05-02-2013, 04:50 AM
A Winter in Munich
for Rowen S and Newsclippings
PRELUDE
An error occurred at my bank. It was xmas and none of the guys over there felt the need to fix it. … yet! So I, on my way to work, collected the cash, a two-months income for me, in order to waste it. You could say: I had a plan.
Moving on, I considered to not go to work, but instead take the train to Munich to bacchanalize my life. And my birthday was coming up soon, too.
FUGUE IN THREE VOICES
Voice 1:
Close the doors, put out the light*
My bourgeois lamp dimmed down
while I sat on my Bordeaux cushion
drinking Blue Curaçao straight from
the pretty bottle I had bought as a
bad imitation of a soother for a lost boy.
Landed at Munich's grand station
feeling more warm by then.
I strolled through Schillerstraße
(a Harlemized NYC 5th Avenue)
rented a bed at a hotel called:
Heimat meaning Home or better: at home
is where me heart should be.
Me, blue-blooded now, ventured into
the scene of horses and downers:
The H was good: I was Bowie for just
one day, needing a Queen to satisfy
my needs, and I found one queen bee
of the smack. She wanted to lay me and
screw, but I: my brain needed the powder.
So, it took her about a million years
and not one single fucking second less
to apporting what was mine. All was
mine because me, I paid for it.
Major league hit through my nose:
Next thing I know is: her exposing
her breasts, first to me and then to
the mirror, me recalling: I'd fuck
me hard
from the silence of the lambs,
but I doubt we made love
because I blacked out.
I only remember, we stole magnum bottles
of champaign in order to sell them to a downtown
bar in order to get cash for horse of course.
It worked. Me feeling like a cultural anthropo-
logical field worker, getting too inclined.
In that same winter with a dark cloud for a sun,
covering what was wrong with me, my bourgeois
lamp dimmed down lowest.
---
Voice 2:
The winds of Thor are blowing cold*
On the night of my birthday I walked through
a snow-flake hazard, singing the shadow of a
smile to myself, getting stoned on being free
from people but enslaved by drugs instead. I went
to the Allotria, a Jazz bar***, where after announcing
my celebration day I got a nice faced woman suddenly sitting next
to me, pretending interest in my affairs I did not tell
her about anyway, and trying to get me into talking about
what I have not the slightest clue. In nuce
it was - so it seemed to me – about her marvelous breasts
and why I did not desire to touch them.
I was less inclined, because of the music and the whiskey.
Voice 3:
They choose the path where no-one goes
Bad timing? She paid herself the glass of bad champaign
because I felt gentlemanishly enough to appreciate
her emancipation, she should care more about that, maybe
but then: who am I to judge? And then also: who am I to care?
Four fingers of whiskey (I insisted on Bourbon)
I got for free, so I doubled them of course
and, adding to the supposedly fun thing not to come,
I had one musical wish for free. I wanted Hancock's
Water Melon Man, but that was rejected because of being too
mainstream plastic pop bs, so I , now Marlowe, turned to the
typically ugly-faced piano man and said: You know what:
The shadow of your smile, please, (“but not your smile“, I thought),
which made him smile, but not me (because of the Marlowe thing
I had going by then). Must have been the whiskey.
for Rowen S and Newsclippings
PRELUDE
An error occurred at my bank. It was xmas and none of the guys over there felt the need to fix it. … yet! So I, on my way to work, collected the cash, a two-months income for me, in order to waste it. You could say: I had a plan.
Moving on, I considered to not go to work, but instead take the train to Munich to bacchanalize my life. And my birthday was coming up soon, too.
FUGUE IN THREE VOICES
Voice 1:
Close the doors, put out the light*
My bourgeois lamp dimmed down
while I sat on my Bordeaux cushion
drinking Blue Curaçao straight from
the pretty bottle I had bought as a
bad imitation of a soother for a lost boy.
Landed at Munich's grand station
feeling more warm by then.
I strolled through Schillerstraße
(a Harlemized NYC 5th Avenue)
rented a bed at a hotel called:
Heimat meaning Home or better: at home
is where me heart should be.
Me, blue-blooded now, ventured into
the scene of horses and downers:
The H was good: I was Bowie for just
one day, needing a Queen to satisfy
my needs, and I found one queen bee
of the smack. She wanted to lay me and
screw, but I: my brain needed the powder.
So, it took her about a million years
and not one single fucking second less
to apporting what was mine. All was
mine because me, I paid for it.
Major league hit through my nose:
Next thing I know is: her exposing
her breasts, first to me and then to
the mirror, me recalling: I'd fuck
me hard
from the silence of the lambs,
but I doubt we made love
because I blacked out.
I only remember, we stole magnum bottles
of champaign in order to sell them to a downtown
bar in order to get cash for horse of course.
It worked. Me feeling like a cultural anthropo-
logical field worker, getting too inclined.
In that same winter with a dark cloud for a sun,
covering what was wrong with me, my bourgeois
lamp dimmed down lowest.
---
Voice 2:
The winds of Thor are blowing cold*
On the night of my birthday I walked through
a snow-flake hazard, singing the shadow of a
smile to myself, getting stoned on being free
from people but enslaved by drugs instead. I went
to the Allotria, a Jazz bar***, where after announcing
my celebration day I got a nice faced woman suddenly sitting next
to me, pretending interest in my affairs I did not tell
her about anyway, and trying to get me into talking about
what I have not the slightest clue. In nuce
it was - so it seemed to me – about her marvelous breasts
and why I did not desire to touch them.
I was less inclined, because of the music and the whiskey.
Voice 3:
They choose the path where no-one goes
Bad timing? She paid herself the glass of bad champaign
because I felt gentlemanishly enough to appreciate
her emancipation, she should care more about that, maybe
but then: who am I to judge? And then also: who am I to care?
Four fingers of whiskey (I insisted on Bourbon)
I got for free, so I doubled them of course
and, adding to the supposedly fun thing not to come,
I had one musical wish for free. I wanted Hancock's
Water Melon Man, but that was rejected because of being too
mainstream plastic pop bs, so I , now Marlowe, turned to the
typically ugly-faced piano man and said: You know what:
The shadow of your smile, please, (“but not your smile“, I thought),
which made him smile, but not me (because of the Marlowe thing
I had going by then). Must have been the whiskey.