HOME

WRITING

KEYS TO THE CITY

I: A New Career In A New Town

II: Dream Life

III: Paintings As Prayers

IV: Late Summer Evening

POETRY

Rose Crowned Evenings

Moments Of Pure Ashtray

The Personalised Circus

Berlin Undressing

Blind Children On Western Streets

Lucifer Says He Won't See Me

Say

Absentee Note

Boy

Christmas Curtains

Fountains

July

Swans On The Surface

Girl Smoking On Balcony

Stained Glass Window

Terrible Vision

The Insurance Was WILD

The Sea's Smile

Van Gogh's Lights

The Disappointed Prince

SHORT STORIES

Tectonic Plates

Turkish Pizza

Cuddle Parties

A Night At The Circus

The Catch

Chekhov In Kreuzberg

A Stolen Dress

Two Contract Killers Get Arrested

My Uncle Dick

Death In The Cafe

Performing To The Curtain

Getting Past The Curtain

OTHER

La Traviata

Babylon Berlin

Living With Samuel Beckett:

An Anti Essay

MUSIC

CONTACT

KEYS TO THE CITY

 

Part II: Dream Life

 

In the other neighbourhoods, it’s much pleasanter: they have tablecloths and bottle openers there, they also have wine glasses and I heard they also got fresh seafood, pfaa, don’t get carried away. Yeah yeah, eating Sushi at 9.30pm, Badstr, and a cold Asian beer, then you’ll head back later. When you get going, when you’re in the mood, and when in you’re in the right bar, and when you’ve had the right amount to drink, well – I think you’re a blue dream for thirty somethings.

 

In a self-made crisis, I manage to work almost nothin’ out and make zero sense man, that’s like, my thing.

 

Was she really a mother! For someone living on what you live on, (when I was round last I saw piles of brown, worthless coins)

 

In the afternoons the wind occasionally picks up, takes you for a stroll, and even slides the menu into your hand, a glass of water, chat with Georgio, Good barman, good boy, and I was there with you when the jazz music played again, almost as a joke, no consequence, no respect, then the gunshots

 

And a few months earlier I danced, exceptionally well, what of it?

 

You’re a reflection of a lonely boy’s reality, put it that way. You remind me of myself, no doubt of yourself too, you’re a companion, let’s be together forever, I mean it

 

November ’16, follow the chain of events: why in Berlin do these things happen. Explore.

 

There goes that wistful lull in the underground, the smudged neon by the platz, and what will you, what will you do with yourself today then?

 

Look, walking scenery for you: as you walk, late night sausage tourists, falafels, dried meat, processed meat, greased meat, and stuff that isn’t meat but could just as well be meat, and the Jaegermeister bottles broken on cycle lanes, and the relationships breaking down and your heart’s, your soul’s fucking sick, it’s going wrong, all of it man, all wrong, crickets singing, a baby asleep, the animals at bay, sirens forever-a wailing into that terrible night how will you ever forget this

 

- No, I’ve never met him, but I like you; and then I went home with him

 

Music of the classic genitalia and so forth…

 

This was literally the wurst time of my life man

 

To his dirty little quarter, and he made love to me on that graffi’d desk of used train tickets and those coins, those little worthless brown coins

 

From the northern provinces; goats, farmers, farmyard animals, butter, milk, unspeakable family ménage a trois – I never met such a wild bit of prose poetry

 

And I even came, and I came again when we woke up in the morning

(I shouldn’t be telling you this), not that it meant anything, not that coming is important ha well it is but it’s not like that’s the only thing that matters but its tougher for girls especially when you don’t really know the person or at least it is for me so when it happens yeah you more or less remember it but whatever it’s history now and you know, I was single and getting over my boyfriend. And then, well then I met you Ricky

 

And there are many out there like me on these yellow by day and purple by night streets, loopholes of downtown, unplanned residential areas with canals and future hoped upon bar scenes

 

I will never go there again, you can rest assured.

 

Mirrage Halls everywhere, Berlin, City of Mirage Halls

 

The way he leans on garden furniture is really quite something.

His long delicate fingers stroke your palms with yellow indecent passion.

