"hamburg" poems
Prisoners of their own success
Their world now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
A truck driver from Tupelo
A pop band from the 'pool
A superstar from Hoboken,
And one...the King of Cool
The superstar from Hoboken
Became the Chairman of The Board
If you made it into his 'rat pack'
You knew you'd really scored
His movies and his music
Made him the world's number one
But he had to minimize his world
When someone stole his son
His boy was kidnapped, truthfully
Back in 1965
And through his contacts in the mob
He got his son back home alive
This is the price of fame folks
Behind the glitter and the glam
They've got to have their safety
But the fans don't give a ****
Prisoners of their own success
Their world now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
The Memphis Mafia gave protection
To The King of Rock and Roll
But, by choice his world got smaller
And he went into a hole
He built a house in Memphis
To protect him from his fans
And thanks to Dr. Feelgood
He died a lonely, broken man
He couldn't live the life he earned
He was a prisioner instead
It's a shame he has more value
Now that he is dead
Prisoners of their own success
Their world now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
He'd a partner and was cool
He was suave and sang songs
And he worked with a "fool"
They conquered the nightclubs
They were known near and far
But his created alter ego
Lived his life at the bar
He ran with Frank Sinatra
He was the King of Cool
But when The Chairman started lessons
Dean was right there in his school
The Beatles broke in Hamburg
But way back in sixty two
Their bubble was just forming
There was nothing they could do
They lived their life behind the scenes
For when they did go out
The girls would all go crazy
And the world would twist and shout
Privacy came hard for them
They went four separate ways
These four young men from Liverpool
LIved life inside a maze.
It's sad that adulation
takes their freedom, makes them hide
But they're safer locked away from us
They're safer locked inside
Prisoners of their own success
Their world's now micro-sized
Fan adulation to excess
Their love is just disguised
Their objects of affection
Live their lives inside a bubble
Leaving their prison, though it's self imposed
Could bring them worlds of trouble
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
a ****** of crows gathers
over Hamburg, carrion carrying on
with business as usual.
feeding on the festered flesh
of a gentrified populace.
in private jets coughing carbon
they fly from the west on turbine wings,
engines screaming as they dive towards a nation
secured by razor-wound walls
and barb-wire borders.
they pitched a battle in Germany,
convinced that austerity
would ******* the resistance
and give justification to premeditated violence.
but the tables have turned on the thieves again.
we are the end result of your failed policies,
globalization has destroyed our homes.
if your cabal rallies like a kettle of vultures,
you will do so behind closed doors,
cowering in your fortress' halls.
you shall not pass. watch as the power shifts
like the melting gears of torched BMWs.
we will tear the vestiges of your authority down.
we will black out your surveillance cameras,
smash your windows, and block your limos. no pasaran.
flee, while you can still run. this city belongs
to the wild ones, a black bloc, thousands strong,
dancing amidst the tear gas, tossing molotovs.
marching to liberty's sturdy drum,
equal in our solidarity song.
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Ah, would I were a German!
I'd trouble my translator
With nouns the size of Hamburg
And leave the verb till later.
And if I were a Welshman
My work would thwart translation
With ninety novel plurals
In strict alliteration.
And would I were Chinese!
I'd throw them off their course
With twelve unusual symbols
All homophones of "horse".
But as it is, I'm English:
And I'm the one in hell
By writing in a language
Impossible to spell.
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC
The last 5 years feel like a numb, confusing blur.
Like I laid myself to sleep for a while.
Like I needed to be dead to the world.
Then one day I suddenly awoke to a longing in my chest.
A feeling I couldn't fight.
A quickening of my breath.
The outside world shone through the cracks and my legs guided me straight outside.
Fresh socks on the grass of spring's early morning dew.
As it soaked through to my feet, I felt alive again.
But who am I now?
And who the hell do I want to be?
What just happened?
And what am I doing here?
I keep blinking to wake up but I'm finally awake.
