Thursday, February 23, 2012


Die Brücke

They must have turned a few stolid German
heads in the years before the war, out to
overturn the dinner table,  

bellow in the library and race around
the alter, kids playing savage, their
idea of it anyway, the id

unbridled, hands turned to thrash and
burn with primal tools, gouged wood
releasing unseen spirits, tossing them

off like two minute garage hits pressed onto
paper, burning the inked blocks to heat
their cold Dresden studio leaving

only to take in the tingle-tangle
and meet girls, that timeless pastime 
of tortured artists everywhere, 

a blitzkrieg bookended by the
Manifesto and Chronik der Brücke,
a short jagged run worn smooth,

scoured by war, gouged away by a new
breed of savage in crisp brown shirts, ranks
in lockstep, preaching purity, wielding fire. 

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