 

With wine you make promised appointments, general chitchat, desirous and unflinching –it’s a summer night, the neighbourhood is pleasanter though by no means safe. I am of course referring to…

..the classical musical teacher. And The White Album. And lounge on the terrace. Someone’s assistant cooks Pesto pasta. That’s what we called it. Pasta with pesto so we called it Pesto pasta. Hey Bungalo Bill, ha! I was so broke that all I could do was buy a glass of wine after my meal that night and then take my last cash out and buy more with them. And…we were fawning upon each other under the thick and malting palms of a tree, more alive than we, and I have to say this:

Scratching like eternal fingernails, like her goddamned violin. Wow I’m self-destructive, how come?

And the token shrieks of spirit she made to make it seem like we were intelligible in that very moment, Balkan sex music.

 

City of Mirage Halls: Berlin in the 2010’s: An Exploration Into Life In The Berlin Underworld: How An Exploration Turned Into A Series Of Titles

 

Earlier today, that slow and drained afternoon, I saw your face would change colour, your eyes would become run down and you would wander the streets in preparation for wandering the streets later,

with dirty dishevelled clothes, looking for something, for someone –that he knew would take years to find, especially at this rate. He’d walk for hours and hours, and by the end of it, he’d realise he wasn’t actually looking for anything on that particular day. You can’t work every day. Lapses of persona, where you just walk around and work nothing out…quiet and detached, and then it starts again – the dreaded jam session, full of fools, cursed by their own freely chosen disguises, yeah but DJ life is hell on earth, so whatever, ironic t shirt sex, ! But L would never drop it now, he was too deep in.  En route back to the apartment, having given up on any form of progress that day, yet pleasantly and ha remarkably remarking to himself how he could detect ‘just a touch’ of oncoming autumn in the chilling summer air, the people of the street he’d look upon, and the people in the buildings, these grey-faced gentlemen, these full named ladies would become red, brown, black, blue, heavily awash. Grey faced gentlemen in the afternoon would continue as before, and upon entering the apartment and climbing the flight of stairs and bizarrely forcing himself to think like an artist, cos that’s what L was, that’s what L is when we speak of him like this now, he’s an artist, and he’d throw himself on to the bed, cheeks flushed, his heart beating rapidly, and he’d rest there a few moments and try and hold off those imaginary chants of madness. He’d smile fragilely in the mirror and say, now my work begins…

 

I meant that song about – interruptions, play that. All right I wi

Together, variously connected, all are suspended – it’s all connected. I’m an architect, and I always have been. These are my paintings as prayers, one day I’ll sketch them out to you, when we’re in our thirties or something

-grow up Jules

 

I remember rose crowned evenings of ice like manhood,

Finding solace and meaning in a place I was supposed to fill till empty

And those other evenings, drowning as the incessant fisherman casting nets throughout his perfect storm, a role I arrogantly cherished,

‘you see boys, my catch was all that mattered, , but how my nets in the morning would stink of rotten, black seaweed…’

 

I’m twenty two years old and I’m already running out of time for you and all your pointless questions and unnecessary conditions. I run a Spaeti alta. Berlin’s fucking sick. And so fucking cheap mate. Get me out of here.

 

Let’s get started shall we?

(Applause)

‘I’m singing in the rain…’

(For I’m sick to death of cynicism, I really am!)

(Opening the letter in the corridor of an altbau flat in Neukolln)

Betriebskosten. 1.465,91. Damit ergibt sich eine Nachbelastung von insgesamt seriously just fuck off why do I even open this fucking letterbox and a warm-welcome-to-your-purchase new bistro now on fucking Karl Marxstr that I personally like as it’s affordable and the majority of the ingredients I’d say are relatively fresh, which is a plus

 

And then L would walk around confused, wondering who’s a cop and who’s a robber

 

And no one currently knows what happened that night at that jazz bar but I personally hope no one really died and Ricky left everyone alone and then L went back and made love to Anita like twelve times and they came all day and opened up and got to know each other and cooked wonderful food together and L tried to ignore the fact that she most definitely had psychological issues that he wouldn’t be able to fix any time soon

 

