Tag Archive: Berlin

After Club Reminiscing

If I wore dreadlocks, I would be in for ya know…
A dirty finger dance. But Babsi does! Shit!
Out in the Caribbean and moneyless.
Of course we’re not really in the Caribbean.
It’s just good old yellow-fogged Berlin. Hail Jamaica!

I have no clue why my white brethren are that lame.
Ignacio invites Babsi and me to his place. It is
A noble residence in the Kantstrasse.
It is an apartment on the second floor. Altbau.
I’m confused, jealous. “Ig?” – he turns around
I need to look into his eyes. “I know what you want, Serge:
Yeah, I have it all up there!” He thinks, I’m not able to love
A woman. Fucked be his smack! “Babsi, you won’t?!” I whisper.

I’m back on the streets, riding muscular horses, bought
Blue Sunglasses. While I’m watching a Japanese family
Hushing by ( to Schloss Charlottenburg?), a dread-locked
Flashback hits me. I calculate my losses:
“Do we ever really lose what we love?” I ask
The human catastrophe sitting next to me.


After You’ve Gone


Police showed me the photos:
a swollen head on
the blood-soiled pillow,
the tongue leaving a gray
smudge on it,
limbs distorted
in rigor mortis.

Your beautiful, but now fish-like
eyes gaze into the heart
of another galaxy.

You write, that you
want me to go on.
Thank you for the pain!

I cleaned your last domicile,
then sat down on your bed.
I had told you
about that girl in Berlin,
sending herself to eternal
sleep with 80 pills of X.

Una nox dormienda!
How to live now?

I   To  inhumate your scent

I have to leave to puke, and
then I can’t stop breathing in
the scent you left on the linen.

Your body had disappeared,
warm landscape of desire:

They tell me, they
filled up an urn with your ashes
and buried it in wet mud.

I cannot close my eyes because
your scent numbs me;
I cannot stay awake,
because nothing can numb
this throbbing  agony of loss.

II  Golden Brown

Golden brown: amber on the beach at dawn,
your hair in late spring,
the fluid I inject into my vein, whiskey ,
the color of my lover’s eyes, which,
when she comes, explodes
in streaks of yellow and red and
turns into a soothing greenish-brown,
when her eruptions boil down and I hold her.

The light was golden brown on that August
afternoon when I first visited your grave nestled
against a slender birch, that swayed like a young giraffe
in an upcoming  summer tempest.

I stared at the wrong date of death engraved
in your tombstone, had to grin because
you would have, too. Mom never got it right.
And you never knew it, but she loved you.

It’s become hard to handle everyday  affairs,
the golden brown keeps me going, mom
swallows pills.

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