Archive for the ‘Wien’ Category

“Merd-iterranean!” I repeated, fawning.

“Oh, Mozart, you’re so witty!”

I shivered as he slid his hand up my leg, indecently probing my nether regions, groping, squeezing.

I simpered, obsequious.

… How could I say no to the genius?




In my cell, I have no sexual desire,

per se.

But I do dream.

One night or day, I dreamt a dream of history and fact,

real and true, but bizarre.


The emperor,

an energetic innovator in many ways,

has chosen not to marry,

still, he has urges,

but proudly Catholic,

he believes masturbation is a self-indulgent sin,

so he satisfies himself by raping his gardener’s daughter, daily,

and visiting a brothel, treating the women roughly,

using and abusing,

sluts and low-lifes that (he believes) they are,





idiotic piety and blasphemy,

blood and bruises,

internal, external,

if only he’d been considerate enough to touch himself.

Hail to the emperor,

he is a paragon of shit!

At that point, my dream becomes a fantasy:

I dream that the women of Vienna,

The Holy Roman Empire in full,

mobilize on the puny prick

and rip him to shreds.

Come the revolution!

I wake up.

Everything was as it had been.


And, fitfully, I dreamt I was back in Vienna.

Which may, or may not be, where it all began,

this civilizational saga,

of freedom, captivity,

ideas and societal blues.

Walking the Ring,

with my friend Freud,

after lunch one day,

before and after coffee

(black, no sugar, no crap),

we stopped and looked in the window of an art dealer,

a Soviet specialist.

I smiled at the images,

and the images smiled at me.

Still life.

Life, still.