markbousfield

As the postman delivers a milky load of letters
on a stamp matted by a persistent golden shoe horn (horning and whoring until dewy dusk)
I lay with my brother in a ditch,
his other holiday a mother of dosage,
of eternal forgetting,
and onto Berlin,
classical and clean,
Ich bin ein Berliner,
To fall foul to the muse of man who is much better than eye,
with his greased locks and unshowered, unshaven skin,
his existence committed to ignominy,
my infamy.

A tile loosened by the blunt claws of a Daschund disturbed my sleep,
snaking up my arms and legs like itsy bitsy climbing ivy,
massaged by the spongy floors I walk onto an old haven of serenity,
she distorts and skews underneath me,
as though she had pushed the moon on to my toe,
three thousand miles from where our home together used to be.

My curmudgeon bays for blood,
or at least a nice warm and comfortable bed to rest his weary bones in,
spend a penny and drink to oblivion.
Mein flughafen est tres expensive,
Jeg komme fra deg hjemme,
min elsker morsomt.
I don't know which language becomes me now.

Pseudo linguistic fondant kisses,
oh please linger on my lips frauline,
on my thighs and chest.
nestling in the crowds,
clapping my hands in symmetry,
sheltering from my madness and the modern age.

This is where I have summered as an old man,
I have recoursed my future to memory
so now it is only my past I will experience for the first time.