German jazz: B & W

B & W
Standing there in the cold,
Way too old for this role playing bit.
I’d rather do a real-life skit.
I take out my puppets,
Gloves in the compartment –
My jacket pockets.
Play out a scene
From the master of modern tragedy.
Social emotions flying back and forth,
Saliva would have been my crack.

They enjoy my performance
And laugh,
And roll around in their graves.
They await my next move,
Knowing what’s going to happen.
Some serious dialogue
With anecdotes about flying coats,
Dying hats,
And subliminal communism.

This is a theatre jism of the highest worth,
But my stage leaves me cursed.
A cemetery filled with pompousness
And millions worth of gold.
In front of me
Two rectangles and boulders.
Two graves of much older souls.
Not nastily fancy like the temple across,
Tomb of a wealthy man,
Now and then casting a shadow over them.
They who knew all along.
You is who I’m referring to,
And the place where you so humbly rest,
Mrs. Weigel & Mr. Brecht.
Please allow my respects.


Intercontinental intermezzo: LOCALLY UNDER LINDEN

Locally under linden
Rothko, Rothko,
How do you touch me so deeply,
So briefly, or at least,
With so little?
How do you draw me
To a world so free from care,
Free from the position
To share my judgment with neighbors,
With figures around me?
You pull me in,
Leave me alone at the same time.
You make me understand
How evil must have felt about you
For a second, or two.
I fall back into reality
Confused, diffused,
Unattached from the world
I thought I knew.
I see fields of dark blue and orange,
But uncertainly so.
I examine your strokes
That I keenly let go.
I look for figures or reason
But fail miserably,
And my heart beats louder and louder.
The crowd around me
Fades more and more,
As their gasping a superficial sound.
The temporary location
Of merely one of your marvelous examples,
Perfectly timed
Under the white bass wood of Berlin –
A perfectly belated sin.
And I thought I didn’t care for history.
But here I am, and so is your No. 18.


German jazz: THE CLAP HUNT

The clap hunt
In this city you wrote
A poem denoting your fears
Reflecting the tears you let
Over being a man.
Kaspar your name, if I may
Be so frank –
Pol Patt when you were pink.
And like me, I think,
Addressing yourself in safe surroundings.
The sounds of your writing
Moved me to tears,
And now they are
Here, making this page as unreadable
As Kafka’s first draft
Of his letter to his old man.
Your rhythm is
Quite clear, but your questions far greater
And many lengths more dear.
Precedent of many thinkers
From plenty other cities and eras.
Negligent of Third Reich liking,
Or at least endangering
To the insecure little brats.
Indeed, self-reflection was
Like a vice to how those
Medieval rat bastards do.

[“Zis painting depicts
My fear as I
Torture zis shit Jew, here.”]

No, none of that
For ol’ Goebbels and Hitler,
Iconoclasts of the highest class
Out to mash your stash of poetic
Trash – confessional,
Metrosexual romantic crap.

German expressionism, may I add?

We thank you, Klabund,
For your questions,
Rejections from human life.
We thank you for degenerating
The generates to death.
Do us part, Alfred,
Take us away one more time.
My face lights
Up, my brain warms up
When you rhyme…

Praguian poe: I’M SORRY, PRAHA

I’m sorry, Praha

Tower bells
Towering just above
The snow white snow.
Prague depicted
Like a picture show.
Picturesque it glows
With pastel colored
And bronze statues
Black as coal.
Maria rubbed to gold.
Across the bridge
The wind lies down
In Kafka town –
Ironically the only place
To pee freely.
West of the river,
Shivering, unzipped,
Eclipsed, bedazzled,
And stripped.
Hot wine turned to
Yellow snow.
Urine section,
Let ‘er rip!
Let go in this city –
This wondrous
Chitty-bang chitty,
If the Republic
Dark and gritty.
Beware, Chitty,
Of the storm underway.
Be ready for some heavy beating.
Be prepared,
But believe in better days.
Only hope will teach you,
Strengthen you to cope with
The inevitable evil approaching.
The withdrawal effect
Of capital dope.
Please have faith
In your indestructible beauty,
No matter how many poets
And politicians piss on you.
I’m sorry…

