I love the sublime lewdness
in this Berlin shadow theater .
Incestuous nuptials of bad champagne
and filthy rain, that glides over
leather and metal in a glorious
stench of vomit ...
Ambiguous loves play the puritans
on the geometry of a fatal negligee...
Drunken nocturnal angels
burning their wings on the streetlights of infamy.
Bellies burdened with the heavy
harvest of sin ...
champagne for nightmarish figures !
Mask and whip for party members !
at the gayguard changing ,
Lili Marlene will be reborn as Horst Wessel !
Charlottenburg .
a last subway stops before the fairytale begins...
In a future long before midnight ,
in the back of a gambling garden ,
I recognized the ghost of a guerillero
who looked just like Hemingway ,
dreaming about an inspired suicide ...
Tired sleepwalkers wait for the first metro .
Alexander Platz.
a new death begins again ...
Somewhere before the day after ,
an abandonned dog howls in anguish ,
mourning the lost child ...
An elegant psychopath wanders through a city
written in invisible letters of walls...
Beautiful lady :
A dark horizon of black passion ,
clouds your eyes absence color .
Tomorrow the void will belong to us !
I covered your body with my lies
of a talentless poet ...
at the hour when serial killers are about to fall asleep ,
I met the lord of the flies on a street in Berlin...
-
Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 28th, 2026 11:03
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, turningpoint
Offline)
Comments5
A rather dark feel, slippery as oil it comes out of the cobwebs like a spider after a fly. Well said in the last lines where the lord of the flies appears. Well done Lorenz
the triumph of the spectral will !
Specters are always interesting.
Beautifully dark and alluring
I love the ambiguity of this autistic city !
much enjoyed
A poem about the dark, nocturnal side of humanity.
Getting too close to the light is dangerous !
Lorenz, what a dark and intoxicating piece! Berlin becomes a fever dream where decadence, history, desire, and violence stumble through the same night. Absolutely riveting work, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
A poet must sometimes walk through the mud if he wants to discover whose shoes left their footprints there !
WELL SAID ESPECIALLY THE VERBS
the city where emptiness is a living substance ...
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.