A dirty caress, a piece of work, something to refuse. That’s what this town’s after. You walk up and down on Warschauerstr after midnight and tell me if I am

 

The red noons of bloody laughter

You would stick to me with tentacle precision, wrapped up now and forever then in a never-ending finale peak,

And the bitter white nights carried me away in a mocking funeral carriage of my own perverse design,

En route to my own presumed destiny,

A well directed festival of misery

 

Like when you first get that big flu in Berlin. Ha big flu like that make’s sense well yeah, the time when you first get real sick, I dreamt of numbers flashing across my mind over and over and over

Probably a prophesy for the next few years of never having these numbers in my bank account

(applause)

There’s a crowd, (still applause), thank you, there’s a crowd, and there are eyes are rolling in the back of my head. There’s a balcony, and there’s a fridge. I’ve got it all worked out mum, don’t you worry (end credits, fast paced violin background music)

 

When was the last sunrise? (Yesterday). Up next: Sweating, shaking, shivering – even shagging. (Gasps)

– the list goes on, the beat goes on, then…

 

Perhaps a surprise, a new sunrise, most commonly a problem, an errand, an issue, mirrors of bad coke, organic lentils, this place stinks of weed, oceans of beer, spoilt birthday weeks, broken contracts, abandoned trial shifts, empty first kisses, drunken invincibility, solipsistic solitude, years on repeat, young men running for their lives in slow motion, young women annoyed at having to explain shit to them all the time,

Do I have a friend called Moe? No I don’t!

 

Someone else pays for a prostitute and naturally has sex with her.

 

You know it’s been a while since I’ve written down my thoughts on how I’m living and what my objectives are. I guess since October, I’ve led a very chaotic life and unstable life. It has been, at times, tough.

 

The brothels downstairs, I repeat; go outside, and you’ll see lasers and smoke, a packet of cigarettes, ‘I guess that’s why they call it the blues’ - light them up on New Years Eve, quickly, make a relevant joke but please – don’t try to be too funny, it will make you look bad.

And everyone looks real happy, everyone apart from Ralph, slowly it’s all starting to make sense for them. Ralph sips his Belgian beer with disgust, you sympathise and avoid him.

(Don’t: turn up to the wrong party two hours early and confusedly hand the host a bottle of red wine – they won’t like that)

Anita’s instagram reveals all, as you scroll, and scroll, feeling worse, and worse – till you doubt why you’re even here.

“But what’s it like? You know, to be an artist, to try and live off your art?”

Ha, to this I would colour or pale with initial embarrassment, perhaps I would look into the distance meaningfully for a moment or two, perhaps sip some wine or beer, perhaps drag on a cigarette, and then I’d say:

 

“What’s it like? Well, it’s like nothing in your beloved books. We don’t all wear old-fashioned hats – no one’s in Paris and no one will be again. And I’m not living a dream - I’m an outcast, technically by choice but in reality by default.” The poor student’s eyes would brighten understandably, and only after I chuckled to let her know that I’d been being ironic, would she too, smile and nod, as if I had made a great point on society. She agreed with me, if what I said could be considered a stance of some kind. I would often try not to laugh as I said all this. She asked me where she could find my art, and I’d tell her, in a hushed and secretive tone, that it still wasn’t ready. This only impressed her more. And then I’d forget about everything to do with my work and try and seduce her. I speak not of a specific time, but rather, a moment, a mood…Though no matter, it was all acting and for a greater purpose, or so I told myself at the time.

 

And the screens of concrete, greyness the joke, it meets the day, meets the day! Thought of the day: Nothing worse than a songwriter earnestly singing in Berlin (in my humble opinion). I mean just look at him, and her, all of them – no. Play that track with no words, let me imagine my own feelings so the music doesn’t have to have any.

 

I went out with her for five months, on and off, this was back in New York. To think of all the people I’ve been with before I met you makes my stomach turn. Can we please stop talking about this?

