Written in a bar in Bratislava

Leopoldstadt

Let's suppose sufferance helps.

Around here even the sunshine looks false. Its deceitful rays fall upon the decadence as it burns itself out over the space of a few short millennia. They fall upon the king's plastic crown as he dances like a bear for an unseen master- for change. Boys laugh at the spectacle. The disdain in their spit is matched only by the hot hate in his tears. Yet his dance continues. He cannot do aught else. He paid the piper too high. He paid him fuck all. At least he has enough for cigarettes. When it comes to filling the void translusive substances always fit best, filling the gap without widening the cracks. They connect the space instead of expanding it like the ghost of time. The lack thereof. The only way of coming to terms with that missing card in the flush is to acknowledge it. Checkmate stares us all in the face. Lady death has the ivory piece to topple our game in her long fingers- appearing out of nowhere as if they crept out of the mirror. She's just waiting to make the move. Maybe she's nervous at first.

I keep on walking . I turn the corner. Beautiful horses stand there. Beautiful for show- hideous in its way, eyes blinkered, ears clapped. Caparisoned. My heart pangs with sorrow. Maybe melancholy helps. Why else would we feel such a delicate emotion? The soft sister of rage.