The Glockenspiel Queen

It’s been ages since I’m updated this blog, mostly because all my attention’s been on finishing my second novel, All Stripped Down. Well, I just finished it, and am going to try to get a publisher for it, which I’m not expecting to be able to do, given that the book isn’t about Dracula, the FBI, CIA, Russian Oligarchs, etc., etc. It’s about me and a lot of crazy but very real workingclass people in Florida. People don’t want to read stuff like that, do they? Anyway, I’m happy with the way it turned out. I consider it to be the Nevermind to my last novel, Fortuna Berlin, which was Bleach (Nirvana reference). I’ll say more about it later, I still have to touch it up a bit. In the meantime, here’s a poem I wrote this morning. It feels great to be writing poetry again. Gonna do it for a while, maybe a year, before I get into my next novel.

The Sibyl of Savignyplatz

Clapped together with butterfly
valves and barcarolles, she enters this obsidious
gin palace by quivering
glare of purple lamp, the long hairs
of her mink coat glittering
iridescent blue,
her heart’s lambent love-tingling
voice muttering in a haze of torn-open shadows
and burning violins.

And it’s no secret she’s been seen reading tea leaves
in the Reeperbahn
with a blind prophet from the granite peaks
of Cordillera Paine.

And it’s no secret
she buried two exes, a drunken lobster fisherman
and a Moldovan physicist,
both of whom died of mysterious causes.

She slips off her coat,
gives it to the man and moves
across the floor,
her eyes like melting honey,
her hips with more power in them
than electrical storms.

She moves as if suspended
in the Valley of Ten Thousand Smokes,
a scythe of pink light curling around her throat,
a field of lilacs
and piston rings
and Italian madrigals at her feet.
She moves.

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