At the kampfbund deutscher kultur center,
by Francis Curran
Obergruppen neu director,
Doktor Helmut Schinkel Sturmban Spengler,
Grew an inanimate tree.
A proud black forest uprooted, tumbling treads upstairs,
Slotted snug fit into floors, splintered under thumbs,
Gave two bad and a ‘good un, '
To each a cross to bear.
Hammered the final vampire blow,
Entombing the screaming silent dead.
Herr doctor concocted a spiralling lie,
Clipping the wings of a murder of angels.
The parabolic flight of a bird of truth,
Flew too close to a psycho sun,
Flaring a melt down of feathering soot,
Blacking out the blistering and peeling sky.
Herr doctor, undissected monkfish,
An ocean sunk, crustaceans and sea birds signed a pact,
A squadron of screeching heinkel gulls,
Dive-bombed a tonnage of heavy-duty shit,
And jackbooted crabs armoured in gastropods,
Storming their way up cratered beaches,
Smashing to smithereens, half flung up fortifications,
Breaking on through, to build a bridgehead.
The lightning flash of a blitzkrieg march,
Through west end neon sushi bars.
Cantankerous chefs strung up to be cured,
Blunt surly waiters, felt the sharp shredding edge,
And the cold steel point on the routed rump,
Sliced- diced, and tenderised.
Herr doctor, prescribed action man strange pills,
Said, they’d sort his head out,
But put the squadie out of sorts.
Cultivating an iconic moustache,
Took to cottaging the no go gents,
Night cruising the boarded blacked out clubs,
Shacked up stringing lady boys,
Accommodating, the occasional fist.
Barbie gave birth stillborn,
Guns laid down their arms.
Herr doktor, sheared priests heads red raw,
X-rayed hot-wired fed them volts,
Baptized them foaming mad,
The propped up toothless pope grew horns,
Inquired his way to his first line of coke,
Running bare arsed amok an order of freaking nuns.
Herr doktor, thought the unthinkable,
Fucked the unfuckable.
And misering at his own contentment,
Doused the self in diesel,
Striking a red-hot sulphurous match,
Doktor Spengler froze to death.