It feels like I've forgotten everything, I'm trying to remember who I am again.
I've been playing Eurotruck Simulator for 2 days straight.
Mindless driving through virtual country roads.
I've jack-knifed my truck and need to pay the service toll.
Have to deliver this big bag of seed to Hamburg but I'm stuck in the middle of the road.
The traffics piling up and everyone's honking their horns.
This is way too much pressure.
“Don't Worry Baby” By the Beach Boy's plays softly in the background.
But in fact I'm very much worried.
Whether in my online trucking game or the real world it just never seizes.
All I asked for is a day where I'm not incapacitated by my own thoughts.
They're useless, nonsensical pesters that make everything go wrong.
Stupid worry gremlins with bells on their ankles.
The harder you try to ignore them, the louder they love to play.
Until your mind is an orchestra of gremlins beating their feet into your brain.
It's impossible to get anything done when they're dancing away.
What matters is I'm still trying my best.
I'm leaving the house again, changing my old routines.
I even went out past 7pm.
What a real rebel I'm becoming.
Breaking old boundaries takes time but false 'safety' doesn't serve me anymore.
I sat in the pub last week and finally felt 24.
Maybe I'm a little behind compared to everyone else.
But I managed to save my jack-knifed truck and ship the seed to Hamburg, everyone has their own strengths..
Jack of all trades.
Master of none.
But in Eurotruck Simulator I'm No1.
Mar 9, 2023
Mar 9, 2023 at 4:42 PM UTC
In Hamburg I loved
A strange girl,
She put my whole being
In a whirl,
She spurned everybody
But me,
I made her happy,
In Hamburg.
But if she had
Spurned me,
I'd have looked her in the eye,
And run away,
And in my room,
I would have cried,
I might even have died,
In Hamburg.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
And in that wild berlin winter
I twirled ghosts through the frozen, concrete streets
Out of bohemian jungles in the midnight afternoon
I returned to the States with terrible ennui
Slumped on cold buses
I flew through Hamburg in an ***** haze
Smoking joints in the lantern lit glow of Amsterdam
I didn’t eat for 3 days
I rode the train to Zoo Station
And flitted about East Berlin
Where there was no excitement to be had
Walking the night alone in the bitter, biting wind
I took the ferry over to England
Safe in the Mersey’s mystical, dreary mist
I hid my tired eyes under my fisherman’s cap
And found an expanse of quiet, precious bliss
Ailing from nights spent on streets and stranger’s floors
I was a child, traveling alone
Disenchanted by my youthful escapades,
Cured of the plaguing desire to ramble and roam.
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
There will be mud on the carpet tonight
and blood in the gravy as well.
The wifebeater is out,
the childbeater is out
eating soil and drinking bullets from a cup.
He strides bback and forth
in front of my study window
chewing little red pieces of my heart.
His eyes flash like a birthday cake
and he makes bread out of rock.
Yesterday he was walking
like a man in the world.
He was upright and conservative
but somehow evasive, somehow contagious.
Yesterday he built me a country
and laid out a shadow where I could sleep
but today a coffin for the madonna and child,
today two women in baby clothes will be hamburg.
With a tongue like a razor he will kiss,
the mother, the child,
and we three will color the stars black
in memory of his mother
who kept him chained to the food tree
or turned him on and off like a water faucet
and made women through all these hazy years
the enemy with a heart of lies.
Tonight all the red dogs lie down in fear
and the wife and daughter knit into each other
until they are killed.