 

Leaves me a child at bay -

Meanwhile the artist’s dried out, he’s, his space, you see? -

Just hand him a contract for pete’s sake. A solid, working contract. Yeah 40 hours. Yeah health insurance. No don’t make him do hours of free work on a busy Saturday night – no, don’t make him wash those plates and scrub those floors and then never call him again afterwards. That stuff makes people cry, it hurts, I’ve seen the hurt

- No, not Pete! Me! - Moe? No!

O five more weeks then I’ll be all right. Times like these

I need a lucky number, or a friend.

When I was young and sometimes left out, I’d think of

Randy Newman, you know, when he sang,

‘You’ve Got A Friend In Me’,  and I thought that, no matter what…

Things would always be alright… you know…that warm feeling… of love… of… you’re drunk L… yes I know, but still…

 

If you go under the maze, my friend (a promising artistic showcase)… - let me do that again. If you go under the maze, you will see the unamazed Alexanderplatz ants in their drug lord lullaby labrynth (better) and omnipresent evergreen nympths (no, please, just no) and all, just leave me alone, they leave me alone, I have no money and I’m sick of

 

Exit colloseum of talent. Enter colossus of loneliness. Withdraw sustainable way of living. Multiply increasing debt. Divide by physical reactions to stress. Equals it’s pretty tough sometimes huh? The rest I’ll let you keep.

 

To speak of such things.

In that illusive underground, where perpetual hounds dwell,

They search and groan, their strength in numbers, so no wonder the _the_ the _ the _‘Ruben Schwarz’ she said then the shadow darkened upon her face

weeks, that point where no points lie;

this face this face…

In the end, say,

Thank you very much everyone,

No, thank you. I give up. No, no yet actually.

 

-

 

 

 

Enter humour.

If I was a rapper I’d say my diet don’t try it they all fry it the shit that I eat aint no mean feat but it sure is neat and while the rhymes aint discreet you must admit that this sure is the sheat

 

Alas, I loved the role, although after a couple of weeks I had realised under no uncertain circumstances that I had been overdoing it. On an average week, all under the disguise of a struggling artist, I would play the clown, the mimic, the imitator, the bohemian, the addict, the comedian, the creator, the destroyer – even the misunderstood songwriter (one of the downsides of having such a disguise). I would tell people about my work, almost crying with intensity as I did so, ranting about having periods of “tranquillity and leisure…of having those brief pockets of self-belief and ‘good work’…only to then lose it all to the black weeks, weekends quite disgusting and repulsive; smoking and drinking and fucking away like a witless animal…” Fascinating stuff. People would clap. I was told I was a ‘great one’, ‘one to watch’, ‘a beauty’. Those same people who had viewed me with mistrust upon my arrival now grinned as I walked by their shops, their cafes, their town. They’d wink and say, ‘Alles gut?’ And I’d nod and shout yeah, alles gut, and hurry off to wherever I was going.

 

 

the occasional homeless person exemplifying poverty and dislodged society for instance-

All together now: Dieser Zug wird hier enden (repeat three times)

 

New: Produce a 500-700 word article:

Either,

Why you shouldn’t fire your manager for finding fraud,

Or,

Comparing Apples to Androids: How you should market both / either / or

 

God

 

Think im riding down old rats alley, everything rattles by and I don’t know how to scream,

yeah, like that

 

God

Singing let it be, let it be with the 8 year old Russian school kid, English lessons, I’m going to go to the supermarket afterwards and find salvation in weekly groceries

 

God

 

And that unannounced funeral procession would forever pass us by,

And we’d look on humbly yet still make out the voices in disgusting bars, voices that would knowingly insult themselves into oblivion, saying things like, Ash on that young phoenix babe,

And, all bow down to the pitch perfect articulation of nothing…

You remember too, do you not?

 

Important to know:

I am an angel tangled in the clipped wings of my downfall’s tentacles,

I suck them dry, blushing with greed, crushing at spleen,

I is need, and you’re a creed, I love you, yeah baby YEAH (l’m laughing)

Ravaging all essence, playing jokes on confidence (from Moral Dirt, ‘I Am An Angel Tangled In The Clipped Wings Of My Downfall’s Tentacles’, The Seventies, (Joyless Records), 2013

                                                                                                           And I’m

Winding down car windows and taking a look at it all… - Not bad.

