Postcard From Kreuzberg.

Someone’s teasing out a tune

from a borrowed horn, in a rented room,

in Kreuzberg.

 

She breathes in the perfume

of the afternoon – tastes bottled beer

and oranges.

 

The shadows rise as the sunlight falls.

The sparrows in the scaffold sing.

In 10962.

 

Two punks sitting on a painted wall – Baruther Strasse cemetery.

They’re reading out the names on the headstones.

It sounds like poetry to me.

 

The bikes slide by like silent film.

The ghosts are swinging in the breeze.

They’re all around you.

 

I spent an hour in a bookshop in East Berlin:

I just browsed through the boxes.

I bought a postcard and a novel that I could not read.

I wrote upon it.

 

I wrote…

The shadows rise as the sunlight falls.

I wrote…

The sparrows in the scaffold sing.

I wrote…

The bikes slide by like silent film.

I wrote…

The ghosts are swinging in the breeze.

And I sent it to you.

 

Berlin bikes

 

 

 

3 thoughts on “Postcard From Kreuzberg.

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