I enter the flat at the end of the day
And lie on the bed, overworked.
It is then that I realize that the rooms are empty:
There is no-one here, I’m alone.
Tapping away on my machine, I hear
A male roar below. Bayern have scored!
Grown men celebrate in the night,
I rise and look down the street.
She confesses her love a little more each day
And flirts moon-hearted with the hawkers at dawn;
Walks the gardens in her lovelorn silks,
Waits for the night with her window ajar.
The meaning of life is to make magic happen
Be it for five minutes a day:
To turn a lyric, kiss a toad,
Or run throwing money away.
In a punishing 9.30 start,
Slightly hungover again,
Donning my clothes and intent,
Resolving to be a man.
Whisper it quietly, but I don’t think it’s that good
Apart from the saying of certain transcendent lines:
‘Out, vile jelly!’ Sans eyeball, there follows degeneration
Into a wide game of suffering, played by mad impotent guys.
Cold the showers without any clothes
And heartless the banter as we wait in rows
Before the abstesosed barracks, their facades plain
On the cruddy earth in the sprinkling rain.
Lord, there is light in us.
But why does the light some days seem so far away?
I have seen this light in nature sometimes
In the scenes you etched with your connoissieur’s eye.
Life, our never ending waltz, has ended.
Time to admit that its problems inspired us:
The problem of children, the problem of love.
But what one was greatest? Simple – the one we just solved.
Back in the city of dreams, of cheap dreams,
Where David Bowie drank
The gay bars dry. Put another coin in the jukebox of youth:
Let me rack up debts in the Eckkneipen all night.
Eckkneipe: German, ‘watering hole’, literally ‘corner bar.’