My health is fabulous – I dislike the ulcers, the blisters, the persistent acne, dry skin (the weather’s a nuisance), and what else can I think of? My grey tooth – a dental issue – that’s all I need. I more often than not remember to brush my teeth, and sometimes floss (which is arguably as, if not more important than brushing itself).

The other night was speed, hashish and vodka. I threw up by the curb, left my friends, then returned insistent on returning, of which proved trivial.

 

Potential jobs:

Analyst, Teacher, Adjuster(?)

Sales Accountant Executive (no words)

Copywriter (literally like joining an impossible to gain access to cult)

Accountant (too many numbers)

Research analyst (probably very boring, no?)

 

That was at Hotel Du Berlin. It was a hotel, the one I always imagined it would be, for a night with a woman like her, a room lit by candles, designed with gypsy iconography, literary paraphernalia.

She tells you all about her recent struggles; her time spent on the streets, Paris, St. Petersburg, Berlin. Grew up in Chicago, lives half in New York, half in Berlin. Wow. Her life’s work is astonishing. Consider her age, nineteen years old, a girl, a woman. My name’s Anita she says. Her face? Like a clown, a bit of a joke, but quite beautiful.

She has a boyfriend, an enforcer of some kind, I know not what. The more she tells me about him, (his various convictions, his savage temper, his various chemical dependencies, a Spanish father and dishwasher in his late thirties she said or something like that, but she loves him, she really does, or at least she did at the time), the safer I feel. We smoke strange, warm things and think light and throwaway thoughts. Incense fills the room; she drowns me in hot, brutal vodka. I drink with discipline and smoke with curiosity. Sitting on her bed, the bed of royals, we sympathetically fuck one another. Retrospectively, the short curly red hair, the butternut skin, the tiny breasts, her legs spread out like a cheating slut, look excuse me, but that’s how it was to me– yes, okay, this I all did enjoy, like you would enjoy too, but what’s more, and this was what I loved about meeting her and the time we spent together, we had coffee in the morning friends! We cuddled in the warmth of her royal bed so naked and warm, so naked and warm! what soft skin she had, and yes, I remember now, we touched each other quite bashfully! Like virgins, friends! And after our depraved nonsense the night before, can you imagine? You couldn’t write it! And then I went home friends! And two weeks later, when contacting one of my underworld colleagues, I found out she’d fucked half the town in the exact same manner.

I’ll take a Duvel please Tito.

 

Update: toilets cleaned, windows closed, the door’s locked, unlocked, you forget, your street is getting married, no doubt blood and sirens, drunkards, always drunkards, good families and no doubt bad ones, the flats, the balconies, the homeless, always homeless, only the TV ariels behave, the kids, the calls, the cracks, the shots, the shouts, the sheer nonsense of it all, the life you lead, the life we lead together

 

Facebook status -I am a considerate and thoughtful SORRY not SORRY

Youtube link preview unavailable phew

 

My main responsibility though was to tell people, both in German and in English, ‘sorry, no glasses inside please’ when they would bring wine or beer into the exhibition.

 

And no matter the balance May’s proclaim was even or old or odd,

You see I still manage to see saw through things,

Long going on as before.

There was the bicycle, or better put, bike riding, cycling, travelling, to and from, from and to, often chanting, or hissing, from and to myself, and often out loud,

Just where is it that I belong, just where is it that I belong.

And what was customary: the tyre storms the crumbling

November leaves, that was it, just then –

I cycled through them, heartburn and no eyes,

One after the moon, silly clouds ruin everything,

 

Don’t caress my chin like perfect mothers do to the perfect misbehaving child, that’s not enough for me, and it doesn’t help my mood either.

