Poetry

‘Night and Vice’ and other poems by Karoline Wimmer

By: Karoline Wimmer

Night and Vice

When night breaks
to all Christian vices
let me dance under the moonlight
and feel the shame wash into me.
As I scatter myself through pockets
of grass, in slums of ice in
the belly of the beast.

The joyful birds quicken their breaths in
fear but honey, the sweet opium of
desire is not to walk away from
gentle wine to bathe those sins and
drink the rest to purify your soul.

Watch the fish doing the midnight tango,
a red-hot dance, a joyful ramble,
honey, dance the tango with me!
In a red hot spot on a block of ice.
Stick your tongue on an ice cone,
feel it bleed as you pull it away,
sweet, sweet opium to soothe your pain,
And beautiful grapes so that while you’re
away
I’ll dance the Tango with Lucky and
Flin, two fish with seven sins,
God may damn us all they said,
So let’s just go for a swim.

###

Satellite

When Winter’s kiss
reached the dew on the naked vineyard
I will not see beyond
what has happened,
past, present and future
finally one,
I will sit there breathing
the hot flame we call tea,
hoping I will get
what I want.
Sometimes, when I feel the
pulse of the ground beneath
me,
I remember what it used to be,
tripping left and right
longing for that magnet,
to pull the parts of my soul back together.
For now, I don’t know,
Can I walk? It will show,
but we’ll see in time.
After being hit by a bull,
I cannot feel this all the time.
Let passion run undiluted in my veins!
Let me walk free of rusted chains, let me be the unwritten music score.
But, I say no to the hated satellite,
orbiting everywhere, yet eternally afraid of
the night.

###

The Old Man

I saw the old man at the bus stop one morning.
With sunken eyes, a ragged cap and a frown,
he drinks liquor, with an air of desperation.
Fascinated, I watched, as he drained the liquid, as if it was the only thing that could keep him alive.
Once he’s done, he flings the bottle against the post.
Fragments of glass, found everywhere.
Fragments too small to clean up.
He doesn’t seem to care that people will step on his fragments.
Briefly our eyes met.
He looked away quickly.
Perhaps he was embarrassed.
I came to the bus stop the next day.
He was gone.
Left behind were fragments of yesterday.
Fragments uncleared.

Categories: Poetry

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