1.7k
the only time we care about the poor
is in disaster,
there's been freedom for decades,
but we're still owned by slave masters,
incorporated trademarks
branded on our spine,
the american dream,
might as well be bovine.
flagpole sitting flappers,
never expect to fall,
'33 til infinity,
greed affects us all,
and it's more,
than a disease,
there's no atticus,
instead, great gatsbies.
and boo radley,
aint gonna right these wrongs,
all we've got are our words
and the will to stand strong,
and it seems we're just monkeys,
launched into orbit,
in spaceships,
that only fall once reality hits,
and i don't see any solutions soon,
we consume and presume,
that this is all a cartoon,
asterix fiction,
we lack conviction,
we lack the diction,
to speak our mind,
we are confined,
to the roles,
and the moulds,
and the holes,
that are made for our souls,
we stay out of the spotlight,
even when the times right,
allergic to great heights,
like madden going to superbowls.
ice cold,
a wise man said was cooler than cool
but these fools aint never heard of ice-nine,
it's the right time,
got the right rhymes,
who cares about these thugs,
i'm set on madoff crimes,
who cares about the dealers,
follow the money like the wire,
we're civilians in vans under apache fire,
and the cover-up is comin,
the cover-up is comin
the cover-up is comin
the cover-up is comin
the only time i'm hostile,
is within,
when i gotta smile
at these businessmen,
that are tearing us apart,
and ******** on our soil,
tearing out our hearts,
creeping like the mcboyles,
i've toiled in the trenches,
for most of my days,
as have the majority of those i know,
and we can't just quit,
we gotta get paid,
materialstic societies depend on dough,
so we dream of being on boats like samberg
the only threat to our fatasses is the hamburg
-ler, there's no cure, there's no care,
there's no health, it's not fair,
but if you keep on dreamin, one day it'll be there,
simply stare at the sun, things'll brighten up,
keep buying that product, trust me, they give a ****
fall into place, stand in single file,
and whatever you do, don't forget to smile.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
The day that I come home,
What will you find to say,—
Words as light as foam
With laughter light as spray?
Yet say what words you will
The day that I come home;
I shall hear the whole deep ocean
Beating under the foam.
1.6k
Dalya walked
from her tent
to the block
of showers
and went in
the place smelt
of bodies
of hot skin
of damp hair
she showered
dried herself
and came out
I came out
of the men's
shower block
all refreshed
where are you
going to?
she asked me
in the town
I replied
can I come?
I don't want
to be stuck
in my tent
with the Yank
***** whom we've
just picked up
in Hamburg
Dalya said
already
she's started
about men
who she wants
in her bed
(sleeping bag)
where I am
going then?
I asked her
find some place
she replied
saucy cow
you can share
with young me
I told her
the Aussie
is sharing
the tent with
the Yorkshire
school teacher
you want me
to share a
tent with you?
Dalya said
just to sleep
I replied
and of course
everyone
will believe
I just sleep
in your tent?
I'm leaving
about 12
if you want
to come see
all the sights
of Hamburg
I told her
she nodded
and we met
dead on 12
and made love
in my tent
that's as far
as we went.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 3:34 AM UTC
In Hamburg
an American girl
climbed aboard
sitting next
to the Southend teacher
with the spectacles
and loud mouth
and she looked back
at the rest of you
and said
Hi you guys
how’s it going?
murmured replies returned
Moira said
behind
her cupped mouth
a ******* Yank
is all we need
you looked
windowward
spying new buildings
post-war
the could-be-any-where
kind of set up
the driver drove off
the Polish mother
and daughter
muttered
in their tongue
Moira’s hips
pushed into yours
as the mini bus
turned sharp
down some side street
the American girl
chatted up
the driver
some long haired
hippy type
smoking and puffing
and you remembering
the night before
the tent up
the canvas tight
and you and Billy
down on your bags
he staring up
at the canvas
green and unclean
you listening to Moira
in the next tent
sharing with some
unfortunate giving it
the rant and rave
about some misgivings
in her Glasgow tone
Billy raising his eyes
in disbelief
and you wondering
if ever she silenced
her tongue and tone
and charmed her
fearsome stare
whether you’d be happy there
lying beside her
kissing her neck
or lips or cheek
or nestling between
her small plump ****
but looking beside you
as the mini bus
moved off at a pace
you saw her sour face glare
at the American’s head
and thought you’d rather kiss
the old Polish mother instead.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
http://books.google.co.in/books?id=HJiSBAAAQBAJ
Release date: 14th February, 2015
Pre-order this fantastic saga of love, deceit, career, patriotism, class divide, and science.
