Berlin Shots

a sequence

by Jim Ferguson

we next saw the sun

i paid the men
and they sealed
the deal by enclosing us

in a metal container

we were welded
tight shut
with just water and air

and darkness

hours past
until we next saw the sun
when i found we were in

the city of berlin



into the dark

absolutely
love impossible
here or anywhere

empty street
full of wild
graffiti –

dancing before you
incredible writing
in a language

from a different planet –
what does it mean
strange streetlife

from the heart
of the addict –
slip quietly

into a nightclub
which once was a church
now completely detached

from its own nature –
a soul destroyed
cast into the desert

without boots or clothes –
and naked
behind a mirror

sits the essence
of beauty –
watch for the humans

they’re rough and ready
a jumble of smiles
and a rag‐bag of frowns –

see them all bankrupt
in night’s endless sands –
walk into the dark



the future holds promise

nothing much
of the old wall
                                 left

just a few lumps to sell
to tired drunk tourists
who’d do much better

to visit the zoo –
or just take the bus
like a carousel

that spins round
and around
schönefeld airport –

angry taxi drivers
shake raging fists
at this bus

which steals
most
of their business –

and even while
they rant and rave
they still form a queue

and wait
for the suits
from business class

who don’t like
the bus
and don’t like to travel

in circles –
for these are the men
for whom

the future
holds
promise



waiting to forget

point to the menu
and out pops
sausage potatoes and cabbage

‘ein beer bitta’
and drink it all up
with a friendly smile

the waitress
half glides   half stomps
around the room

talking and laughing
and taking
orders from right left and centre

what is to become
of these
afternoon diners

who wait impatiently
for their food to arrive
who wait impatiently

for the fußball to start
who wait impatiently
for the barber

to arrive
‐ and trim their moustache
‐ and shave off their hair

‐ and drill a hole
in their head
to suck out

their brains –
while they’re
staring ahead

with mouths open wide –
waiting to forget
their history



litres or shots

despite the snow
no one is skiing
here in berlin

at this time of year
it’s usually warmer
but even london

is colder with
weather weirdness
creeping all over

northern europe –
can’t explain
the change

in the sky line
above the clouds
a sea of white

upside down
mountains
say ‘danke’ und ‘morgen’

and the beer
is
blonde

and the rum
is
cuban

and in kruezberg
welshmen
are arm‐wrestling

all through the chaos
of ludicrous dreams
where freedom

rests its head
amid the wandering tribes
asking ‘what measures does liberty come in, litres or shots?’



bread can sustain you

caught
in a pizza joint
on kaiser allee

busy
with broken
girls and boys

on the 4 a.m. trance –
we don’t say much
but it’s cold again

yes
it’s cold again –
the free race by

with wheels
on their feet
and muscular legs

that can
make your nose bleed –
but we just stand and nibble

at the edge
of a giant
pizza planet –

our
knees
never bend –

while angels
are dreaming
of incredible flight

bread
can sustain you
inside and out

through
the watery air
of the night



your german eyes

i saw
                       in your
             eyes

an x‐ray through
to the back of my skull
bright and wonder‐filled

plans of tomorrow –
your arms               your hands
your fingers            your smile

together with mine
in the kitchen
cooking big pots

of lentil soup
with potatoes
and parsnips

to keep out the cold –
one day
together

we’d grow old –
weather wild
and weather strange

what games
we’d play –
canasta and scrabble –

take deep breaths
stop our hearts
so nothing could ever unravel

or time‐travel backwards
under the stairs
to where

our children would play
chinese whispers –
and inside their laughter

we knew
this was what
our love had made –

i looked in your eyes
your german eyes
in your beautiful german eyes

while you
picked my pockets
my heart    my bones –

and all exposed –
my dreams
sweet and bitter

vanished
into
the night



let it all go

sleep
why don’t you –
don’t walk around

on
long sad platforms
without any trains –

find a place
to lie down
take off your boots

don’t mind
the looks
on the faces

of stranded
companions –
swing

from the girders
on a flying trapeze
without any net

get to land safely
on the head
of a snowman –

socks soaking wet
but
no complaints

there’s no where
to walk –
no destination

and nobody waiting
with arms open wide –
keep your eyes open

dissolve in the mirror –
sleep
why don’t you        let it all go



alien air

suddenly
                   this
                             realisation

that
you’re far deeper
down
than you think

you’re deep underground –
while up above
people are walking   living –
smiling or frowning

or chatting with loved ones
or hunting their enemies
or wondering where the next
meal will come from –

and you are down here
and other people are down here too
waiting to be briskly moved
from one part of the world

to another –
from one part of their lives
to another –
and all the time

they’re pumping in oxygen
to keep us all going
– officials in uniform give dubious
guidance in the fine art

of travel – down here
i don’t know anyone
and i wonder which station
i’m allowed to get off at

and suddenly
there are thousands
and thousands of starlings
flying in swarms

above our heads
where everything happens
without rhyme or reason –
i yearn for the surface

search for my breath
‐ invisible ‐
caught here – in the alien air
so far below



northern tundra

we asked –
could we bring
our sense of humour with us

which was different
and funnier
than yours –

‘no’
we were told
you

don’t like
that stuff here –
don’t laugh

you told us
work hard
and we’d be fine –

but without laughter
our lives were blighted –
we had lost our voices –

lost our tongues
on the ice
of a northern tundra



the desolate end of an unknown street

i have to say –
we don't
look how we did

when we were
younger –
too many

sunset shadows
past away
beyond our eyes –

in time's dreamworld
we looked on intently
with only

youth's stupidity
as our guide –
our parents dead

along with some
contemporaries –
who fell

too early
trying to ‘kiss
the sky’ –

but such a
kissing game
was not for us

we did not
drive too fast
nor climb so high –

the hours
came and went
as months and years

and we stood
gently
stretching out our hands –

to get aboard
a bus whose
muddled movements

went beyond
the boundaries
of our knowing –

our hands   our arms
they withered
then they

drooped –
until Spring rains
stormed down

and washed us over
to the desolate end
of an unknown silent street –

which appears
as filled with nothing
and with plenty

the old meals
of our culture
sit half‐cooked –

our hunger
now
has left us

we
no longer
beg
to eat



when will the truth meet the truth


many papers are false
but existence is real
when will the truth

meet the truth

citizens of nowhere
workers of the world
‘the wrong kind of migrants’

human beings

© The Treacle Well 2013