Less than four months has that particularly grand Summer afternoon been past,
past a sensual sunsoak in secluded Highgate,
on the verge of an affectionate reunion,
on the verge of a warm reconciliation of kindred souls
following the bitter, monastic renouncement of random voyeurism of yore
and shifts between pop stardom and the lurid allure of age-old cleansing rituals
Less than two months past the time-travelling exercise through a European crossroad capital,
searching for the golden age of ageing cult bands
and the ever-elusive heartbalming exercise,
secluded nudity by the fireplace of an oversized hotel room,
drinks at the Falstaff at two AM capping the whole nostalgia trip
on yet another hazy timewarp
This is now the prelude to Winter,
a glorious evening abandoned in deep chaos.
We cross the trans-continental bridge at rush hour, back to the Ottoman Birthplace,
the ubiquitous German Latin flava banging the battered car speakers to exhaustion.
Driver´s rear end grooving to the ultracool urbaneness of it all, fingers tapping, digital cameras snapping, the odd machine-gun show-off,
the line of blinking car lights losing itself in the horizon, thousands of drivers slide through those brutal hundreds of megatrucks,
loneliness, smog, distance, resignated toxicity
quiet euphoria in each and every one of their foreign minds.
Warmly accustomed to the ongoing, gigantic, perpetual crawl,
men and women stand on the highway standstill selling pretzels, flowers, inflatable spidermen
– gut comfort, love placebo, a generic fix for anonymous absent parenthoods.
All one could ever wish for on a bittersweet ride home.
One week later, the celebration of law, the improvised analysis of addiction and the preparation of judgment have been ticked off the ever-growing list.
Catastrophe and perplexity arrive in the shape of chaotic phone messages.
Hours later, time distorted,
chaos drowns in half-bottles and fireworks, desperate calls,
one after one after another,
shock slowly sinking in, distance amplifying solitary panic.
This is what happened, this was the silence.
Yet there is strength and regeneration aplenty,
The daily count of quasi-miracles.
Silence is no more.