Sunday 13 May 2012

ODE TO KLAUS DINGER




Klaus,
i knew Neu! were for me/dammit Klaus, Neu! WERE me!
i knew it when i about you in Mojo/knew before i EVEN heard you
that was a
a long time ago . . .

Klaus,
reading your obit out loud/its Thursday;
just found it 
but no one here in the working day
cares
but me.
but Klaus, i count for 7 dumb Ignorists barking and
buying tunnel vision in tabloid
for vouchers
for horoscopes . . .

Klaus, 
since i read you died your Apache beats been drumming
binary humming and primal smacking
around my stumbling brain 
and in my heart pumping.
while 
work 
place 
Ignorists say
WE SHOULD BOMB ANYONE WITH A BEARD ABROAD
i quietly say
AREN'T WE?

i clearly see fast sticks wailing Klaus, favourite drummer.
Klaus,
you
invented techno before Detroit and the New York discos
but no one in the work place
knows/cares/is even interested
but 
me.

Ignorists dream of a town without 
A PAKI SHOP
away from high rents and
ALL THE BLACKS.
but Klaus, i am worth 12 of these Living Dead!
Enlightened; your drumming relentless inevitable
one tribal linear heart
makes me FEEL movement FORWARD.

Ignorists imagine an English Enclave/imagine a myth where they
wave flags on
Britain Day 
but
scared Muslims will take
there
money
Christmas away/Easter is bigger to real Christians anyway.
my vague ethos Klaus, is slim beyond words
but your drumming
is its backdrop/its heart/its Monster Metronome
CUMMING.

(and I want someone
to take Christmas away).

i know Klaus, 
you had to bury old Germany.
birth a new land with sound with experimentation
with DRUMMING
like a
like a
like a . . .
. . . soundtrack of late night ineptitude and mushroom cloud delirium when i Klaus, Attempt Art
naked
roll-neck and black smock crumpled interestingly on the floor.

we are only adults Klaus, children
grown to breeding age abusing the earth
like a toy plastic kitchen.

its 4.11am Klaus, and you
tick-tock
tick-tock
like a clock
like mathematical thunder
fuel me.

Klaus, my hands appear real and living for the first time today!
not false and paid for . . .
and
my blind blunt working legs Klaus, march me past every interesting face leaving murmurs of weak hellos
in the faint sparks of my wake; Klaus help ME thru the night. prophetic garbled words
buried above the mix ring out now Klaus,
ring loud like Marx and Celine in my backbrain
as i, trapped in a weird building
become helpless and driven 
stalking
an unknown woman.

i am late Klaus,
can only watch her magic in the car park
from a 4th story window
and she
won’t
ever
know.
i am helpless Klaus driven chasing fascinated
by her childless body/her unexpected youthful burn
but she
challenged me Klaus, 
she said 
WOULDN’T LIKE A MOSQUE NEXT TO MY HOUSE, WOULD I?
and while i could only mildly agree
for reasons special to me
i was saddened
to discover
she was BNP.

so Klaus, 
you’re dead/still drumming my heart regular
from old recordings
while
my winter friend gas fire
burns.


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