Monday, 13 August 2012

Rosenthaler Platz, Of

Deep into these travels, out of pocket and still I feel good, look good tonight. There's a swivel globe giving light to Tania's living room. Outdoors a balcony eats up Berlin with chairs for soft lips. An old, important song is on bail from iTunes zoo cells that are crammed with sing-along festival slogans, and I'm onto happiness, staying with the globe as if I could have remained a small boy, all those years ago (this phrase I can now say) guessing capital cities, ignoring the third world, the real world and my future world. My reading loosens into a gaze when I see beyond the Pacific Ocean, as if to come upon an undiscovered constellation: a girl in a white trench coat, speaking German through smiles. And then I'm back with the globe, this time it's a glance at nihilism and civilization, Afghan, and what she doesn't know once our eyes have met is that I want to be there; I want to be ironed and hung up for this, where my finger tip is pressing a warned warning into the Earth; I want to fuck up a nemesis, to fuck her, the both of us fucked up, and still I forget to open my mouth and speak into that future, into which, always a blown kiss and a fist listening for fear (of)

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