Meeting Pity
When the last Berliner left the colony of culture anachronism fed chunks of time left behind rummaging empty streets akin for a fixed identity. Amplified by multitude the remains are almost audible asking nothing but to salvate memory for on it falls heavy rain – he’s looking for constant summer to put a blanket over the eggshell landscape of hours
Husslin for money caring deeply for your honey, saving memory like paper money from getting wet in the rain falling heavy drops on City roofs. Husslin like jazz, fearing possibility of life instead of improbability of death, shedding urine from bridge edges, munching post intoxication wedges at a gyros stand, standing for you, me and a guy called Jimi, Pidi,
writing music at night, fearing it’s flight. The night. Training to be Coltrane dragging Prahas reluctant soultrain reluctant to resist. It’s easy to run outside when heavy rain turns into mist. Ah! There’s nothing to resist. After a long night we meet at our journeys feet, you, me and a guy called Jimi, Pidi. Moravian wine flows in a river of delight sold on the edge of morning for you, me and a guy called Jimi, Pidi. Fearing possibility of life instead of improbability of death we watch as he sheds urin from the bridge edge, rocking slowly between departure and arrival wondering what’s about to happen. Will someone make his decision for him? You touched his thigh and death smiled, towards you, me and a guy called Jimi, Pity.
