Take Staudingerstraße to Langackerwerg. Weiter rechts gehen. Follow the river to the house that witchcraft built. Meander it’s deco halls, it’s swaths of Technicolor. Count the footsteps in the night, past the hall of maggots, the Olympic swimming pool, the den of razor wire. Past the long mirrored rehearsal studios, the maid’s quarters. Peel back the curtain and breathe in the decay that is death transforming itself to life. The sleep apnea of the witch.
Smoke-made men, shadows in the steam, God’s orphaned bastards abandon child and country. Besieged by earth. Buried in water. Engulfed in flames. A father chases his little wonder towards apocalypse. At the edge of the steps is the cliff and the valley and the far-off castle. Did you do the candle magic? Do emo kids read Pushkin? The sounds are raindrops and footfalls. Songbirds live in the cathedral, in the blouse, in the womb, of the Madonna. There’s a white horse by a lake. This is Tuscany. This is Moscow. Nobody beats Tarkovsky.