Decorated with romantic, patriotic & social message-conveying poems, 7 Seconds is a great story revolving around the protagonist named 'Akshant' who is trying to search out his main motive in life in petty romantic escapades till a serious accident changes his world and he becomes serious towards his career. He works for the betterment of the entire globe by discovering a novel method of easily producing high-quality biodiesel. Towards the end, he is involved in a fight against the terrorists on a flight to Hamburg where he is going for participating in an international biotechnology conference.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 3:49 AM UTC
They had not seen each other in fifty years.
In between, a world war and a concentration camp.
Then my pop,
Erwin of the Homburg hat clan,
Went for the first time to the land of Israel,
From the safety of the United States.
A side trip, an unscheduled tour visit-stop,
A private memory to re-collect,
To a special hospital,
Where the survivors who did not really survive,
Live in tender care until there are no more.
A childhood friend to see, a dust to be disturbed.
In comes a man, now an American, a family man,
But with a European goatee, un-accented English,
Yet a boy, a young man from the Hamburg clan,
When last seen in the 1920's.
A voice calls out happy,
A miracle I call it.
Meine kleine Ervin!
My little Erwin!
What can I say other than
I weep as I write.
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 8:31 AM UTC
Dalya met Baruch in Oslo,
a small cafe in a back street;
he was eating a cream cake
and coffee. She was fuming
over the Yank ***** that she
shared a tent with back at
base camp. It’s like sharing
with a scented skunk, she said.
Baruch listened, the fiery girl
sat opposite him, stirred her
latte, spat out words. Baruch
was halfway through the Gulag
book, the Solzhenitsyn eye
opener on the labour camps
of Russia. Dalya’s gripe seemed
pretty shallow; her language
left little to the imagination,
rough words, hard chipped,
chiselled out of rock sort of thing,
he thought, watching her mouth
move the words. Always about
the men she’s had, Dalya said,
as if I cared a monkey’s. Baruch
forked in more cake, fingered
off cream from his upper lip
and licked. They’d picked up
the American in Hamburg,
squeezed her into the overland
truck with the others. And oh,
yes, where she's been, Dalya said,
she’s been under the Pope’s
armpit, no doubt. She sipped
the latte, stared at Baruch, her
eyes dark blue, her lips thin, her
hair dark and curled. Maybe she
has, Baruch said, but what’s it to
you? I have to hear her jabbering
on in the tent night after night,
Dalya said, and me trying to get
to sleep. You can always swap with
me, he said, she can share with
the Aussie prat, who’s in with me.
She didn’t reply, but looked at her
latte, stirred with the plastic spoon.
And what would my brother say?
He’d tell the parents when we got
home. Baruch knew her brother
wouldn’t have minded, he was often
drinking and drunk till blinded.
