blue skies in Berlin
blue skies in Berlin
Part I
The lesser wish…
a moderation,
in a small, quiet shop
a quiet dream
the glasses half empty
a lone star.
How I wish upon a starthe dark of the night
an eerie blue,
the shadows soft
like velvet
curtains;
wrap around me, and us all
The fuselage of this Boeing A307
on its way
to its destination,
where all the passenger
disperse, never meeting again
after spending many time zones
together
sharing this canister
holding our lives.
. . .
Wrapped into onesuicide.
In anticipation of the grief to come
we hung around
by the riverbed
a creek
listening to the water trickling
gently and carefree
like we were
when we were kids, hanging
out. Now we look
over the body of water.
On the other side
there are many
ghosts
of old friends, past relationships,
memories – forgotten, now unlocked
and restored
to you former glory,
we drink.
To health and happiness,
we drink.
And the endless games
summer nights
and early mornings
to sleep without any dreams
and count the stars from our backyard
those gems glazing across us above our heads.
in the pink and purple shadows,
glossing
like cosmic graffiti
heaven’s effortless hand
a veteran
of this craft.
And count, one at a time
as we slowly drink
then remember
and reminisce
good days, and trials overcome
forgetting everything else…
each evening fades
always
like a candle burning out.
Finding no one
around the corner
at the end
behind the light
on the rendezvous
and on time
early
remaining 15 minutes
then the phonecall
a dead line
the 30 minutes to an hour
and days.
And yet, no.
Under every stone,
searching
on every page,
between the lines and the words
writing in the notebook
continuing the search
nobody.
How the city is dead
trains empty
everything starting over.
…
2014
Part II
Then I arrive at my destination
some rundown flat in Berlin
of a friend
I lie down stare
blankly
at the blankness of the crème
-coloured ceiling, the weathered
paint fading ever so before my eyes.
The notebook
fills with words as if
(sitting with a good friend telling him the same old story)
by magic. The cigarette
rolled
ready to go
Herr Ben, looking sharp
drinking tea
the hangover cutting deep scars
upon his face
we go for a swim
the water’s fresh
the pool full of families
of migrants and retirees (and 2 gorgeous Norwegians)
my face stands out here
(always does, somehow)
a tourist
origin unknown
even to me
the world a travelling circus
red flags prop up, then folded
off to the next site
I’m just a spectator
meeting with my dear friends
in the carny.
as they head their nomadic lives
evermore across the deserted plains
off to places people only
talk about
but never visit;
Mythic locations transgressing
the reality
the desert of the real.
(Beauty is always has
always been transcendental
so it should
come to no surprise
that the world when
boiled down to its foundations
is but a speck of dust
in the cosmos
of no worth or value;
beauty is an effect
not a description,
but the result from
an act of will,
Willenskraft
the destination of a sharp
determined mind, spirits
in the search of a home)
Then we come back
I gaze at the paint some more
Him, waiting for a phonecall
I’m waiting for something else,
something else.
Sitting here idly,
not idly,
in fixiated anticipation of
something.
And instead nothing
passes over
no thing, jut empty-headed
hours and countless cigarettes
badly rolled by my clumsy fingers
the Cold Air getting me
finally, and not enough blankets
not enough firewood or cups
of tea,
nothing keeps the temperature out.
Anger
alone relieves me
but it’s only short-term
it always burns fast
and dissolves in an instant
like the flame of a match-head
the orange glow
beautiful but deadly
and if only one does not touch
it with their skin.
Fire, and my frustration
always burns leaving scars
to whatever it touches
my anger, not mine
the world’s, thrusted upon me
expressed through me
and it all winds down into a spiral
when at last a typhoon
is born. No towns,
no cities left standing
after I
lose control, lose patience
lose the will to fight
on the plains of my soul
and let the devil win
lose the energy
lose reason, meaning
even an excuse
not to give in.
And my heart is still dying
still aching, still beating
still pumping blood, still yearning
still burning.
They stand still on the balcony
those two lovers
just eyes open
dead stares into the deathly desert
of the Grey City.
First we take Manhattan…
Forevermore
our bodies will be sites
of disaster, anarchy
of alcoholism
of drugs, mind-altering
emaciating
of sorrow
of pity
even after the fog clears
we’ll still be here
you and me
like two lost birds
standing on a telephone wire
the line hanging
across, interstellar
and I write that best-seller
signing blank pages
fans cuing for hours
smile, smiling faces
This Name being spoken
after numerous ages
the stones weather and turn to sand
our ghosts drifting across the land
you and me
holding hands, gleaming
unaffected by space or time
hanging on the line;
the beatification of the mime.
Like the leaning tower,
we too, too stubborn
refuse to fall over
sinking
yes we do, but
not completely…
thinking, again I drift
indulge in the depths
of furious contemplation.
. . .
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