"deutschland" poems
Jumped from a plane,
napped on a train,
sort of in pain,
hope there's some gain.
Motorcycle jumped,
feeling quite pumped,
that stump I bumped,
ascertain, minor sprain.
Drunk in Deutschland,
sang with an old man,
couldn't pay, so i ran,
my fortitude I feign.
Back in America,
so much to tell ya
but can't stay too long.
Complacency. My bane.
Oct 31, 2010
Oct 31, 2010 at 8:44 PM UTC
/ beelzebub
*(given employs the spider a posteriori
and spiderweb a priori, and then back
into a bicemeral reverse psyche-analogy -
the id est contra the id erat -
but there is no latin revival -
given that the latin encoding has been
translated into a.i. algorithms...
forget putting the pandora
into a box into a box into a box,
into an etc. or what is a russian
cultural artefact... forget it...
a black fly would not take upon
itself to make a dustbin, a *******
maggoty brothel, like a green bottle fly
might... black flies have character,
style...
they're the ones that take
to tango, with spider architecture,
akin to the theological spider analogy
about an ad infinitum a priori argument)*:
a bit like watching
a black fly - "washing" itself -
rubbing it's front limbs
together, "attempting"
to start a fire...
god, those awful
green bottle hypers -
with maggot excesses -
in a potential well
expressed into practice -
black flies?
i can entertain them -
like i might entertain spiders
that do not require aquariums -
the non-exotica types...
so i sometimes find myself
rubbing my hands together,
like a catholic amounting
to an altruistic prayer symbolism...
so kommen faust,
so kommen faust,
so ist pseudo-faust -
or rather:
england?
deutschland jr.
america?
deutschland sr.
and if that wasn't the case?
oh me, little old slavic
babuшka...
i still can't explain rubbing
my hands together,
like a black fly might...
keeping standards of where
to take a maggoty dump's
worth of procreation value...
black flies?
compared to the others?
the priests of the whole
spectrum...
i sometimes wish they were
red,
so i could call them: the cardinals...
alas...
not to be, god said otherwise...
but i can fathom the priesthood,
like i can fathom -
an aspiration of a sleeping
samurai, devoid of the zodiac
delusion,
encouraged to make
chiromancy initiatives
(readings) to alleviate,
******** monotheism.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 11:02 AM UTC
the soldier knelt to fix his cap,
dug deep into trenches, he stopped.
amidst the shots, he reached for the map
if not in his pocket, it’s lost.
“it seems like we’ve been here for years”
the man beside him squawked.
*“an hour seems like many days,
because we’ve gotten so lost.”*
unsure of quite how to respond,
the soldier raised his brow
but as he was about to speak,
the man who’d spoken went down.
the soldier raised his head to see the great alsace-lorraine.
the war had raged for far too long, and so he contrived an escape.
he planned to sneak across the flank,
advance the trench on his own
but as he stood to make his break, his heart
sank quite gut-wrenchingly low.
he thought to himself in a humble tone,
“i can’t do this alone.”
although his intentions were clearly courageous,
his weakness truly had shown.
as lady luck would have her way,
the days kept withering by
as the soldier so fervent to capture this land
tried not to keep track of the time.
they advanced to the east, but to their dismay
the french would push them right back
and until a day they’d find a way,
the men had no way to attack.
a fateful storm rolled in one day,
a blanket of snow o’er the field
and the mood of both great war machines,
had slowly came to a yield.
the soldier, so tired of the weight of the war
climbed out, with a fire in his eye.
he raised his rifle high in the air
and cried “Deutschland über alles”
the soldier then fell onto his knees,
and raised his hands to the the sky
not seconds passed before the scream
as snow and french bullets did fly.
the soldier was struck right through his lung
and grasped his chest to breathe
but all could see his head was hung
as the soldier collapsed from his knees.
there was no escape, he said to himself
as the snow slowly blurred into light
and he passed away on the holy ground
and they never did win that fight.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
Mein Gott! Can't you see,
in the Teutonic light,
What we proudly Sieg Heil
with the torches all gleaming?
