Germany pt. 2, The Slowest Suicidalist, The Knot & Germany pt. 1

Germany pt. 2

Its history steeped in landscape;
Unlike England’s, as ours is abroad:
This was the wall, the boarder, the former DDR;
A land effected by its past, with beauty and tradition to outlast
International engravings on foreign buildings;
Become foreign by time, separate from their cause.

The Brocken stands proud; a quiet mound,
The epitome of Germany: a rock of ages.
The village of Weissenborn-Lüderode; such tranquil repose,
Alone in green; conifer green and evergreen green
And the weiss beer atmosphere of the proceedings:
A log sawn through together; the end of something; the beginning.

Germany sings to me in an angelic harmony;
Germany has crept slowly, and borne warmth, into an almost
Unbeating heart!


The Slowest Suicidalist

Evening in a drawer of constipation; edging as a creeper-in;
This myth is of alleviation; the truth lies in bed; is stale release
Of gaseous nausea breath sinking in the slowest suicidalist, who
Traipses the boards of the stage of the seven stages and sins of life’s
Loss. A truer dourer ditty did never emit from the unsharpened head
Of cut-into skull, of a non-sanded down jagged jut of jaw. A look
Glanced slice; a rook took Bobby Fischer for a fool after climax,
Nay, apex, and the road didn’t narrow; just ended. The end of the road;
For those that don’t; but those that did, as Leopold said: “My whole life
Passed before me, and I found it quite wretched.” Gut stinks inside us;
Insidious trawl towards inevitable blot. The lowest suicidalist is in us.
Brave van Gogh unbalanced in canals of deafening absinthism and into his
Treasured chest he bulleted for the next world. Chet Baker plummeted
From balcony to ledger and Chris Benoit hanging with the weights. Too…
But a few. A museum of felo-de-se, a felony unto self; anthemion to
Socrates who can’t be critocised, but for the world’s eyes; how they stare!
And bear down upon us, eponymous in our communal lapse; forget not
Sin! Prelapsarianism no longer within, as James made quote to note:
“Surely life… is a heavy penance for him who has, perhaps, forgotten the sin
That laid it upon him.” Sisyphus is the starer. Stalker of our path. ‘Counselor’
Centred Thompson’s page in typewritten hand and heming way, sewing plath;
Assia a shura hughes done it. Berry man, who has taken his life by his own hand;
Levi a war on self; Marc Antony’s stabs of unction and Brutus’ fall after no
Volunteer volunteered euthanasia. Dr. David Kelly on Harrowdown Hill erased;
Embedded in history in various stages of decomposition, our bodies, dead bodies,
Self-taught, taut selves, self-murdered. Marked speight in the last days in the bunker;
Bunked off Braun and Hitler; chongzhen times, Jim Jones peopled temples and Nero
Conquered Christians, killed his mother, and adoptive brother, and then, in hiding:
Forced suicide; keeps the wolf from the door; Virginia Woolf, Wolfe Tone light houses
At night, that illuminate the rocks onto which we impale. Life is Vicious. Kurt Cobain,
Hart Crane put into the heart-shaped box trinkets and snippets, little inlets in skeletal
Hannibal complexes; wrapped and entangled in a coma of dreams only Julio Venegas
Has seen. ‘Join me’ John Lee said, a feeder to the seedier aspects of psychoanalysis,
What are you a Freud of? Pilate asked: “What is truth?” Rob Pilatus replied: “A mime.”
Ian Kevin Curtis, Kurt Gödel and all the other screaming lord sutch and sutches did it.
But we, we Fischermen remain, in slow fading infamy we wait, losing our minds and souls
One sense at a time; disassembling, a vow of silence, of blindness, deafness, paralysis,
A suicide meditation; dragging our bodies through lives until degradation, inexorably,
As the slowest suicidalists; we are but alive, and past it, in the safety of a familiar unhappiness.


The Knot

Me and you
Wrapped together
In a knot
Is perfect

More so
Than the loser
I used to…

Used to being used
I used
To take advantage
Of

The knot,
To tie another ribbon
To the maypole
And dance; a slow, painful death.

Hath an auld marriage blanc
Not been told; lain out on the table
Are blueprints, intricate diagrams
Of not knotted vas deferens;

Virginally deferent
To a bowing president,
Surrendering candidacy;
Decamping.

To knot
Or not
To be?

Tie.

Draw.

Fire.

You and me
Knotted defencelessly
Is pleasingly,
An nth degree

Of perfection
In a sand dune
Of black flies
With tied legs

Held by cotton, trying
To swim in the air
Away.

But together
Shoelaces tied
Cause trips
On surreptitious tides

Ebbing,
Edging
Away
From the holiest of holies:

A holy place, a shrine, a temple
Of a divine deity
Known as ‘little Miss
Fornix’

Place me purple
Behind your eyes
As the sinking ship is deserted
By its spies.

Place me pink
In the sink
As the ship is sunk
By cannonball.

Unneutered endeavour
Unknotted together
A little
A lot
A knot.


Germany pt. 1

The quiet of this place haunts me;
A soul being sucked through an eye socket by a vacuum cleaner.
It reminds me of how lonely I am in life.
Why such an insatiable aspirant? I want, and only want,
The things I don’t/can’t have; I should be more than
Content with what I do have. Is it too much to want just
One person in this world to love me? Me, more than anyone
Else! - Or just someone who hasn’t left/won’t leave me, someone
Who I can turn to in woe and they can comfort me with
No conflict of interest; I try to be this person to people,
No one does to me; they’re all too busy - getting on with it.
What’s an atheist’s monastery; an insane asylum?
Germany does not help my unhappy heart!