Baruch had only suggested it in
jest, nothing really meant, but she
was preferable to the Aussie in his tent.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 8:37 AM UTC
We discovered
the tents leaked
in Nakskov
and Dalya said
she was going
to write to the company
when she got
back home
not all
of them leaked
and so we paired up
a few of us
to avoid using
the leaky ones
but I’m not sharing
with the Yank *****
Dalya said
I’ve had enough
of her since Hamburg
you could share
with me
I said
but I don’t think
it would go
down well
with the others
let's leave it
for now
she said
let's see the place
have a drink and such
so we walked
and had a good view
of the place
then had a drink
and a bite to eat
in some café
and as we sat there
I watched her
light up a smoke
and lit one
of my own
and she said
I suppose
I could share
with Yorkshire girl
despite her
constant yak
if she's agreeable
I shared
with the Aussie guy
who smelt
of beer
and Lifebuoy soap
who told
pathetic jokes
and talked
of the Yorkshire girl
and how he'd
like to
give her one
but I just read
my Russian book
not bothering
to give
an interested look.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
THE G20 IS ON IN HAMBURG IN GERMANY
TRUMP WILL MEET THE TROOPS
LET'S HOPE TRUMP DOSEN'T CREATE
A LOT OF EMBARRASSING OOPS
NORTH KOREA IS HIGH ON THE TALKS
THE THREAT IS DEFINITELY REAL INDEED
WILL PRESIDENT TRUMP LEAD THE WORLD
TO BRING NORTH KOREA TO ITS KNEES
AT THE G20 TRUMP AND PUTIN
WILL FINALLY BE ABLE TO MEET
LETS HOPE THE TALKS WONT LEAD
TO PRESIDENT TRUMPS DEFEAT
THE 3 BOOKS WILL BE THE MOST INCREDIBLE BOOKS
OF OUR TIME FOR THE MOST EXPLOSIVE AMERICAN
PRESIDENT OF OUR TIME.
DON'T MISS THEM
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 8:47 AM UTC
At Hamburg
at base camp
young Dalya
says to me
what a dump
have to put
up our tents
that Yorkshire
***** couldn't
find her ****
with both hands
let alone
put up tents
but it's done
mostly by
me not her
standing there
mouth open
suggesting
this or that
I watch her
taking out
a ciggie
and light it
with my blue
cheap lighter
then lit my
cigarette
thanks she says
how'd you get
on with that
Aussie guy?
He was good
knew the ropes
had it up
in no time
I tell her
let's go for
a large beer
and burger
at some bar
she tells me
so we go
to some joint
in a field
order beers
and burgers
and French fries
I like her
she's sassy
and up front
and has nice
soft melons
pushing through
her tee shirt
she talks on
I listen
to her voice
and music
from high up
loudspeakers
some rock stuff
and wonder
if we might
at some time
in some way
nestle down
in some place
she talks on
studying
my hazel
eyes and brown
bearded face.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 2:43 AM UTC
She spat out
a string
of four letter
abuse words
followed by American *****
you stood at the bar
at the base camp
outside Stockholm
sipping a beer
Moira stood beside you
in grumpy mood
her Glaswegian tones
still in the air
others in the bar
gazed your way
amused
some giving
a small titter
if have to share a tent
with her one more night
I’ll suffocate her
with my sleeping bag
over her head
she said
you girls
don’t get on then?
you said
more expletives followed
after which she sipped
from her glass
of white wine
you lit a cigarette
all the time
watching her
listening to her
talking about
the American girl
the tour guide and driver
had picked up
in Hamburg
how she spent ages
in the shower
at base camps
across northern Europe
how she got her man
whom she slept with
and what she did
and leather
said Moira
her and her ****** leather
I know her sort
she added
you studied her
as she spoke
her short stature
her wild blazing eyes
her hair tight curled
her small ****
pressing against
her tee shirt
then she was silent
and leaned on the bar
sipping the wine
grimacing
staring at the mirror
behind the bar
maybe we could swap tents
you said
you share
with the Australian bore
and I with the Yank girl
that’s a case
from the frying pan
into he fire
Moira said gruffly
I’d rather share my tent
with a shaggy dog
with fleas
she said
I guess
you thought
taking in her tight ***
some
are hard to please.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 4:34 AM UTC
"A child may not be
considered a piece of property-
only the child possesses genuine rights
the Right to be respected as a person
from the moment of his conception"
He was born in the year 1964
A world on the brink of splitting open,
On the edge of revolution, progress, protest
The stained glass windows speckled from the rain
Incense and old wood covered in fingernail imprints
Matching those on the sides of his arms
A small choir singing hymns of Salvation and Praise
His mother nudges him "stand up straight, eyes forward"
A mind wandering from the homily on Sacrifice
To the images of bombings in Hamburg
Adorned with black and white collars
Gripping an unlabeled wine bottle
The children sprinted through the wooded trails
Mud spattering across their legs and dress shoes
The others spun in circles, as if trapped in jewelry boxes
Their ankles dressed in pink ribbons
This was no place for innocence and imagination
But one of penance and prayer
He kept his toy cars and trains in a green metal box under his bed
It wasn't much, but they were his
Through them locking him in the closet for hours
And being told to not speak unless spoken to
The times of self expression, of emotion, feeling
Shamed and forced suppression - turned to repression
These cars and trains, they were his
Mental illness is a myth
Suicide is a mortal sin
We decide who you are
You cannot feel
Kneel down
Be quiet
Say your prayers
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 4:49 PM UTC
Dalya and I went
to some watering holes
in Hamburg
beer bars or cafés
selling all kind of *****
we'd left the base camp
after burgers and fries
and few warm beers
and walked
into the city
she had put on
a denim skirt
and white tee-shirt
and her dark hair
was neat and tidy
she looked good
that Yorkshire *****
is going off
to some other's tent
and I have that
Yank dame
we picked up on route
Dalya said
why can't I share a tent
with you
and be done with?
