From floppy to virtual reality

Dirty places midnight’s sticky floors
Cigarette ashes rubbed on junk sick sores
Tattoo party
Taboo smarty
You talk too much after a score
Don’t stop for red lights even for a whore

Under cushions used up works
Fulfilled condoms tied off jerks

I just need a place to sleep
Won’t wake up next to beauty queens another dead body bloody scene
Parkbench beds suicide on Miami beach

My alarm clock pigeon shits on me
A nightstick cop, jail a better place to be
Cardboard and subway vents provide heat
Breakfast of spat up fratboy feasts
Passed out blacked out fell asleep

I shaved today. Can’t recognize my own memories
Look like a cherub angel smooth baby clean
Microsoft’s neon lights rebooting me

One red square, a blue, a green
No longer homeless I’m a software machine
I copied and pasted a sequel it seems

For whom

I like the sound of the rain
Through an open window. no pane

I like the arched doors in dark bitter cold
German vampire hotels wet with mold

I can still smell the copper blood
Bullet smoke and dried up flood

I like the sound of no one around
The peace of eden. Before all the clowns

I like it when you stop breathing.
And there’s the smell of fog. Late evenings

11:45pm is now told

As two random church bells toll

die LED herausholen. Where’s that confounded bridge?

The sun a bit hot
Bright upon my thoughts
Cannot see to type this lil poem
Blistered upon my radiating phone
Blinding reflections real and prone
To prism their Venus into my bones

Rivers currents intrigue the soul
Pushing pulling to and fro

Gravity vs needs
a psychedelic pattern breeds

A stairway to heaven a turning Page
Levees break songs remain the sage

Chirping birds add to the ambience
Dragon flies they dart and dance
And the beer it flows by circumstance
Creating green and plastic and Robert


There is nature and there is a song
Forever a will and end our mean
And ever betwixt the bridge is long
From there and back and ‘tween
Well if no outro were written. it seems
Well baby we’ve just rambled
It’s time to.

Ramble on.
There’s no time to change the road.
You’re gone

Frankfurt A to Z

20180304_163403.jpgThat pneumatic pulse
The hi/lo wail on a yellow van
The stoic expressions and forced smile
Of a staunch upright German man
Who blinkblinks too much
Over his bright yellow scarf
And sprayed on Orange tan

The fullness of the smells
Of pretzels mustard and meat tubes
Sneaks behind the headaches, fuels wafting sweat of gate changing fools

Clack clack of suitcase wheels
Mad dashers and those who chill
Each pestering the other with looks
We all came to leave the flights
Are all booked

The elderly trying to remove their shoes
The young tugging crying for toy planes
The salesmen imbibing their blues
Drinking in another method to be away

Travelling. how I medicate
A half a pill of enthusiasm
Up to and until too late
It’s just another groundhogs day

The adrenaline of go away frowns
Wakes me up to bring me down
To land in your forgotten towns
Weary old pieces of me
that touch the ground

I stand on the walkway
Pondering runway lights
I couldn’t stay more than
Well. maybe a few nights
In any one place where
your loved ones die
Just let me through to
look down upon static lives
Please pass to the left

Because for me. Its not right.



singing Wonderwall in the rain
hoisting up our heffeweiss
we stangers made a pact in pain
clouds hide the moon’s first quarter slice

you could have taken the train
would not have paid the winter river’s price
before the bridge I’d blame the weather
it must be so cold under Neckar’s ice
you can’t warm your bones with Hasenpfeffer
after the Eiswein pulled the wheel to the right

wrapped up like maultaschen another runner in the night

Thinking there is a point to find is as pointless as to find life

your crowd only wanting each other
ways to fill voids in their own hollow lives
singing away memories smothered
waking up a new day and old Schwabian housewives

the pre-chorus naive and so full of trust
I envy you who leave before jaded by lust

into the black forest a boar
looks back over his snout
digs it up in the mud
by the river to the south
a backstage pass on his tusks
mystery of this poem in his mouth

you could have taken the train
you’d not be wrapped now in the hearse
it was beautiful to sing in the rain
The Backbeat starts, second verse