Outskirtal Child

by A.J. Kaufmann

life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child

Diana and Her Kind

by A. J. Kaufmann

There's an orange kingdom waiting
In your oceans of blue
A bed of stars I've built on tears
Especially for you
Given names, a crying shame
You can't remember me
Yellow tears from frozen eyes
Turn my seas to milk

Johnny Teardrop takes the word
Takes it to his gal
She's no beauty to his streets
She's just unusual
You love her for your tiger's skin
Devil's spiderwebs
Man, you're round, like good old sun
Stoned out of your breath

Crazy airplanes in the sky
Melting down to sleep
If you're bored with her healing thoughts
You can steal a line from me
Cause I've written all my songs for her
I've waited quite a time
Orange kingdoms waiting for
Diana and her kind

So don't confuse perspectives, love
I'm not of broken minds
I'm just the title for older words
Mythologies of crime
Poseidon, Neptune bow their heads
Diana and her kind
Diana splits her seas again
For wanderers in tribes
Moons in Egypt slowly veil
Her twenty-seven lies

Germans Can't Dance, Poles Can't Sing

by A. J. Kaufmann

Oh you know the Germans can't dance
It's a well proven fact, there ain't no hidden quality to it
You know Germans can't swing, they just march and march
Ain't nothing new, marching East all the time
Finding locked doors, but knocking still, knocking loud
Finding empty windows, looking for a thrill or two
Germans can't dance, they're masters at will and war
They just need a wife, oh, it better be a white one
Make her blonde and make her wear high heels
Ooooh, Germans like the leather

Germans can't dance, and their Germanic queens
Have grown to be absurd commercial bitches
They're too high to see the light, to wash their dirty coats
Or be honest wine or salt or pepper
Germans can't be seen from behind their Himmler screens
Of dreams and silent Tempelhofer landers
Kennedy is dead, does nothing to my head,
Politics and music must differ
Germans can't dance and Poles can't sing
Ain't no promise of a good vibration
You'll get lots of toys and a lot of boys
From a fucked up German radio station

Poles can't sing, they just hold on their strings
Hanging from Hitler's lucky piano
Bloodlines mixed and bourbon fixed
Ain't nothing loud enough to stop these cellos
And me, I don't need soda, ice, don't need your bed of thoughts and lice
I just might find myself a decent woman
Don't need your collocations, divine interventions
I haven't seen these German cowards crawling

Kiss my ass and smoke my past, don't ever find my room again
German voice is bitter choice
To get rid of wartime frustrations
Build another wall, of fragrant alcohol
Dig the fun, Slavic spirit now commands the Sklaven

Private Moon

by A. J. Kaufmann

for she loves still
humble beauty
no time no apartments
drying these grounds of departure
memories forward the taste
years - dewdrops
served early
chrysanthemums
private moon
the guardian
arranged and arrived
on eastern waves
without home
silken
anxious
reflection
of miserable
lotuses
color her flames