The hissing of the air-brake outside the Shell station at the corner of Skalitzer Str and Gorlitzer Str.
The arc of a flick knife caught in the gaslight.
Mir
(a bar)
Mehr,
a way of life.
At night the park ist verboten,
the drunks must play.
I stalk the night with an invisible tattoo
and a fist full of keys.
My feet beat a hasty retreat.
Forward,
um die ecke.
Dog shit
and a decrepit Christmas tree.
The line of black sprayed in the night by Hazir.
The militant,
the maladjusted,
the reclusive,
the disillusioned,
the nostalgic,
Hazir,
who can sell you dope for half the price
and whose smile betrays a broken tooth.
We talk about an article in Der Spiegel,
Berlin Weldstadt.
Again, apparently,
as if once was not enough.
In the bar there are mutterings of discontent.
At Kottbuser Tor the king of the junkies is re-elected.
A policeman stands guard outside a synagogue
and uber die Brucke, ins Friedrichshein
and even here
from a Klaus Kinski lookalike in a bar
to the whispered paranoi of the Autonomen,
even here,
with the queers and the punks and the pierced,
mit alles die leute auf dem Strasse,
with all of the members of the midnight choir,
even here,
plain words are not spoken
and Hazir must dance in the night with his spray can.