A Perpetual Burgeoning of Realisations of Absurdity
Berlin is a collection of former strangers
to their own homeland, current foreigners
in a strange land, outsiders who never felt at home
at home, anywhere, with anyone, who can’t dance
but dance, who hop from techno ballet
to being strung up in a S-Bahn opera
like a red light, dangling upside down
from the feet, who were running away
from or towards the flickering lights
of an Aldi, that market of odds and ends
where people panic, prepare for robot
armed cashiers, where they organize
with others alike, with whom they can relate,
in the not being able to relate, at 3am
outside a late shop, this ship
and that ship, passing by, floating
down the Spree in a fog, connecting
through disconnection, a kinship of strangers
to the self, to the body, to the spirit, fleshy
vehicles driving on a dirty terrain,
peering out through slits, with feet firmly planted
on the moon, somewhere
far away, like aliens, who parachute
down into the illusion of life, wear it
as a costume, to the office,
where a backwards dog
who of course also moonlights
as a deejay, types away blindly, blissfully
at the desk of western teleology
until the weekend comes, and they just fall
into another hole, another punch
of the fifty two in the story of the year,
when, without gravity, they disappear,
forget the weight they were carrying
in a backpack, a shell, that was carefully selected
by the owner, that suits the owner’s shape,
that is functional, that is lightweight, that is extendable,
that is compared and contrasted, while waiting
for a very late locomotive, on a platform
in Leipzig, and picked up and slung
over the shoulders, as a test of camaraderie,
by every member of the community
of outlanders.