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