Analysis of Opening up

Worrying about
your concerned questions
I feel obligated
to make sure that you will get
crystal clear answers.

The year round I experience
my inexplicable vocation.

Day and night words wing
through my drafty head,
searching frenetically
for an eternal place
in the hard pruning picking order
of my growing poem’s construction.

Daily from 8 till 10 a.m.
I dismantle
the tightly stuck nonsense
of confused philosophical writings
that with the regularity
of rain showers
are brought into orbit
around the globe.

I unscrew their stillborn sentences
catching the corrosion in a
shoebox, blown
against my front door.

The relieved letters
I then arrange alphabetically
on a sheepskin
spread in front of
the flickering fire place
so the 26 suckers
can catch their sound.

Daily from 10 a.m. till noon
I feel morally obligated
to have a peep
into billions of acts
at the courthouse
held under the magnifier
of my sagacity.

The blindfolded visionaries
of justice, after all,
are cunningly halving
the holy words
in literal
and figurative meanings.

It allows them to assess
each and every hungry crook
at all times in accord with
the bend of their arrogant hats.

With the contact adhesive
of poetry
I shall patch up
the dying words,
so they can soon
reradiate their magic.

Compared with Sigmund Freud
Adolf Hitler
was a fascinating social worker.

Still
the tangentially babbling coachmen
of quell-fare
globally insist to brick-lay
people like me
in the steep dungeons
of the outdated definitions
bequeathed by Freud.

However, my true doom
comprises
the unstoppable stigma
of the harassing vultures stalking me,
usually pub tigers
leaving a slipstream of
steaming body stench,
part-time serving
as stuttering gaffe-fathers
in the subsidized left-progressive state circus,
whose wiseacres’ view of the world
comes from the marinade they are soaked with
by the flaming appendices
of newspaper pre-chewings filled with ads.

Every day from 2 p.m. up till 4 p.m.
I am eager
to blast the widely scything dictatorship
of the recorded music.

To the regular Joes with a cap
and everyone wearing a hat
I explicate that true music
is invented and refined
at rock-along stages
of memorable pubs
in the blind alleys
of exploded metropolises
with the fuel of
the shouting, roaring, whistling,
hand clapping, feet stamping
and dancing audience!

And I orate that
only then
true music
is allowed to find its winding way
into the multiplying recording studios
from where it,
pimped with the leather jacket
of the Street Credibility,
gets hinted back
to the flapping floppy ears
of the three-step dance buts
cooking onion soup around the corner.

Because of horrified fury
I have to add
the terminally cancerous recorded music has become
a method to brainwash, splintering awareness
while being misused as a mental bazooka
to direct an emaciated consumption cattle
to the swallowing checkouts.

Now you understand why
many overfed musicians
label me a nest fouling letter dick,
hardly good enough
–while frost cuts–
to push,
their unruly Chevrolets
or to restrain their breathtaking call girls
from edging off
while the idolized string pickers themselves,
retreat to the shithouse
where they welcome
the amazing powder stocks
in their remaining brains.

Noted with it should be
the dazzling opulence
of instruments and equipment
many bands splash
at their stages,
need merciless sound checks
moreover
announcing a repertoire
that is largely set
on bygone covers
using phrases like

“I’m a poor lonesome boy,
standing on the corner
with an empty suitcase
in the fuckin’ snow”

leaving
a downright rancid taste
in the toothless mouth
of the literate city watcher.

Every day, between 4 and 6 p.m.
I am bound to rub
the weeping willows
of fellow poets
through the nutmeg grater
of my frowning reservations

investigate what
and how many adjectives
they spend.

(The legal maximum consumption for poets
with a body weight below 220 pounds,
has been determined
at twelve adjectives
a weekday,
on Saturdays and Sundays
one per day,
on public holidays
any use of it is forbidden
and anyone who, during a National Holiday
proceeds to pronounce
the first letter
of an adjective
will be
–not allowed to contradict–
finished at the spot with a neck shot
by the poetry police)

I also am obliged to estimate
how rough my melancholic colleagues kick
against the diamonds balls
of the Grand Capital’s Moloch,

check
to which graduated peasant daughters
they dedicate their sobbing love’s verses,
so I won’t –by renewing my membership–
accidentally end up
inside the carnivorous flowers
thurified by them.

Obviously
those maybugs of
creaking rhyme
continuously offer me spirits
lung pulverizing Marlboros
and even their foul-mouthed
serpents, their labile wives
so I may fall pray
ASAP
to the devious stratagems
of the Grim Reaper.

Daily between 6 and 8 p.m.
I provide evening classes
‘Mental Immersion’
to hug-damsels of various cuts,
married straitjackets
and Beguines
with their biological stopwatches
ticking ever louder.

Like a yes-nodding piggy pot negro
I listen with the earcups wide open
to their horrific handbag-complaints.

Of course I monitor the contents
of the mill-kooky mothers
battling with a gleaming Need-African
at the slippery dance floor.

Of course I fetch them
a soothing cup of coffee
and of course I stir it, and again
after those power horny young ladies,
due to somewhat too adventurous alcohol research
tear their self-decorated, silk blouses
from their unapproachable bodies
to tie a strip of it
around their wildly forested skulls
and shout a deeply felt cover
of ‘Diamonds are a girl’s best friend’,
while tap-dancing
on the imploding pub’s counter.

Meanwhile they also direct
the sweaty rhythm
with a silly slacking baguette
that was driveled
alarmingly deep
into their multifunctional vaginas
by a reliable,
since with Greek principles
flirting street worker,
who considers his contribution
to the overall fun
a welcome distraction
now that his job
has become super stressful
with quite many tobacco groupies
organizing steam sessions
at windy street corners
usually a healthy sport discipline
had it not been that
with practicing it
many catwalk cats
have a change of driver
and the exhausting altercations caused by this
create a novel pre-revolutionary climate
in the obedient-baked streets.

Everyday, between 8 p.m. and
the hour of the wolf
I play nanny to myself.

It is true that I –on average
up to fourteen times each night–
fall in hammered love with pub cats
that -sniffing for promising seeds-
squirm into the drink shed

Ever since my Confirmation party
went all but motionless
due to an initiatory undressing
in the hot cooked shed
of the prominent village inn ‘Terminus’
–awkwardly directed
by a far flung sugar aunt
who already devoured comic books–
I suffer from addictive
‘infatuation flashes’.

The latter implies that I
cannot take even a drop of alcohol.

After all, only in sober condition,
I fully understand
I never fall in love
with the hug-damsel as such,
it is the image
of the girl in question
an image that I sublimate
and that I feast and slurp.

And these images
I desperately need
in order to be able to do
what I am not bad at:

lacemaking
with the most sing-along-songsterest love poetry!

So ladies, hug-damsels too,
don’t hide in your lofts
behind pyramids
of discarded hat boxes
when I doom from the desert
of my loneliness
with bulging eyeballs
of morbid infatuation.

A professional I am
as the inveterate explorer
who squeezes his highly pregnant love poems
in wine bottles guzzled by others
to slam them in the unfathomable oceans
of your sacred beauty.

The household love
is taboo for me.
It disrupts my vocation!

Look infatuated at me
so I may drop
like a hot incandescent bulb!

Love should indeed never reach
a definite result
or she torpedoes herself!