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I remember missing Haendel’s /
Messiah at the Royal Albert
Hall… instead going to an East
End brothel and spending
two hours with a Bulgarian raven-haired
mandible artefact of the living…
all imperfections intact…
with exactly that piece of music
playing in my mind as
the primeval pointers were
made on reciprocating bodies…
also came the kitchen knife
and a bottle of bourbon,
since wearing the condom wasn’t
“risqué” enough…
god, I love being the guardian
of the caged beast,
but I lose patience patience when
listening to the composition…
if only the person who translated
James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake
into Polish, were to translate
Händel’s Messiah
into die mutterzung,
high heavens opened above Golgotha
and from the ashes of the crucifix
arose the greying firmament of
a 33 year old…
sing me that composition in
and thank fuck and God in Hindustan
and Afghanistan and other
palaces of the dwindling concept
of the Raj…
after so many years,
an intertwining figment of my imagination,
but at the same time:
the sweetest memory.

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One Comment

  1. I couldn’t stop reading this…You’re writing certainly has a way of keeping me engaged…You have an excellent talent.

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