The Turkish Pizzeria

For Pancho Morris, Matthew Soson and the men and women of Frankfurt's Red Light District



The Turkish Pizzeria



So I’m sitting here in the Italian Pizza Parlor of Frankurt’s Red Light

District with its Turkish proprietor Franco, when at 3am in the night,

Time stops, and who might walk in but Hanz and Fritz

Carraldo, two amiable blonde bum humming chums who blitz

Krieg the nearest table past my last left,

Eyeing for themselves my polluted judio proboscis.



And I’m stuck now thinking,

Drinking, on the brink of demons,

Where the fuck has 1945 gone?



Foreign 1945,

And I’m strolling loose in their truth

Wandering which way my Bavarian brothers will dump me,

Headfirst or toes buried deep in the ash?

That’s all gone to past.

It’s a waste of ash to smoke on a memory.

History is history and their faces aren’t now, they’re then,

That’s the mystery.



For my love they’ll lose something fierce,

Fuck Hanz and Fritz!

Time’s two bit, dimly lit, Nazi twin half wits

So quick to spit my hiss

Boys frisky with tiny tipsy Swish Alp hips

In the midst of Franco and my last remaining glance

I’ll dance with their ghosts

Around the room

From 1 to 2 all the way to noon

We’ll make the bombs zoom!

Boom

Boom

Boom



Once again

Pull your legs up over your head!

Now, are we three dead?

No, it seems we dream to cling on 1945.

My face lies buried up to their knees and thighs.

Franco laps up any spilt change we leave on the floor.

History is an ungodly bore

Anyways

Nowadays