on the rare occasion that it does happen,
bad news, i was already fired up
to get on with the work,
of painting the corridor,
    when i was informed that
the boazeria (wood panneling)
had a lakier / lacquer finish...
at first i thought that i was
******* at the person giving me
solid advice...
    i stormed out of the house
thinking of the impossible,
yet what dragged me into reflection
of the possibility of: the abyss
of so many lives interchanging
social cordiality hiding beneath
a depth of life: worth more as solid
bricks, than as would be novels...
dare i: suckle at thost most mundane,
and do so, without any
responsibility to burden my
       already freelance devoid matter
of fact, as if: there was no
duty, no inheritence tax on
say, the english speaking world
effort of the memory of 1066...
       well... 1410 is quiet another date...
when the northern crusaders
were vanquished when a nation
of newly converted Christians were
wed to a nation of polyphonic pagans
of ancient Lithuania at the core,
extending: from the Baltic,
                              to the Black Sea...
sad almost, yet blinding nonetheless,
to be bound to the accummulating
eyes...
               hunched, sitting at the tease
of the river before the high tower
of the setting sun, before the altar
of žalias and mother May...
           of course no heroism...
saison: added the zest of bitter
orange, based using French yeast...
had i not peeled off the etykietkę,
the label, i wouldn't be writing this...
thankfully some passing stranger
noticed me, asked me for a light,
thanked me (he too towed
several beers to his abode)
    and without a lost in translation,
lit.: hold on / trzymaj się...
   ty też / you too... came my reply;
had Sisyphus been giving the task -
or told as little...
    anger arose from an immovable
object, yet the day was retained,
in the smallest of fathomable
vanity projects, thinking, or spare
morality, vagabond ethics, Democritus'
dogs and other howling
in crematory urns, graves,
and within spying crow beaks
perched in pretending sleep martyrdom
statuettes...
           are we to **** a poem
for worth of rhyme?
     or suddenly, the uncontained
gong, and rattling chains, crisp to
the 20th bellowing frost-bitten echo:
as replica, of a chattering chess game,
king a tier above the pawn,
pawn the numerous analogue,
a queen, a bishop, a rook,
                   a knight... and a long lost
******...
        but by nighttime the concern
for lacquered wood panneling was gone...
anticipating a full moon
that the calendar later refined as:
till Monday....
       ah... not only in Germany such
beer is drank...
           sure enough ***** comes at pure
night, czysta noc,
        but prior to cliché sword dance with
sweet, come sour, come the barking dog...
perpetual autumn with accents of spring,
till that orb and Atlas and Louis XIV ego
market assurance of a tomorrow:
   HEFEWEIZEN...
         hefe-weiß-bier...
   meddlesome murk and twice worth
the romance associated with the fabbled
smog of London...
     and just today...
   it started in Naples:
        schatten, **** and a fondness for
scalding frost:
              but before the ladies started
investing in botox,
    and elsewhere apart from the lips,
before came lips like
early flower buds teasing a comparison
to Violeta, and the violoncello...
          vigour and violence...
    sophia loren and nature playing
with dice...
       sack of pears each side,
cider on the left, poached with cream
on the other fused with cinnamon
and cloves...
       and a pair of lips,
    like poststamps and sealed envelopes...
before nature was robbed of
throwing dice...
           gambling and sieving and
all manner of alchemical fabric...
whether chicken prior
   to the egg or vice versa...
   the lips of sophia loren
came prior to the genenric:
   industrialisation of a plagiarised
beauty...
                bad expriment,
or simply bored...
                   stash of doodled ideas
and sketches -
   sie ist ein modell und sie sieht gut leer,
    genießergelage auf bandwürmer
    und champagne flöteglass sträusels
             on gestrig erbrechen...
   pardon mein schwabian,
     tiz noot too güt...
    ol Fritz didn't teach me well,
but I happen to notice...
   Italy, albeit fascist, enjoyed
a colourful revival under
the watchful eye of holywood...
a Roman holiday...
       huh... no wonder I'm teasing
roboboy and thinking:
surely the only complimentary
exponent of the third *****,
to compliment my reading of Heidegger,
must be a more, public, figure...
    ah... the biography of
Leni Reifenstalh is waiting...
once i finish the ****** affair of
a historical novel, and a lost tourist
who was supposed to have summoned
a quest for inspiration at Marienburg...
if we're looking for artefacts
from the third *****...
   who better stand as antonym of
Heidegger, if not Reifenstalh?        
as are we all, tourists of history...
    it could have been a fascination
with the Weimar Rep.,
                      or the Polish Peoples' Rep.,
but...
     history seems rather,
congested... and that hardly mentions
Jacob Ripplestone...
                          a fascination
as concise as it is consistent with:
in the days when journalist are thieves
of time, and kings, their marionettes:
part etiquete poodles,
      part lunatic patrons,
             part honing devices for
small town tourists...
                      and to think: the night
as yet, so young.