there you go
I said
I have the Aussie guy
he's ok but he
boozes too much
and likes the girls
when we were in Belgium
he wanted to bring
some girl in the tent
while I was lying
in my sleeping bag
you can turn
the other way mate
he said
we don't mind as long
as you don't peek at us
what happened?
Dalya said
the girl wasn't keen
and walked off
in a huff
and he went after her
I said
wouldn't fancy
that myself
she said
not with any onlooker
not that I'd fancy
the Aussie anyway
she said
we supped some beer
and smoked
who's your brother
sleeping with?
I asked
he's with
the school teacher prat
she said
but he don't mind
as long the the part
don't yak about
education too much
if we can match
the Yorkshire *****
with the Aussie
Dalya said
we could
become an item
together
can't see it
coming about
I said
shame
Dalya said
fed up with having
to share a tent
with Yank girl
yakking about her lovers
and what she's done
and where and who with
we supped more beer
then walked
back to camp
and our tents
each to our own
she with the Yank girl
me all alone.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 2:53 AM UTC
Dalya argues
with the German,
but she understands
nothing he says.
Fick dich?
What's that mean?
She asks me.
Best you don't know.
Is he swearing at me?
I nod.
The German walks off;
his broad shoulders swinging.
Who does
he thinks he is?
German, I guess.
She gestures
with her middle digit
at his departing back.
What did he say?
She asks.
Guess.
Sounded rude.
The German guy
has gone around a corner.
(I am glad).
We walk
to the next café
and sit at a table
near the window.
A waitress
takes our order
and walks off
to the back,
her hips swaying
her black skirt.
He was in the wrong,
Dalya says.
Guess he
didn't think so.
But he was
and his attitude stank
and he was **** ugly.
She foams at the mouth;
her eyes are bright
and full of anger.
Life's too short.
Short or long
that Square Head
was in the wrong.
I look at her
sitting there;
the hair drawn tight
in a bun
at the back
of her head;
her jaws rigid.
She smells
of cheap soap
and cigarettes.
If I was a man,
I’d have thumped him.
If you had been a man
he'd have thumped
you first.
The waitress
brings our order
and puts out
the coffees
and cream cakes,
then smiling at me,
she walks off,
swaying again.
I imagine;
thinking of
another place
and time.
Fick dich, to him, too,
she says,
stirring her coffee.
I imagine he might.
What?
Do as you request.
She looks at me,
her eyes focusing on me
like an eagle at prey.
And to think
they thought they
were a superior race.
Human error, I suppose.
They weren't;
I had relatives
gassed in Belsen.
She looks away;
her eyes watery;
lips drawn tight.
That's not down to race,
that's down
to human folly
and wickedness.
I had a friend
whose father helped
clear out Belsen;
he was in the army;
****** his head,
I say.
