Leopards break into the temple and drink up the offering in the chalices; this happens again and again; finally, one can predict their action in advance and it becomes part of the ceremony.– Franz Kafka

Tec’s laid back in his bar-chair, belly up and heaving

as he snores. Spilt beer drools off the table onto

the filthy floor. The music’s long since ended. The night

is stale and old. Tec dreams. That Reichstag sure does need

a-burning down again. Down to the ground this time—

never to rise from ashes made by allied bombs.

We’ll storm its risen walls and bash its windows out

with riot shields and mash the faces in the portraits

into the deep pile carpets with our bovver boots;

spray-paint the fancy papered walls not with graffiti

art but with the wholesome symbols and messages

that befit our race. That glorious day draws near.

*

The potman taps cop on the elbow. He’s nodded off.

Startled in mid-sleep and a little bemused, he shakes

himself awake. Blinks. Yawns. “Time to be going, mein Freund,”

The potman quietly commands.