Cloaked in a haggled-for tricoloured tent
of a hammer-and-compass,
Stasi officer’s cap back-to-front
on history-drunk head, hands bent
into “East Side” and “West Side” gangsta-rap gestures
and watching the concrete-faced Russian Embassy guard
caress his Kalashnikov, I slip into a bar
where missiles launched by
hairy arms in a T-shirt blurting
“Hate Edge”,
the name of a local heavy-metal band,
fly through fog into an electronic dartboard,
to quaff a frothy wheat beer or two
and waffle Deutglisch with someone.
Hate Edge.
Hassrand, Hassgrenze,
Hate Border.
“And you Berliners know all about hate borders, you
built the Berlin Wall!”
I cackle like a paedophile with a ticket
to a cheerleaders’ dance.
He doesn’t.
A mouse scuttles along
the skirting-board.
A used crisp-packet
un folds itself.
I can hear my tinnitus,
whistling through my left ear like a jammed radio signal.
Berlin Wall.
Berlin Door, Berlindore, Borderline,
Hate Borderline.
“That is not funny,” he replies.
“The lyrics of this heavy-metal band
have nothing to do with the Berlin Wall.”