The ******** beckons,
through the perilous fight,
Great Deutschland awakens,
not sleeping or dreaming!
On the huge TV screens,
the footballers are seen,
Foul proof through the night
Brave Germany's dream.
O please make that Hakenkreuz banner come first!
We're the land of Sauerkraut, brave home of the Wurst.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 7:20 AM UTC
A poem for my beloved grandmother, Omi
A beautiful heart brought across on the gliders,
Forced away by Red pride, the awful black spiders.
She cried cross oceans in Grandpa’s camo embrace,
Safely gone from the 30’s, and end to the chase,
*“Zese mountains vere safe, Deutschland re-pborn.
Ve vere ‘ere vhen this town bekan, Cyril.”*
Omi’s voice pauses, marred by our Western smog,
Christmas we sit at her feet and her eyes again fog.
This story we hear, we’ve heard, but it is not cheap,
Our roots are revealed and we cringe as Omi weeps,
*“I vont drive, no and I can not vote,
Pbut this landt is safe, Cyril ve are free!”*
As her amber eyes ripple, it’s now time, we know,
This country she loves, yet it’s pain the more so.
The airs tightens thickly as we wait the remark,
The blame she gives freely makes this land so dark,
*“Bobby diedt and Monica followedt.
Cyril, I bpuried my childt and ‘ushband here”*
It wasn’t the Cancer or Smoke in their lungs,
This country she blames and it’s pitch-forked tongues.
So we hug to apologize for ‘ol Uncle Sam,
Not ****** but Freedom she says poisons this land.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
A Dancing fever
spreads across
Deutschland from
ancient Roman City
Aachen
to far away
Madagascar where
proto-people
live, waking to morning
whooping calls
and fading habitat.
We can still find
preserved Lemurs
in Duke hospitals
and open zoo
for robust ring-tailed,
or dark cells
for the nocturnals.
Would they dance
too with us, in mass
hysteria,
irrational exuberance,
and ergot
poisoning if
only later converting
to a Science
belief-system new?
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 12:35 PM UTC
A lovely optical illusion is old in seconds and dead in minutes
I remember the camper van; it was the highlight of my day.
There’s always time for jaywalking.
The people who name streets are the people who still use Internet Explorer.
Cumberland would make the perfect photograph.
If I had money, I would live in a fairy-tale for a day.
It’s like a thin cotton t-shirt pulled too tightly over the ridges of a spine.
We would make great comic book villains; we’re already competent bank robbers.
They boarded up their windows, how welcoming.
I wonder how much tape gets stuck to your shoes while you cross the street.
Everyone needs ceramic vegetables.
Catch the light with our breaths.
10th street goes through quite a transformation.
Financial time Deutschland.
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 9:50 PM UTC
Tat Deutschland hat ihren Tag
tat wahre Krieger bekommen Gerechtigkeit
lassen Sie mich in einem u Boot sterben
mit meinen gefallenen Rittern
Senden Sie es an den Boden
vergessen zu werden
Ich bedauere so das
Kein Schuss Die vier angestarrte Scheide
Im Kopf das Bumsen
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 3:31 AM UTC
In Deutschland as the tale is told,
A clockmaker was growing old
After making near a thousand clocks
He was tired of all the ticks and tocks
He was satisfied with what he’d done
But had no desire to teach his son.
His clocks were made with love and skill
But of cuckoo birds he’d had his fill
So stepping back was his decision
And his clocks were built with such precision
That he hoped they’d run all by themselves,
And, as he looked upon his empty shelves,
With sadness and with pride,
He noticed that his only son was standing by his side.