Praguian poe: @ THE CAFÉ LOUVRE.CZ

@ the café

Here I am, Kafka,
At your disposal.
Now what may be
Your indecent proposal?
Let it not have anything
To do with bohemian beauty
Next to me.
Not up for that challenge,
Gladly bound to Dutch love.
And love the last matter
On your mind, if I am right.
Still, their presence gifted
From above…

Back to business,
You and I –
My fellow mad man,
What have you got planned tonight?
I will run by your homes
Where my admiration was born.
But what do I do now,
In this place you adorned?
Cappuccino & cabbage,
Your voice crisp & clear,
Resounding in the smoky salon,
This café you held dear.
Is this what you think of
When I ask you for your thoughts?
I should have known, of course,
How cabbage gets you lost.
Caramelized and well,
Like a true immortalized self.
I dwell in your spirit
In spite of this moment.
And then I lose myself in the end.
Please read the note I left you:


Should you return here
Before you change into a pest
Write me back, please,
Leave a note.
I would love to hear from you.
Your true self.
A feeling arises
You wished the same for your
Philosophers & professors
Decorated this place.
And you paved the way for
Insects with fantasy.
Ants will be
my readers…

– From a dear friend, IG Karfield”

Viennan verse: MADDER DANCE

Madder dance
The epiphany
Of insanity,
The mark of genius
As a human characteristic.
Bourgeois overthrown
By his music,
Autistic and faint,
Sophisticated and great.
Something to dance to
It ain’t…For some.
Something to do with
The classics –
Something like canvas or paint
In a world full
Of paintings and pain.
Just something to dance to.

This crazy bastard
Absorbed life from the sane,
Put it in perspective,
With angles, triangles
And sinful,
Sonar Saints for
The faint of heart.
Part of me is thinking
This is a ship of the shams.
A charter sinking
Like rock stars jamming,
Slamming, blowing stamina
Until the morning
Blows their cover –
And a re-up never comes.
Part of me is thinking
Mozart is as narcissistic
As your first lover.
Part of me is wrong.

Oh, come, and let
Me hear ye songs,
Ye crazy old bat
With ye hair did on.
Sing me to life
A little princess,
One with petite tits,
Scarlett lips,
And a t-shirt on
That says:
‘Mozart rocks,
But the Don sucks.’

One more note
Of neurologically funny
Money and copper,
Gold harps, violins within,
Inexistent choppers,
And the end is
About to begin.
Again, this next of kin –
If cankerous minds king –
This prodigal son
Marks the beginning
Of a new time:
The époque of crazy
Civilized forever.
The piano concerto
Just may be the jazz
To our bodily
Human as we are.

The Don


Walked through Burggarten to see Mozart’s monument, after failing to find a café where he would have visited – it doesn’t exist. “Café Mozart” or “Mozart Café” across the Albertina surely isn’t it.

Plus, I didn’t have four seventy (coffee with milk) on me.

Finally, I found his picturesque and statutory ass, shining from underneath the cover of snow in nearly the same color. I told him I would be back with a Wiener melange and a vanilla-flavored cigar from afar.

And so I was.

Like all the coffee with milk in Vienna, this one was unbearably tepid. Indeed you are better off getting a glühwein or orange punch if your goal is to gear up and warm up your coldest of sides.

Funny enough, I never needed to warm up at any given Viennan moment – as if the snow was in fact like a blanket, or my near-Dutch heart just felt right at home, no matter how little fat covering it.

No, I just needed my daily dose of caffeine. Besides, I had a date with Wolfgang, and he loves the smell of burning beans and vanilla in the morning, or so I imagine.

A secret that must be shared so I don’t look like some statue-loving fetish freak, is that Mozart is actually buried right there in the Burggarten; not in the cocky Zentralfriedhof, but not in the common people’s St. Marxer Friedhof either.

So, in order to discuss the thing I needed to discuss with this genius slash fellow ‘humad’ man, at the Burggarten is where I needed to be. Got out my transistor radio, put it on 1487 Hz, lit my Stimmung and enjoyed the composer’s company and thoughts for several ball-freezing hours.

(He was truly amused when I told him I had fallen fast asleep standing upside down during Don Giovanni. Indeed, he is convinced it was his least enticing opera ever made. Indeed, while the temperature belonged to my heart, my balls did what they did despite of it.)

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