Tag Archives: poetry

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…


Just my monastery
In Rome I’m reminded of
Your sheet, how it skips a beat
As I wander through your lonely heart.
Your last home reminds us of
The needlessly neat
Death you wanted to do apart.
Horror came to taunt you,
Climbing up and down those stairs;
There you must have crumbled
Under circumstances hard to bear.
What’s heard in there is all despair,
I sat down next to you to talk.
We mashed together centuries,
Ended in piece, and on we walked.
We mashed together eras like
There was no tomorrow for you and me,
As we sat there, in your stairway,
Before I had to leave. 

John, your chaos theory
Leaves me weary. Order
You taught me to give up,
In order to adore adorned little hick-ups.
Stick-up kids in the middle of a rhyme,
Chasing after your paper,
iPhone, condoms, and dimes.
Mashed potatoes on a plate full of fries –
That’s two kinds of tater,
With a gravy surprise.
But all this mashing,
This mixing what shouldn’t be mixed,
This going against the current of mist,
Is leaving me tired, expired, and whipped.
And sometimes I need to aspire
A whiff of words that will get people higher.
Not just confused or annoyed,
Flabbergasted and acid,
But moved and grooved,
Somewhat intrigued and inspired.
If I may, I will tell them
About this talk we had together.
The weather outside,
The songs we shared.
Songs of tuberculosis,
The breastplate of Moses,
And the seven candlesticks
John saw in heaven.

Eleven more levels of Maslow’s steps,
And my spirit, you say, will disperse.
And to know that if I am an angel, at best,
To my body will happen the worst.
I assure you, however, I am no such thing,
That my blue hair is misleading.
Still, you ask me to be ever so careful,
And put down the books that I’m reading.
They were of songs about you…

And on we walked.

Roman rhyme: CALLING MIKE

Calling Mike
Dark and twisted
Like your past.
Chrystal clear,
Yet some secrets within.
Your visual rhythm
Pounds the drums of my ears.
Homage to the master
Of universal mind.
Right there,
On the edge of darkness.
Divine light cutting
Right through our
Shortened little brains.
And there you pave
The way for modernistic
Adorers of the future.
Squint your eyes
Back and forth,
Abstract me some figures. 

Meticulous detail
Painstakingly placed
On the walls of God.
Your venture as ironic
As Job’s return
To Heaven.
What will happen
If the Gods learn
Of your devious ways,
Your devilish hist’ry?
What will they do
To undo your blasphemous
Ass from itself?

They will glorify you.

Call for Caravaggio!
A wave of fools and
Drooling lunatics
About to wash over you,
White wigs in place.
Tight faces, clinched cheeks.
Your enemy is weak,
They are diplomats,
You see.
And me and my neighbors
Their humble servants.

“We is come to deny you.
We is come to ignore you.
We is come to destroy you.
We is come here before you.
We is come…

[We is backwards…]”

And soon follow more
And more bodies,
Rolling down the hill
To fill the frame with
Lame layers of skin
Instead of gold paint
Coloring the corners
Of our imagination.
And your vision
Is out of sight.

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