To a friend who is feeling down
Is it clear what we have in these days?
Libraries with books of all time, a jukebox in every home,
Our fathers living past seventy with twinkles in their eyes.
It’s easy to lose sight of the joys in our streets.
Outside in the pulsing sun,
At the table next to me a woman sits
Her legs lean and fibrous
Topped by an orange skirt.
In einem Biergarten, Berlin, beim Spiel Deutschland-England
Die Engländer sind unsere Lieblingsrivalen,
Sagt der Junge neben mir.
Solange wir verlieren wird’s wohl bleiben -
Wie süß, euer eins zu vier.
Those distant evenings at the pool.
The Lambada in the night air
And the water, pierced by trails of light.
Quickly encircles the world
Cheering up those at desks
And hungover breakfast readers
Is wondrous – but is it right?
Our young potentate is gone,
Only his football remains,
Or a plastic broadsword in its sheath
Balanced quietly on a door frame.
The bulldog’s squat four legs
And perenially pained pug
Are the result of forced cross-breeding
And not nature’s insult.
The words wait in my mouth
The whole night through.
The word Kohle, curled up in its burrow,
For the chance to spoken today.
Green tea detox
After a heavy night
And sushi set you right.
Pride is no sin, it is no folly
To swell to lofty music or relish your work.
Pride is not sin, erroneous only the delusion
That there is no source to pride beyond human effort.