Squalid were those days of thuggish delight
When the fat land's spirit the small Goths stole.
Joy was a thirst slaked, forever a night,
In that corpulent desert of mean soul.
But pastel virtue slowly starves a man
To walking death lest spurred by hunger's throes.
Standing apart I shunned the dead hearts' Pan
And found you, the last lover of heroes.
Of fleshy spirit living colors bold
You nourished me on the ripe joys to come
When truth and beauty are wrenched from lust's scold
And repatriated to love's kingdom.
Now together gray at time's ragged edge
With your love to the morrow I still pledge.
Oh station , station
Yee of intermittent locomotive
thoroughfare
Once standing proud now
sadly scheduled surplus to
moderna
Redundant made it's ticket
booth , collector and so to
it's master
Resigned and destined for
graffiti spray to patch it's
walls
With it's clock battery powered
down
It's fate a clubhouse for tomorrows
youth to wreck and frequent gather
in and under
Smoke and try initial cigarette
plume cough and alcoholic
spirit drunken after shock
hangover
It's track's to be repatriated back
to nature 6 foot overgrown by
scrub , weed and bush
No click no clack no whisper
harking back
Visitation only by means of
historical scholastic dissertation
It's final lesson thus if willing to
accept
Everything once valued once
it has seved it's purpose and
past it's exasperation date
Will in fact so to in future be
cast aside and face this
exact fate
And maybe if nothing else
but for death will be saved from
Seeing all the things we
treasure and keep as memories
most dear
Disappearing before us and
and so to point out
That the light at the end of the
tunnel is fast becoming dimmed
by the milli-second
Bonuses have shrunk.
Two ambitions now remain:
make Board or expat.
Sun-kissed and well-fed
migrating birds, time to time
reminisce of home.
Open foreign minds,
gated local dwellings,
home sick capital.
More money; less tax.
Lost abandoned ambition
repatriated.
Mike Concise © 2015
www.mikeconcise.com
"Wasch und Fun"
No need to translate for me for an hour and a half.
You left me to wash undies at the Wasch und Fun
while you shopped for lox and wine.
I found the soap and the wasch; but the Fun eludes.
Every patron,
even the suspect simultaneously wearing four pairs of pants,
switched out of Deutsch, enjoying the random and unexpected
dusting off of their Englisch.
We were united in our cluelessness
of the washing machines mannerisms and the
strange dichotomy on the open door with the sign that said “geschlossen”.
We washed in defiance of the sign, desperate for clean clothes on Christmas,
urgently willing the machines to finish drying before the sign proved true.
You blended into your town again; repatriated anonymity.
An American disguised as a local, shopping on Christmas eve in Freiburg,
while your new husband washed undies,
happily oblivious to almost every word anyone uttered.
Ninety minutes without a translator. Clean clothes and
Wine for Christmas in Deutschland.
Bitte.
- - -
JDZoller Copyright (c) December 2009
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