The son looked up and saw a tear,
As his father said, “I won’t interfere,
My clocks will run, or they will not
*Ich bin nicht ein Wundergott
Und Ich hoffe sie verstehen
Meine Uhren müssen allein gehen.”*
Phil Lindsey May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
Deutschland
So many countries
der Deutsche die Deutsche
So viele Nationalitäten
All meant for memorization
Großbritannien
as if
der Brite die Britin
students are
Schottland
Robots
der Schotte die Schottin
But hey
die Schweiz
at least
der Schweizer die Schweizerin
I now know
Luxemburg
them all
der Luxemburger die Luxemburgerin
in German.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 9:02 PM UTC
Take me back to the land of sausage and mustard eggs.
Thick, meaty, juicy hunks of meat. Cylindrical and delicious, I miss the sensation of snapping the end of one off into my mouth fresh off of a grill.
Lounging on the castle lawn. Speaking three different languages in one conversation. Drinking confusing juice and cuddling up next to bonfires and talking all night long.
Sleeping in a cardboard box that needed a little ****** Loving new people every day.
Singing. All day long. Getting the words wrong until the leaves rustled just the right way reminded us what were trying to say.
I miss the Mother Land. The chill mornings and colder afternoons. Frozen over duck ponds and introducing the natives to the glory of tacos.
Ich liebe dich Deutschland. Holen Sie mich Haupt Ihnen.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
We slip across the border, anonymous and unnoticed, just another tin can of rank sardines. The border patrol paid us little mind. Der Bünden Europa is not like America. This is the land where borders still exist merely on the map. An abstraction. An abstraction, rightly belonging in the realm of the abstract. No all out profiling, no pandering or demeaning behaviour, just a slip. A slip, a slip, the thin veneer, that we all cross. Who could tell? I put my head through the window, and with the punch of one strong breeze passing, we rage full on into Deutschland.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
Deutschland
You are to me
A spectrum of the purest green
Those hills rolling over each other eternally
In my memories
In my dreams
That Deutscher sea of green
Oh, Don’t leave me
Don’t let me leave
Let me rest forever in the branches of your trees
Oh and Don’t go
Don’t let me go
I love you so much more than you could know
And please don’t cry
Don’t let me cry
This is not our final goodbye
I’ll come back
Steam train whistling down the track
On Sunday
I’ll be older then
My features more defined
But you’ll be the same
Constant as a line
Familiar as the back of my hand
And green as ever
My darling Deutschland
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
die bäume sind frisch
der See ist salzig und kühl
Deutschland macht Spaß, ja?
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 3:24 PM UTC
I read with passing interest
The death of the
Field Marshal’s son--
Manfred Rommel--
Gone at 84.
His father—The Field Marshal,
Had been given a choice:
Commit suicide or
Face a rigged trial
Charged with conspiring to ****
******
If he chose the trial, they said,
They could not promise
That his family would be
SAFE.
The father,
Der Feldmarschall,
Bit into a cyanide pill
And died quickly.
It was Oct. 14, 1944.
Thanks to the sacrifice,
Manfred got to grow up to be
A three-term mayor of Stuttgart,
Where Daimler-Benz makes cars.
Manfred Rommel:
A postwar liberal Deutschland voice,
Supporting immigrants and Jews.
At 84,
Deader than
A dreadnaught.
Makes you wonder?
A fate worst--wurst--
Something worse than
Death?
Really the moment of truth
For any honorable man,
Self-defined by nature,
Molded by nurture.
Family:
The fountain & source
The tribe you belong to.
Family: everything you are
When you get right down to
Where one’s loyalties
Supposedly lie.
Of course, you opt for suicide.
Wouldn’t anyone?
We are born into a net.
We must bravely defend the network.
Facing insurmountable odds,
Our duty is to hold on
Without hope, without rescue,
Like that Roman centurion
Whose bones,
Later excavated at that front door in Pompeii,
Steadfast & true,
That Roman soldier--
Vesuvius exploding,
A hard rain falling down upon him--
Died at his post because
They forgot to relieve him.
That is duty.
That is greatness.
That is thoroughbred pedigree.
An honorable end:
The one thing that
Cannot be taken from a man.
Unless, of course,
The times they are Orwellian,
And once again,
This time with feeling:
*“Do it to Julia.
Do it to Julia!”*
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:35 PM UTC