Don’t Stay in Berlin
You are so raw, so rough
You hand cream-less vulture, lacking
Any vegan ocean salt scented oxygen salve
and on beautiful callus they
Consciously weave their skinny hips, they
Bristle and buffer, they pucker up
Their backs like their lips,
Them red painted hills of Siberia
Sewn into you, you hand-me-down Istanbul
Smelling like garlic yoghurt and bulgur salad, as lush as yesterday’s pineapple squares purged from the sea,
Knitted into golds of paisley at your shore, where Pablo and Marlene
Grasp their final breaths,
Flushed here, from the West,
Where only the wolves and their mothers survive.
What are you, but rings underneath Russia’s eyes?
You carousel of world war dust,
Not more than an accordion of gay lust, dragerina boys and lesbian grans,
Strung and played as america’s favourite toy,
What are you, but the sound of long closed factory halls
And their moaning machines, copulating like cells of instrument oil,
Oh, the balls, the skin and the bells of Jeff Mills,
pulsing and dripping from the interior of a béton brut die,
Where we hide, like ghosts from our previous lives,
Leaning on each other, wringing and squeezing, my limbs and their fits,
Shuttered behind shades, between faux black leather and diamond blades,
vowing repeatedly to the bass of tomorrow and the smell of your tits,
Restless and tired, like the hobos’ eyes on every passing train.
What are you, you two faced whelp,
Secretly treasuring up timber beams like you are the sun and they are your light,
smudgy used Baby Borns, worn out ushankas, French paste-on moustaches,
gibbous showmen and impeccable faces with long, flowing, healthy manes haunting them – you carry them all,
just to build three super massive black holes inside of a Trojan Horse,
ah, oui, pardon, Trojan Cat of course, or, to be more accurate: tomcat that is,
With whiskers moulded from stained, green cinnamon stucco,
Hypnotically whistling of sun lit saharas, of Orient oases set on different planets,
of perfect skin and violet eyes,
making us homesick for wanderlust,
And still, you are so raw, you are so rough,
You are not polished, never preppy, not even genteel, you are like none of your brothers and sisters,
You burp and you growl, you laugh and you howl, you little abandoned unwashed orphan.
And still, we come, we come in hundreds, in thousands, from every scratch of this earth, from every worm hole we crawl,
Dancing to your nauseating song,
For we are the rats,
And you are the pied piper of Hamelin.
Have us now, have us here,
Us jesters in your yard.
We came for your love, and we stay for your music.