story, some of which later got published in Sechs Liebesgeschichten. One of the best of these stories was Sto morendo per te. The title is from a song one of the boys sings drunk at night in Catania.

It is a song I heard a sixteen year old boy sing 1970, late in a cold winter night in Lampedusa. He accompanied himself on a guitar (I thought) tuned (I thought) in an Arabian or Greek scale. The boy sounded terribly sad and the ill-tuned (I thought) guitar whined through the cold night in tune with the rough tinto we young males of Lampedusa (to whom I belonged that winter) had been drinking in the entrance hall of an old widower's cold house.

Sto morendo per te is in German, you are invited to read it.

Yesterday, my first boyfriend (in the gay sense) wrote me a letter apologizing for what he perceived as having hurt me by relating more to my homosexuality than to me as a person since we were separated and our love (and my friend) destroyed by his parents (de morti nisi nihil bene).

My friend was Italian, very Italian, very beautiful in the way only Italians (and Greeks, Albanians, Turkish) can be statuesque and alive at the same time, sexy and strangely disproportionate with big feet, hands, noses... long torso and strong thighs, dark curled hair, fair skin and almost bovine large eyes. My friend was all this and I loved the smell of his olive summer skin, the touch of his hardened feet, his voice which told what his tongue never said, and the velvet violet of his lips so kissable... Oh! If only we could go back and start all over again!