erhalten’
‘
Despite all the powers closing in, hold yourself up
’
–
Goethe
After the war, he stays underground,
still wary of the necessary
horse trades and occupying powers.
Le Monde, Die Zeit, New York
Times
; Vietnam, Rwanda, Srebrenica:
years go by. In the stone arch of a busy
coffee house, Sophie is waving him over
past the billiards table, unfazed, looking
for all the world like she’s just
breezed in from 1933
and there’s no nightmare to come.
But the picture’s all wrong, her face
unaged, and where are Alex,
Willi or Christoph?
Sophie sighs, presses
a hand against her brother’s cheek.
‘Hans, it’s because we died.’
She describes the trial,
its forgone verdict, the bulbs
that burned all night in their cells,
the shared last cigarette
in the courtyard. Hans has turned
the details over again,
his memory tightening the blurs
like a Leica lens while the tension
in his face subsides
in the respite of knowing
at least they tried. They’re even laughing,
aping the parrot shrieks
of Friesler’s indignation,
gossiping over the Führer’s last pose,
Hans with a finger
cocked against his temple.
They order
café viennois
.
Sophie pokes at the dollops of whip
while ordered traffic crawls
past the painted glass
of the window. The newest papers
in wooden clips
fanned across
the billiard nap. Skinhead rallies,
latest dictatorships. Hans makes
another hopeless gesture.
Did everything change, or nothing?
Coffees done, they consider the years
like doors they never entered,
as if history’s just a lot
of people trying
to get from one room
to another. Outside, Hans
mounts the steps of a slowing tram.
Sophie ties her hair back
with an abalone barrette
as she turns
down Leopoldstrasse
and waves, looking for all the world
like she’s going to haunt it.
Vicious
(or, On Dissent)
CHARACTERS
Socrates
Sid Vicious
SOC .
Wait, stranger! Why the rush? This place
just turns upon itself, so to leave is only a step
to hurrying back. What’s the difference
if you pause and talk? Those scars
across your chest and face: did you once march
with spear and shield? I fought
at Potidaea and Delium. I’m Socrates, of Athens.
SID .
Yeah, I’ve heard that bit. Righteous bastard
with all the questions. I must be dead,
to run into the likes of you.
SOC .
Was it an accident? A sudden
fall from craggy heights? Or did you disturb
some starving animal in its sleep?
Who gave you those injuries?
SID .
I did.
SOC .
You?
SID .
I cut my chest with broken glass.
SOC .
And the scabs on the back of your hands,
were they not left by spear tips?
SID .
That was just a laugh with a cigarette, some game
we’d play in the Hampstead bedsit.
SOC .
What was the purpose?
SID .
It was funny. It was supposed to give
them second thoughts about trying to smack me.
Show them that anything they’d try
isn’t half of what I’ve had already.
SOC .
Who are they who’d seek to harm you?
SID .
Suits and coppers. Punters in the audience. The fucking lot.
SOC .
What were the reasons for their enmity?
SID .
They didn’t like us. We were wasters
and fuck-ups who wouldn’t settle for what they
stood for: blind acceptance, apathy and moderation.
We pushed some buttons. Got kitted out in handcuffs,
leather, safety pins and razor blades. Nicked stuff.
Punch-ups. Three-chord songs with aggro-lyrics.
Style as revolt, arrogance over ability, violence
if the music failed. Like Rotten said, it’s worth
going where you’re least wanted,
since there’s so much more to achieve.
SOC .
Were you an actor, or a rhapsode?
SID .
A what?
SOC .
A person skilled in reciting verse. Who takes the stage
at festivals with words stitched together so dramatically
that the rhythm of the music loads the crowd with feeling.
Years ago I met another rhapsode, who came from Ephesus.
I convinced him that the passion of his art passes through him
from gods into the audience;
‘
Despite all the powers closing in, hold yourself up
’
–
Goethe
After the war, he stays underground,
still wary of the necessary
horse trades and occupying powers.
Le Monde, Die Zeit, New York
Times
; Vietnam, Rwanda, Srebrenica:
years go by. In the stone arch of a busy
coffee house, Sophie is waving him over
past the billiards table, unfazed, looking
for all the world like she’s just
breezed in from 1933
and there’s no nightmare to come.
But the picture’s all wrong, her face
unaged, and where are Alex,
Willi or Christoph?
Sophie sighs, presses
a hand against her brother’s cheek.
‘Hans, it’s because we died.’
She describes the trial,
its forgone verdict, the bulbs
that burned all night in their cells,
the shared last cigarette
in the courtyard. Hans has turned
the details over again,
his memory tightening the blurs
like a Leica lens while the tension
in his face subsides
in the respite of knowing
at least they tried. They’re even laughing,
aping the parrot shrieks
of Friesler’s indignation,
gossiping over the Führer’s last pose,
Hans with a finger
cocked against his temple.
They order
café viennois
.
Sophie pokes at the dollops of whip
while ordered traffic crawls
past the painted glass
of the window. The newest papers
in wooden clips
fanned across
the billiard nap. Skinhead rallies,
latest dictatorships. Hans makes
another hopeless gesture.
Did everything change, or nothing?
Coffees done, they consider the years
like doors they never entered,
as if history’s just a lot
of people trying
to get from one room
to another. Outside, Hans
mounts the steps of a slowing tram.
Sophie ties her hair back
with an abalone barrette
as she turns
down Leopoldstrasse
and waves, looking for all the world
like she’s going to haunt it.
Vicious
(or, On Dissent)
CHARACTERS
Socrates
Sid Vicious
SOC .
Wait, stranger! Why the rush? This place
just turns upon itself, so to leave is only a step
to hurrying back. What’s the difference
if you pause and talk? Those scars
across your chest and face: did you once march
with spear and shield? I fought
at Potidaea and Delium. I’m Socrates, of Athens.
SID .
Yeah, I’ve heard that bit. Righteous bastard
with all the questions. I must be dead,
to run into the likes of you.
SOC .
Was it an accident? A sudden
fall from craggy heights? Or did you disturb
some starving animal in its sleep?
Who gave you those injuries?
SID .
I did.
SOC .
You?
SID .
I cut my chest with broken glass.
SOC .
And the scabs on the back of your hands,
were they not left by spear tips?
SID .
That was just a laugh with a cigarette, some game
we’d play in the Hampstead bedsit.
SOC .
What was the purpose?
SID .
It was funny. It was supposed to give
them second thoughts about trying to smack me.
Show them that anything they’d try
isn’t half of what I’ve had already.
SOC .
Who are they who’d seek to harm you?
SID .
Suits and coppers. Punters in the audience. The fucking lot.
SOC .
What were the reasons for their enmity?
SID .
They didn’t like us. We were wasters
and fuck-ups who wouldn’t settle for what they
stood for: blind acceptance, apathy and moderation.
We pushed some buttons. Got kitted out in handcuffs,
leather, safety pins and razor blades. Nicked stuff.
Punch-ups. Three-chord songs with aggro-lyrics.
Style as revolt, arrogance over ability, violence
if the music failed. Like Rotten said, it’s worth
going where you’re least wanted,
since there’s so much more to achieve.
SOC .
Were you an actor, or a rhapsode?
SID .
A what?
SOC .
A person skilled in reciting verse. Who takes the stage
at festivals with words stitched together so dramatically
that the rhythm of the music loads the crowd with feeling.
Years ago I met another rhapsode, who came from Ephesus.
I convinced him that the passion of his art passes through him
from gods into the audience;
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