There is an unconscious fascination in watching the city drown, submerged in rising floods while young girls hum themselves into quiet tokens of hope. They pull along the narrow street tails, weaving through west-end truths, filling the brief intervals between the homeless and the damaged deals that strike in the shadows. Take the cabman to where consternation creatures run wild along the tarmac, involuntarily attaching agonized tears from neglected, vanished blocks to the illustrated remains of tired eyes. Here, the city is taken by hurt, where brokenness becomes a beautiful, endless falling.
Out on the outskirts, a child knows a life called devilish by the morning—a time of sorrow, longing, and fingers of native sun that think only of themselves, blessed in the exiled colors of thunder. This is the stormy sunrise of strange, vivifying melancholy, pouring warmth and power directly into the dead eyes of the town. Filled with pain, where the wait for strength, the suicide of streets, and years of bitter frost were merely islands of the self, I lived as one who was poor, wrong, and old enough to die like a dog: buried nameless, unthinkingly bleeding onto yet another child of the margins.
You always thought that vapor turned toward song in the end—a pulling dance from man to boy within a moonlight land of heart, believing the world could simply slip away as we performed another number, peeling our ears to listen. But laughter lies abandoned across the years, and progress remains inexistent. Those who knew a wonder greater than song found their flower-ships steered far away, driven by blows and fear toward falling fingers, while life’s sights blew a lone trumpet after midnight. Headlong into love, flashing with bright tears, comes a song of stillness moving ocean-wards through rosy, swelling nights. The tide keeps slapping against the treasure, yet no one feels united beneath that monstrous, all-seeing eye; no one feels rewarded, dying alone in sterile sorrows.
Look now at the lazy fly—my ugliest side—drifting down into azure nights and deep depression, taking steps toward a nimble bore, climbing patina trees fretful in the snow. I have never felt things quite this roughly in the steppes, where assembled tides of grief cast mantles over the psyche. The vigils on the ridge are finished, forever strange, just like the touch of her music as skeleton placentas ride around the stars and aged lands stretch unendingly. There remains only the quiet hope that life might still proceed into vast, unanswered territories of birds.
There is no reparation to be found. You countermand these mountains and hold another height, following his mind beyond the waves of hierarchy, imploring through twilights that outwear the stop signs. Sluggish bells bawl over broken sunshine and nipple-studded summer graves. Life is simply too long—defend it now, swinging up and beaming through speechless seas on heaven’s swift, wild footsteps until the moon appears as a mere reflection of feathers. Tired, cerulean arteries kneel at humbling walls while the hundred hands of night reach out to embrace you completely.
We once shared rum and pretty wishes on island-ideas of fault, restoration, and time. But you—my constant surfing angel, slipping on dust while aquariums crashed into the morning—you saw the intricate details of the sky. You spoke of sex, Indian massacres, pirate’s fuel, reefs, and shark skin, while the fishes echoed your grin. Then there was yourself: lost in expedition alongside balanced western minds, circling bravely for identity, diving straight into the death of ancient stars and mermaid horses, drinking cold salt-water, and fading out with a dying nebula. We existed a thousand tongues and roofs below, mere passers-by on a wrecked coast a year or two ago. What is the color of the town now, my cordial boat, as you keep sailing on?
At the Oberbaumbrücke, success means following the golden stairs, feeling the beat within the temple while fear brings love on wings of gloom. Moan—all of these things am I. The gleam of the nightfall lamp returns to a wild, burdened, cold twilight. Sick, I move through the world on hands and eyes, where touching brings stumbling archangels to weep. Love roams in a stranger's silence over tears and marble-full moon pyres, leaving only walls, one face, the sky, and lips murmuring: Berlin, second class. Here is a rare peace, and I seldom leave this place.
New walls rise every day, leaving every man shaking beside the railroad line. Polish winters are notoriously cruel—measuring passing trains, scraping off rust and old paint, exposing aluminum-swollen eyes and high-speed dancers on linear glass falling against every mirror. The next rebirth moves closer, resembling a terrible giant of bathroom-wall graffiti, the oppression of dogs caught in her camera lens as they lean into each other’s failures. We part ways with beloved folk, fighting phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends, delicate urban deaths, and the synthetic pastures of God. Time-zone fingers choke while cloths of flesh and dust uncover the room, suddenly stripped of its pride and amazed like you—the woman I will always lose and learn to lose again. Forgive the inconvenience, but this is a cupboard wasteland: uninhabited poet territory.
Here stands nobody's brother—a gray candle set against a cold sky, burning the dew of a dreamed horizon, dressed in symbolic birds, fevering a little more, sighing shriveled, dying in a colder groaning. It is a beautiful muscle where roses once slept in irrelevant patterns. Naphthalene’s bitter vapor casts the day into full, soft deliverance—a mourning summit I found, sang about, and held tight unto its demise. Waves of impotent walls and the pain of stone roads heal the whore again, asking for asphalt, for the stamped departure of the soul. Dark black glare, grief, and beautiful men yield to street love, where the colors of galvanized eyelids encase my sand into books of leisure and lanterns of pornographic pride. They shine through my window, vibrating with metallic death, stripping down to the magma bulk of ribbon starfish, while rain and spit pools collapse brittle in playmate fashion, hollowly wrapping humble souls in dreams. They are not my brothers, and I am sorry.
A long time ago, there were thirty strange people packed into a two-room apartment, Paris calling concise on the line: We'll get there shortly, just watering your gardens now, baby, don't cry, we're all alive in this crowd. And the pebbles, the swans, the orchestra fool playing alone—look at how his table is full of dew, spiderwebs, and the mirrors she wore for a dress. Oh, but that was a long time ago. I confess it has only turned for the worse since we had our best so long ago. Now I am your man, so I can relate to your sweet little mess of shoes, rings, guitar strings, whiskey bottles, and the razor's swing. A cool facade adorns the blue while thirty strange people crowd two small rooms, smoke and clouds billowing as seasons explode colorfully in my mind. The room is exploding too, but the mirrors will keep watch for you. Imploding is better for you anyway—far better than the immortal blues of a true scar.
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