 

finally I sat in a bar by gorlittzer park around 3 i had touched down around 11 and for 4 hours I just walked around and jumped on trains and looked blindly at maps bumped into gypsies outside the central station timidly scrammed back inside worried they were jinxing my trip haha i know but the paths i make for myself hang by threads i asked for information on hostels she managed to print out a list of 30 hostels you know i think when she was talking to me she was talking as if she’d had the same conversation with 20 other travellers but wait but suddenly at around 1 o clock i realised i was in berlin and it took my innocence away  away well at least some of it the rest would go later maybe thats why i went all “i aint just a traveller ive come to change the contemporary scene and be this radically different person thing” i had got off the train at wauchauerstr and stared over the bridge and marvelled and felt awash (can you see me standing by the bridge still clutching my airline ticket with sleep still in my eyes holes already in my shoes) intimidated by excitement at all the free life out there i could see the place was presumably full of art amongst other things and from where i was standing i was the youngest freshest most innoncent and probably greatest (censored) in town ha i hadn’t even done anything yet but ah my nerves were rattling in berlin you can smell it’s seediness honest it smells almost like natural air but its a bit lighter probably better at most things i’d say the air i mean but its true you do have to have confidence or at least be brave doing this sort of thing

 

Update: I can continue drinking coffee smoking cigarettes and eating pasta (every damn day my friend) so I guess all is well

 

Then from below I think did she just spit into the streets?

 

Red wine and tequila last night. Not the best mix…

 

 

‘The Real Struggling Artist’: An Investigation: self-conscious strolls through dark and dry streets cautiously buying ice cream and contemplating petty theft. Scanning the prices of restaurants disapprovingly like some aristocratic self-made hobo, a box I nearly said boy of noodles, 30C, dinner on the curb, Sprengelkiez, Wedding kommt, no it doesn’t they all say, laughing away at gentrification, that word everyone was obsessed with back in ’13, a white plastic fork, the grease on the napkin comically yellow, delicious disgusting, he or she will be hungry again in an hour and about to pass out on the curb right here in front of all the people and the sun, no one understands.

Drunken angst ridden walks home - who are these people from the internet, from the media, from society, all of them who tell me (indirectly) what I can and cannot do? They don’t even know me.

 

 

I went to the kitchen. Herman was there.

‘Hey,’ he said, cleaning a dish in the sink. Herman was a psychologist.

‘Hey,’ I said. I took a seat at the table.

‘You want a nut?’ Herman said, offering me a walnut.

‘Thanks,’ I said, looking at it dumbly.

Herman laughed. ‘You’ve got to break it out of the shell,” he said.

 

 

When I walked through Marienenplatz on a postcard autumn afternoon and felt holy in Berlin, which is nothing if not an anomaly to my other days and nights here – I dare you to find fault with this ah whatever

 

-hey please, stop that

 

this was in friedrichshain my friend calls it the ugly face the strange face of berlin simon dach str yes theres a sinister murk there a continuous feel of halloween and in that quarter the time can only be something between 1am and 3am and of course I’m there, you know…anyway; it has a peculiar effect on your what, your soul? and keeps you up very late.

Here let me you read this from my diary:

 

once in sunny new may i walked through the Volkspark in Friedrichschain with my suitcase rastafarian drug dealers asked me if everything was cool to which me and my suitcase my suitcase and i blushed and said yes everythings cool. i sat down on a bench and ended up glimpsing a young blonde sitting cross legged having a picnic, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear: summer was comin’, and tobacco was annoyingly falling out of my cigarette.

 

‘Well it’s simple,’ Herman said. ‘Most of the hard things in life are actually simple to understand. What’s in here,’ he said, tapping his head, ‘is what’s out there. It’s as simple as that.’

I agreed. ‘You’re right, you’re definitely right, but it’s hard to remember that all the time.’

Herman took a new dirty plat and started cleaning again with a smile. ‘Yes, life’s hard, but you have to try.’

 

That’s honestly what this city’s like when you first arrive.

 

Idea for project:

…the bigger picture….starring

Please find my lebenslauf attached

 

Me back in summer ’13, domestic scene: killing flies, ash spilling everywhere, stone cold sober for twelve hours every night, writing about god knows what, music coming from my phone like announcements from a war

 

And now, my sober thoughts written in indifferent insomnia: can’t think of anything.

 

But I’ve got to write something because I can’t sleep and to just lie there would be wasting time.

