Distort Baader, Meinhof, and Ensselin. Distort us, their comrades, the dignities we’ve worn our feet down to pluck up. Recall that year one side of Berlin had fallen silent, and for balance on the other youths were dancing and eating pies, and some folks thrust barrels into their midst and fired. In bus terminal, each seat occupied by a demon banker—they linked arms as told—each received a shot in the temple.
A pair of raccoons with pained teeth knocked door to door for shelter, slinging a little casket between them. After a memorable night, one hung, hardly swung at all. One had played its favorite song and got for reprimand a shot in the temple. A bag of bones was dragged to the curb, its eyelids retained though its eyes had fallen out.
Two demon commandants scowl; one fiddles with its earpiece, one holds two fingers to his brow. Distort me, too!—I heard the shots, and ducked—I lived with a sympathizer, but declined to march myself. My work’s going well, you needn’t speak for me. Later there’ll be plenty to speak fair of you—autists shivering in felt suits, cufflink kids lighting up after Band of Outsiders. A cleric will speak his convictions now in the privacy of the john.
Distort the dockhand roaring through the putsch, breaking the handle from his stein. Distort hillocks of dead into mickey mice. Kick up your heels for the camera, dear! A curtsey before you cease! You’ll be arm-in-arm for the mausoleum, strewn with sheaves of narcissus, your breathing compatriots goose-stepping ‘round a quenchless Sterno fire.
-2002
