Poetry

The first drag sends you to space   
in the fog of cherry red light bulbs   
inside large windows of the meat market.   
Like a child, beckoned by the perfume   
of window taps: imagining what each one   
will feel like when you penetrate them   
as you count your money.   
  
After she kisses you good-bye   
you´ll fall into the stagnant water   
of a dirty canal that rusts   
white row boats bottom up,   
and for the first time you open   
your eyes wide closed.   
  
The second drag hugs you   
with gabled arms.  Its   
so hard! to speak when   
your abdomen vibrates   
and your throat burns   
more and more and-   
more.  Every breath   
a waterfall.   
  
The third drag is a tall dark bartender   
who expects a pick-up line you´ll never give   
as old men stop in for a morning pick-me-up.   
The third drag reminds Englishmen   
they once ruled the world   
with their pants around their ankles   
and hot dogs in their mouths,   
as well as everyone else.   
  
The fourth drag brings you back   
to a cup of Morroccan tea underneath   
an unknown blanket.