“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.
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/
