West Berlin 1976-1983
It was for you Berlin whistled
spiel mir das Lied vomTod,
for me it sang with Yentl’s voice.
Back then, for us both it meant
a freedom which could last a long while,
if only wound up carefully
like a clockwork orange,
though a warning came via
Alex DeLarge’s viewpoint.
We would doze off fitfully in Spandau,
the very name arousing terror,
behind us, a wall stood in silence.
Their fear lurking in coal heaps along the S-Bahn.
A bird took up residence in my bathroom last night.
The feathers dulled, it looks all but dead.
I recoil from the idea of touching it,
close the door quietly, trying to sleep.
We both turn to lie on our sides.
In the morning, it is nothing more than a muddy shoe.
Dream diary 3
I’ve been to China.
I’ve been to China and it has entered me.
Perhaps you didn’t know, but China is
a self-penning poem.
It writes in me each night in black ink
with a well-honed brush.
Yesterday, it scripted Zadura illuminating
a Chinese road with a Polish font,
today it’s Tilda Swinton, as white as snow
against a black backdrop of control limits.
They’re taking it all from me. I feel like uncle Tarabuk,
only that my manuscripts have been turned inside out.
Hard to decipher.
According to her
A pig can’t look up at the sky, it’s neck is not built for it.
Victor Pelevin, The Sacred Book of the Werewolf.
I don’t get them,
even though I apparently belong to the most intelligent of animal species.
They walk around, gazes glued to the tips of their shoes,
bumping into one another,
their lips are narrow and clenched,
their eyes dull.
Even if they do raise their heads,
they rarely look up at the skies,
and if they do, nothing but uncertain smiles are sent,
they appear like insects tossed onto their backs,
helplessly wiggling their legs.
Then they rub their sore necks
that awkwardly reach for the skies
and go back to work.
Which sometimes involves killing.