Here I hang, kicking around
the concrete communist cubes
(block sechs, block acht)
garnished with greens and grinning crimsons to inject
Lichtenberg with cheery richness,
a huge treasure chest of gushing yummy
cherry and orange community spirit. At the station
I stop and squint at a Stasi-times-old
city plan (or halfcity plan).
Stunted lines, dead lines and stations
with no timetables. Ghost lines
swooshing hither and thither.
The thrifty post-Luftwaffe theft
of my favourite city, but it thrives now
on fervent party fever. Well,
maybe not in Lichtenberg, where
swampy rain pummels me,
bombarding an ever-wetter pavement.
Wind-whipped, I bumble into the lift
where pimply boys with wimpy muscles
plump down cymbals, a bass
and amplifiers heavy as the future,
onto the fourth floor, past the
female lavatory where I furtively
brush my teeth, along the thrumming wall,
through the rhythm-bothered
rattling door to my windowless cave.
Lentils and a dozen sausages
laze around on the dresser,
six Riesling bottles drench the room
in the usual stench of urine,
the couch and its rigid cushions
cajole me into closing my eyes,
gute nacht,
as the crashing clang of electric guitars
huddles and hems me in.
