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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