She says nothing;
silence descends
and caresses us
in its cold arms;
breathing in our ears.
I look at her;
eyes full of tears.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
I came to terms with my loneliness yesterday while filling out an application when question #7 asked me to describe myself.
I was reminded of my worth when I was told "just a person trying to make do was not a long enough response.
Not long enough -
Not long -
Not enough.
I reread my rejection a few more times, wondering what more I could add without lying.
Ever since you went overseas I've been trying to pick back up the parts of myself you left behind out of anything I can find.
So far I have not found any self worth in the bottom of the bottle.
I threw out your chapstick I found in my center console and ripped up the photo I had of your tucked under my insurance card.
If I crash the car tonight at least I wont have the option of looking at your photo as the last face I see.
Bring me home a souvenir from all the countries you've smiled in and a jar filled with the sound of your laughter.
Ill put it under my pillow.
If I keep the lid open maybe Ill finally sleep through the night.
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 11:46 AM UTC
In Denmark
we toured
the beer factory
Dalya and I
and there were Aussies with us
and it was their paradise
and they were swapping
bottles of mineral drinks
for cans and bottles of beer
with those who
were not beer drinkers
and Dalya swapped
her beer with them
and said
can't drink beer
gives me the *****
but I kept mine
and sipped and drank
until the freebies were gone
and we left
and toured Copenhagen together
taking in the shops
and cafes and bars
and later back at base camp
we had hot-dogs
and drinks
at the camp bar
and she said
that Yank girl
is away until tomorrow
gone off with some guy
she met in Hamburg
(poor guy)
so if you want to
you can come
share my tent tonight
I ate my hot-dog
and sipped my beer
and had a smoke
and said
sure be nice
and so we walked
from the bar to her tent
up on a hill
a short distance away
and so we did
*** and sleep
and ended our day.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 3:44 AM UTC
The sun shines above
the bridge in Hamburg.
He stands beside her
taking in the scene
of sun and bridge.
She has her camera
and takes a few snaps.
He watches the sunlight
play on the water's skin.
They walk the City
taking photos
now and then.
Her camera
is better than his
and so she
takes the most.
They stop for coffee
and cake at a cafe.
"That Polish girl told me
her mother hates
the Germans"
Dalya says.
"I suspect she does"
he says.
Dalya explains
what the Polish girl had said
about her mother
and the Germans.
Benny listens
sipping his coffee.
The young German waitess
has beautiful eyes
and a slim figure he decides
as she passes the table.
Dalya relates
that her uncle and aunt
died in Auschwitz.
Her mother's brother
who had stayed behind
hoping things
would get better
but they never.
Benny listens
to the waitress
talk to a customer.
That sparkle in her eyes.
Dalya lights up a cigarette
and offers one to him.
They smoke and talk.
She about the photograph
of her uncle and aunt
in a frame in the hall
at home.
He listens
bringing to mind
the night before
them making out in the tent
at the camp base.
Body against body
and face against face.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
We'd left Hamburg
and got back into the minivan;
Dalya beside me,
the others in their usual place.
I opened the Gulag book
by Solzhenitsyn;
it was a depressing book
but I read on.
It's about the labour camps
in Russia isn't it?
Dalya said.
Yes between
1918 and 1956,
I said.
Why read it
if it's depressing?
she said.
I want to know
the truth,
I said.
Truth about what?
she said.
What happened in Russia
during that time,
and the camps,
and why so many people
went there and died there,
I said.
The Polish woman
and her daughter
said nothing,
but looked at the book
I had in my hands.
I remembered
the woman
had said that some
of her relations
were in the area
occupied by the Russians
in the war,
and the others
in the part run
by Germans,
and both suffered
and some died
or disappeared.
I wondered what
she thought
about the book,
and if any of her relations
ended up in a camp
on either side.
I said nothing,
but read on
page after page,
with Dalya's thigh
close to mine
warm and tender.
I recalled
the other night
in her tent
making love to her.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC