leather gloves
leather gloves!
(an X-file of sorts)
19:27 PM Two men talk of the disparate relationship between laundry lists, magnetic poetry and films. they were brothers once and called the city of hamburg their home. But, that was a long time ago. Now they talk about beer, silently across the space of their semi-conscious fetal stirrings, crouched in cheap truck stop shower stalls or dingy bathtubs quite apart but so close in that moment... eyes closed, backs hunched and head tucked to the chest awaiting the moment of sleep, together they transmit the time. How does one know that the other was thinking of the fire storm the day the tornado rumbled through his house like an unholy flock of B-29s on a milk run of revenge... a time they knew once as children is repeated again and they just know? They haven’t seen each other in about thirty one years. the tornado happened two and a half months ago. Last night in their dreams, they were in a cobbled stone street. At 6:27 AM, this morning they wet their pants, simultaneously.
And looked down to one another, the dark stain already gaining ground like a pre and post-world war one map of europe. This was nothing new to them for they had gone through their father’s leaving every morning for work duty obligation in the fatherland’s steel and munitions tooling factory. Every morning off and out the door into the rose coloured sunrise of a booming northern european city. It was true. everything was increasing in size, including their world and the world around them. One day it was Hans and his marbles in der Strasse and the next it was finding the copy of le monde strewn in their father’s morning trash or was it the local socialist haymaker? Whatever it was it was increasing their world exponentially even as they still found the need to release by running helter-skelter down the street and upsetting the cafe tables spilling espresso on the laps of patrons.
It was electricity in their pants, it was bim-skala-bim every night on benzedrine down the pally, it was silly hats and two days sleepless on cross-state drop-offs. Tom Foolery was the wag of the moment, the rapscallion who punctuated the night air like pungent root vegetables falling asleep in the shower on hot summer nights after forgetting to jump from the lush foliated banks by the old bridge once again.
The other day he threw it (you know, IT!) under Tom’s reaper in the field when no one was looking. He remembered bed soars and the paint peeling off the walls of the old farmhouse bedroom. It must be some malady, he thought, some god- forsaking thing he had picked up in Panama. he delivered, foolishly, a firestorm of his own devise on some unsuspecting peasants and it made him weep. Sorrowful friend of old Tom, now a regretful vegetable of a different sort. he was speculating on some land in the mid-west, tornados aside he thought he could make a fresh start of it there. London in his late teens, covert ops in Central America, and now a permanent vacation, retirement back in the states. a land he had never known, so very close to that brother. More stupid dreams?
More dreams of the Sahara? More dreams of a sun drenched second resort in the heart of the Algerian desert where cousins lived among the arabs and the foreign born foreigners who spoke the french language naturally as though it were not in actuality a fremdsprache to them, who were actually strangers to the brothers. But they were far away. In dreams of stone grey concrete and the freshly poured dreams of thousands, hundreds of thousands of, millions of Germans were being poured fresh into a new mold that was not based upon a foreign ideal, whether it be of art or land, property, patriotism. Except, “von Swing bis Bebop.” Those were some exhilarating exceptions. The plan went awry somehow. In the Kunst of the time we saw ushered in the degeneracy of warhol and “Punk” of the insane! Postponepost-punk dilemma boys are wary now and all I can say is This, “plan sibt kindern eine Chance?” for when forget it is after all, a silly Akte X. A file labeled x for forgiveness.
(an X-file of sorts)
19:27 PM Two men talk of the disparate relationship between laundry lists, magnetic poetry and films. they were brothers once and called the city of hamburg their home. But, that was a long time ago. Now they talk about beer, silently across the space of their semi-conscious fetal stirrings, crouched in cheap truck stop shower stalls or dingy bathtubs quite apart but so close in that moment... eyes closed, backs hunched and head tucked to the chest awaiting the moment of sleep, together they transmit the time. How does one know that the other was thinking of the fire storm the day the tornado rumbled through his house like an unholy flock of B-29s on a milk run of revenge... a time they knew once as children is repeated again and they just know? They haven’t seen each other in about thirty one years. the tornado happened two and a half months ago. Last night in their dreams, they were in a cobbled stone street. At 6:27 AM, this morning they wet their pants, simultaneously.
And looked down to one another, the dark stain already gaining ground like a pre and post-world war one map of europe. This was nothing new to them for they had gone through their father’s leaving every morning for work duty obligation in the fatherland’s steel and munitions tooling factory. Every morning off and out the door into the rose coloured sunrise of a booming northern european city. It was true. everything was increasing in size, including their world and the world around them. One day it was Hans and his marbles in der Strasse and the next it was finding the copy of le monde strewn in their father’s morning trash or was it the local socialist haymaker? Whatever it was it was increasing their world exponentially even as they still found the need to release by running helter-skelter down the street and upsetting the cafe tables spilling espresso on the laps of patrons.
It was electricity in their pants, it was bim-skala-bim every night on benzedrine down the pally, it was silly hats and two days sleepless on cross-state drop-offs. Tom Foolery was the wag of the moment, the rapscallion who punctuated the night air like pungent root vegetables falling asleep in the shower on hot summer nights after forgetting to jump from the lush foliated banks by the old bridge once again.
The other day he threw it (you know, IT!) under Tom’s reaper in the field when no one was looking. He remembered bed soars and the paint peeling off the walls of the old farmhouse bedroom. It must be some malady, he thought, some god- forsaking thing he had picked up in Panama. he delivered, foolishly, a firestorm of his own devise on some unsuspecting peasants and it made him weep. Sorrowful friend of old Tom, now a regretful vegetable of a different sort. he was speculating on some land in the mid-west, tornados aside he thought he could make a fresh start of it there. London in his late teens, covert ops in Central America, and now a permanent vacation, retirement back in the states. a land he had never known, so very close to that brother. More stupid dreams?
More dreams of the Sahara? More dreams of a sun drenched second resort in the heart of the Algerian desert where cousins lived among the arabs and the foreign born foreigners who spoke the french language naturally as though it were not in actuality a fremdsprache to them, who were actually strangers to the brothers. But they were far away. In dreams of stone grey concrete and the freshly poured dreams of thousands, hundreds of thousands of, millions of Germans were being poured fresh into a new mold that was not based upon a foreign ideal, whether it be of art or land, property, patriotism. Except, “von Swing bis Bebop.” Those were some exhilarating exceptions. The plan went awry somehow. In the Kunst of the time we saw ushered in the degeneracy of warhol and “Punk” of the insane! Postponepost-punk dilemma boys are wary now and all I can say is This, “plan sibt kindern eine Chance?” for when forget it is after all, a silly Akte X. A file labeled x for forgiveness.
posted by BrenGun at 2:52 PM
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