 

I ate fish soup with Americans in Germany and paid the Lebanese good money for good food and good service (not true regarding the company or paying the Lebanese or anyone save naturally the waiter at the restaurant)

 

I almost made love standing up with a seventeen year old Estonian tourist once  (again not true, we made out briefly in the street almost as a polite goodbye to a rather inconsequential albeit somewhat flirtatious acquaintance) trying not to come while we did it and as I strummed her afro and smiled at the nodding policeman, both of us observing each discreetly as he arrested seven elderly women, of whom I defended that very same night, unbeknownst to all, suddenly becoming a lawyer over night and a damn good one at that, later on in my life defending already perfectly freepersons of note, artists, journalists, friends, employers, my damn bosses – I still do to this day, at the ripe old age of nine hundred and one months enough

 

‘After some days, perhaps a week, your eyes adjust, you notice things. After three months you will never see anything properly again.’

Rick, East Of Eden Hostel Berlin

 

And I organised invasions; churches, restaurants, parks; a love life.

 

And there was once a department store, and silently it was I who exited with my head held high and my wallet flying out the window at great speed.

 

Sitting by Karl Marx Platz, getting to know my neighbourhood. Summer ’16. Earlier I had a nice cheap meal, then a ride through the cobbled stone streets, passing the bar scenes, the people out enjoying the warm the night. Then a couple of cigarettes, a cool drink, gazing harmlessly around. Various people, young and old, sit and drink wine and beer. The shopkeeper just started playing The Doors. Soon I will ride home, and sleep in my new apartment. Tomorrow the plumber comes to put in the sink. 2 Mediterranean girls inspect the eccentric statues on Karl Marx Platz, laughing in wonder.

 

This town is believably cruel, at least give it that.

 

music of the ‘classic millennial’ and so forth,

 

Of course you can have some, drugged creations on a bridge, no one’s stopping you, apart from that interruption in continuum, my father was a tailor, my mother phones, she worries…but anyway, the thought is:

In the eternal grey light, a light that blinds and blinds:

 

We are all blue for those we consider others,

 

And evenings no one looks at each other in the eye unless it’s for the first or last time, and the street noise, hear now! the pedestrian scene, lonely walk camouflage, you get it, I know, poor families acting out, you know them, rich, I know, spoilt? Richly poor, how about that. Presumably, they got nothing, you got nothing, we got nothing, hey pay attention, someone even lobs a bottle, it nearly hits you, and it smashes, hits a passing bus, you may have been on the bus, and then the little brats start shooting fireworks and crackers out the window. Your friend: take me out of here, you: I will.

 

And in other tonnes of frustrated enjoyment, at a price,

Before you and your very eyes The Youth is carefully lowered into society, and he is appropriated. Then come the suitable tones, social media tonnes, sighs, flashes of genius from the nearby neighbour, the night he ran out the front door, her heart lying on the front desk, Motown played in the background, in moments of pure ashtray, in memories soundtracked by the swig, the feint nod to with wine in hand, the nod to me, lying close to pretend castration on wooden neu apartment floorboards, all of us listening to Moral Dirt, in the middle of idle conversation, the hour glasses were posed or passed around and survived, he told us his life’s dream, and survived, and in the middle of the apartment you had a cemetery interview by telephone, queue an imaginary audience roaring with laughter, biting their finger nails, off, then you turn it off –then that babe Significance boarded the bus, had no ticket, and I watched Hopelessness lower its dress, sort itself out, I licked the golden sweat of her  back, only to taste fabric, I saw what I want and what I once wanted, if only one knew these things - but my dream is to never dream you, my dream is to do what I have to do and then always to the best of my ability – so I have written, he says, and I know a song we can play, someone else, the attractive girl, a Barcelona student, says, we all study towns you see, and her token friend on fire, the paranoia, and she’s right, we can all see that but lord knows no one will say that, it was a pleasant enough morning, sure, no loaded comments,  it seemed still like night that day, and they all nod at that, one could presume cheerleaders danced on the window ledge, connoisseurs waltzed in agreement to our underground / intellectual / hipster discourse, someone said to you – honey, look at me – a gallery of pure unadulterated sheer ahhh yeahhh, and we presumed there was a void around the corner, and yeah, we were right, a glassed, a gloss, a glazed look of pure

 

hey, all tired here now, they have a failed recognition from an aesthete they stare at, the observer changes the song or fate of this moment, if only my song could really sing itself now, then it’d be right, L steps off the train, and steps soon left that once had boarded a bus, that walk a street, that step on a bicycle, and chase hours and hours of riding, stepping on and through, necessity steps on you too, you’ll see, mark my words, and finally he is home – leave him, let him, just let him stay; tomorrow we will see him in different tones.

