Tag Archives: literature

Praguian poe: @ THE CAFÉ LOUVRE.CZ


@ the café Louvre.cz

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:

“Franzsikuszi,

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
Predecessors.
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”

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French rhyme: NO BEGINNING

No beginning
The traveler’s tree is
A bookstore I’ve seen.
Been wanting to meet
With Hemingway and his team.
His words should be here founded,
The cobblestones tell me.
Seller of trees hasn’t
The faintest idea.
Raindrops wipe footsteps clean
And earnest.
His words should be here founded,
No doubt in my mind;
Even the blind can see
The magic of culture,
Hiding between real life
And the next.
Too bad they can’t share their
Vision on facebook.
A canvas, sure,
But a blog would be better…

The age makes for the fantasy –
Hemingway’s right there.
His hair much shorter,
Much more acne,
Yet the signs cannot be missed.
This must be the great man’s tavern,
Although surrounded by ten more:
Place de la Contrescarpe
Home to talking boulders.
The pen I’m using for this record,
This futile seeming account,
Does as it pleases, leaving me
A liar homeward bound.
It won’t be coming out tonight,
That record-breaking piece,
L’oeuvre poétique that will
Savor what we seek.
…And Hemingway is gone…

An intoxicated fool cries:

Art, art, art,
Your genius resounds –
An artist’s heart pounds
In the streets.
Wee-ooh, wee-ooh…
But when those sonic waves
Will wade and fade under
Diplomatic pressure,
Not laissez-faire but
Ransacking,
Disrespectful leisure,
There’ll be no-one left to meet.
Beards will we beards,
And wine will be weird,
As history repeats itself
And the artist genius flees.


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