“Anything goes tonight, my girl. Come on,

have another. What are we here for, dear lady?

Copulation is the only philosophy and

carnival its enabler. If you promise

not to move I’ll get you another flute

of champagne. My dear, we can leave.

I know a charming place just behind

Hackescher Markt. This is Berlin, you know.”


A Pierrot sways against the door frame,

stares drunken desire, mouth bent

into predator’s disappointment,

leans over the railing and vomits the first half

of an unsuccessful night.


Endless festing before Ash Wednesday –

nights of excess. The windows drip

yellow light and blue notes.

A tall Columbine clatters down the stairs

wrapped in a cape made from starlight.


She is running now, her high heels impeding

a fast getaway, her tracks clearly visible

in the first snow. No taxis anywhere.


She slips and slides towards the snow-decked

fire hydrant, its plump little arms outstretched

in a gesture of expectation. As her head

cracks open like a ripe fruit broken,

her purse spills condoms and pepper spray.

The snow reddens around her face.

Very slowly she relaxes.

The best party ever.


by Rose Mary Boehm


A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm, short-story and novel writer, copywriter, photographer and poet, now lives and works in Lima, Peru. Two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS) have been published in the UK. Her latest poems have appeared – or are forthcoming – in US poetry reviews. Among others: Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Morgen Bailey, Burning Word, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel’s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary… For her photographs see: http://www.bilderboehm.blogspot.com/

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