 

This is relevant only to me, which makes it important. God I feel empty.

 

I just want a steady Friday night.

 

Music of the building comes though, in terrible intervals.

People in the hungover bars fail to amuse me, and I stare at the street and wish I had a balcony.

 

Sun sets, then mood changes for the better.

Look, there in that flat lies a former beauty of the Berlin party scene, too doped up to think anything ever again. Wrong view. Wrong attitude probably too.

 

They fall asleep in stairways with needles in their arms and glass in their shoes, pills in their eyes, they smile at you as you ask them who they are, you can smile but they cannot stay. That’s just how it goes. It’s the truth.

 

Then there was the night where she was insistent that we had seen a ghost.

She was supposed to be leaving for America the next morning as she had a few jobs out there in the coming few weeks. Naturally I was sad, she was sad, we were both sad, and made a huge deal out of it, as we were very much in love, so much so that we weren’t often in reality in those days. I guess even as early as that you could say, ‘that’s where it all went wrong’

 

In the apartment opposite, you see the pimp and his bitch.

She’s always naked but you never see it, you just feel it.

I’m not surprised you’re claustrophobic when I talk like this.

Let me tell you about one of her lovers, loves ; the pimp.

I’ve lost track of who meant what and what was meant.

It all happens in anonymous casinos, where people gamble till their very last cent and then take to the streets and wander in eternal and soon to be chique deserts.

Meanwhile, there’s money everywhere; fling it in your face, sit by alt bau piazzas and read digital event invitations, scan city skylines from down right laughable rooftop bars made from and for dead paper, like the mummies and prophets before, like the Kreuzberg Madonna now, staring at her own cracked balcony window.

Kreuzberg Madonna, I feel for her; she’s so naked all the time that her body looks like clothes.

 

In other neighbourhoods, it’s much pleasanter. There you can walk freely and work on your projects in your mind. You can eat for seven euros and it will taste better than seventeen euro food, you have my word.

 

Silence, coffee in Kreuzberg. Watch him, watch her, they shall move on.

Silence, watch me watch myself, I shall move on.

 

Me? Leo rising, Gemini Moon, Virgo Sun

 

 

60 press ups, 2 mins front plank, 1 min side plank x2 ,75 sit ups x 2 (please do this every day)

 

 

Send back those shivering northern sweet nights of earthly scented oils that only you and I earn,

Lemongrass, thyme, lavender, softly floated

And I promise, I’ll still refuse you

 

‘We’ve got a lot of work to do,’ the TV says, the fridge door slams shut. I see the Kreuzberg Madonna smile with tears in her eyes

 

And yeah I guess it was more of a sexual thing with us rather than anything.

 

 

In other news, a shooting in northern Wedding left two people killed and two seriously wounded last night. Police are searching for the following persons:

 

You remember, do you not?

 

Tomorrow:  bank, doctors, supermarket (bread, milk, vegetables, bags for bin) then meet Boris with money

 

Float back like the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, ha! knowingly touch me, Gape the legs apart go on do it and catch up with my breath

Then your breasts can even kill me now, but you won’t,

And we’ll lie glued together forever,

And float and fuck and fight till before forever,

Hear us laugh like depraved hysterical animals of the night now! Ha!

 

Let it be, let it be

 

‘Then middle of the night, and there’s a knock at my door and it’s, it’s Anita, crying, blood everywhere, saying Ricky’s been killed, and the police are everywhere.’

 

But please be there for me if I cry, please I will still refuse you

 

Mother Mary calls to me, whispering words of wisdom

 

In other neighbourhoods, it’s much pleasanter.

 

In other neighbourhoods,

City of mirage halls,

You can create your own dream life there