In Praise of Decadence

State of Mind II 40 x 20 cm

IN PRAISE OF DECADENCE

The table dancers are on their way

and the musicians are puffing on 

a spliff behind the gazebo( as the Beatles

once did a few minutes before their performance

at the Royal Albert Hall for the Royal Albert Family

going onstage royally stoned, and I guess

their music was quite easy to play

because if you have ever been royally stoned, well,

sometimes walking, sometimes talking, sometimes merely

existing can be really hard) as if gazebos

were designed for that purpose

which we know isn’t the case but then why not

a Parisian post-modern philosopher of urban legend

might ask: seriousness is just too Teutonic: given

the state of our Zeitgeist, holding out for tragicomic

would be excessive. Feel free therefore

to partake of the foie gras, and from the wine

breathing its last, go ahead, have a sip

before it slips away into this dark perfumed night.

I’m sure you have spotted the girls whose

eyes are violet-hued in this light—

like a squadron of Scottish witches they are—

shall we rescue them?

From boredom, I mean. We don’t fight over females

the way we used to. And that’s too bad. For isn’t life,

like a peach or a girl’s thigh, less sweet without the bruise? 

Ziggy Stardust by David Bowie

Autumnal

The last Bunch 56 x 42 cm pastel painting by Karin Goeppert

THE TURN

This is light you can live in,

warmish, the color of northern ale,

emerging from the sweat bath of

July and early August, here in

the German speaking tropics, but as dry now

as a martini by Noel Coward. Berlin is not just in

but is a rain forest. Sinuses finally unblocked; a

beaker of sweet morning air before coffee and eggs. 

Season of not exactly mellow fruitfulness—we live in

a city of four-million after all—I’m walking in your midst

through the park with its moldy whiff—I can smell again!—

of mushroom and hash on suddenly cool air. Cyclist

shivering in t-shirt, Jogger with blue legs. Some people

just need a little more transition, okay? A few Muslim women,

in the open yet discreetly concealed, gathering pine cones,

plucking some really juicy ones from tree limbs: pine cone soup?

You love the cold months, nature gnarled and empty,  

nestled on the couch in candlelight, that’s you, a “cuppa”

Yorkshire Gold, the working woman’s brew, at your elbow.

Open cook book against blanketed knees. Cat turning

in slow, semi-conscious circle back to where he started from.

Streetlights on at four PM. Cold of morning staying the whole damn day.  

Vivaldi's 4 Seasons - Autumn

Julia Fischer, violin

Inner Pig Dog

In einem gelben Wald - In a yellow Wood 40 x 40 cm acryl painting by Karin Goeppert

INNERER SCHWEINEHUND:

which means “inner pig dog” in good English.

Now, everybody has an inner pig dog

and this creature is a mongrel breed

part couch potato, part psychopath,

part sexual pervert, part greedy slob

of abysmally disgusting, insatiable appetites,

selfish, let’s everyone down, always late—

fucker’s never there when you need him— 

doesn’t replace the TP roll, has desires so dark

it would be better not to shine a light on them.

When it wags its barbed tail and snorts and scratches

at your insides you might be tempted to open up

and let the inner pig dog out for a romp. A child has

dropped a banknote on the sidewalk in front of you

and hasn’t noticed and your IPD is salivating at the

thought of all the curry sausages with French fries

soaked in sauce you can buy with the child’s money, 

the porn videos, case of beer, terminally stupid tabloid  

you roll up and stick in your back pocket, the riveting

conversation with a tattooed bar slut after toasting

in a sun studio cylinder for twenty minutes coming

out the color of a Florida orange. We all have

those primary IPD moments in our lives: such as the time

I was boxing Roy Slicker in his back yard; poor Roy, helpless,

more a pusher than a puncher, came in swinging with all

the ferocity of a girl scout insisting you buy her cookies,

eyes closed, exposed, and I slammed the side

of his head with a haymaker of a counter-punch

even though I could have just danced away. Worse,

I’d pretended I was in trouble, leaning

back against a tree trunk, seeming to

cover up, thus inviting his futile attack.

Somewhere hot, the Demiurge, talent scout

in love with unfair fights, exploitation, all the imbalances

and excesses hard-wired into violent turbulent life,

put a pencil tip to his lips, chuckled, then made an entry

in his Black Ledger. I was on the team now, rising in the depth chart.

Meanwhile, I bent over Roy and fanned him with the Chronicle

sports section, worried, but not knowing my first K.O. was also my last.  

Black Dog - Led Zeppelin

Baby Sitters in September

September 50 x 40 cm mixed media painting by Karin Goeppert

THE BABY SITTER

Getting someone last second to give a twelve minute speech on

“construction engineering issues with special regard

to Stalinist era high-rise housing in East Berlin”—impossible.

Maybe you remember (or probably don’t)

Gerald R. Ford? When Nixon was going down

in flames his idea of preemptive revenge

on an ungrateful nation was to replace his corrupt

Vice-President (the wonderful Spiro T. Agnew)

with mediocre “Gerry” Ford (i.e., Nixon’s successor), a man

who became famous for losing his footing—

tripping over the trains of fine ladies’ gowns

at state receptions. Stepping out of Air Force One

while waving at the adoring masses and not stumbling

at the same time was a considerable feat for Gerry. Apparent

physical ineptitude became his signature, his prop, his claim

to a personal style, like Roosevelt’s smile, Clinton’s cigar.

Still, if you keep

recent presidential history in mind, he didn’t do a bad job—

sub-zero expectations and no daddy hang-ups.

So, the next time you’re looking for a baby sitter

(as hard to find as construction engineers)

you might do worse than a tattooed girl

with tongue stud, red eyes, chronic sniffles. Behind

that blank gaze—which isn’t even a gaze, which isn’t even  

an empty stare on a subway platform at midnight—

so alienating that she looks indeed like she’s from

another planet—and beneath a voice flattened by tons

of post-modern urban nihilism—

affection just might be waiting its last chance,

responsibility and good citizenship their renaissance.

And standing next to her, a lump

of pierced boy-meat, a moving pattern

of crystal meth ticks, is breathing through his mouth.

Drastically pint-sized, wiry as a garrote,

is he not an Eagle Scout incognito?

Beethoven's Third Symphony, 4th movement
Danmarks Radio SymfoniOrkestret - Fabio Luisi

Hoping for Rain

Ich mag den Regen - I like the Rain 42 x 56 cm mixed media painting by Karin Goeppert

SAY WHAT YOU LIKE

Couldn’t care less about the Duke of Aragon’s

barbed scepter. But you do like the crumbling   

bits of old barns, or the stone cold cellar of an abbey,   

moldy bottles of a local vintage stored there  

for decades, undrinkable, the grapes in these parts   

turning sour well before middle-age sets in. At the agri-  

cultural festival there’s talk of manure and goose liver,

the famous scene in “Madame Bovary”

in which Madame B. is romanced 

by Rudolfo while outside a politician    

gives a speech that, with Bach-like precision,  

mirrors a lover’s empty words. I’m getting tired, maybe 

we should lie down for a while. Lunch was heavy

going and the wine strong. Children are running

races through the barley and rye. Say what you like,

some day they too will have to rest. People say

that a Greco or a Goya is stashed away in a back chamber

of the ducal palace, but no one has the energy to look for it. 

Julia Fischer plays various Bach pieces