1I am an anti-fascist... anti-Faust Ich liebe life and I admire chaos Ich bin to wish,
Genosse Offizieren,
Dem Zeit zum Faust for a while spazieren.
Without embracing Polish propaganda,
In Krakow he had missed his Vaterland, and He dreamt of the philosopher’s true diamond And sometimes doubted his own talent.
He gently picked, off ground, ladies' tissues,
He got excited with the gender issues,
Along, in school he played the polo's virtues.
He studied deeply gambling catechismus,
And learned to taste the sweetness of Cartesian.
Then crawled deep down into the Artesian well of ego-centrism.
The military slyness For which was famous Mr.
Clausewitz,
For him remained apparently unknown,
Whereas to Vater was a wood artisan.
Zum beispiel, in outbreak of glaucoma,
The plague, cholera und Tuberculosen,
He saved himself by schwarze Papierossen.
Attracted by the Gypsies and the Moors.
He then became a bachelor alumnus.
Was granted then a licentiate laurus And sang to students, «Cambrian... dinosaurs...» A German man — a German cerebrum.
Without mentioning,
Cogito ergo sum.
Undoubtedly — Deutschland uber alles. (One's ears can catch a famous Vienna's waltz).
He parted with Krakow with some heart cheer,
And took a carriage in a rush to sheer To chair the school with honest glass of beer. 3A splendid C-moon shines out of the clouds.
Tremendous foliant.
A man above it.
A wrinkle darkens right ‘twixt the eyebrows,
His eyes — the lacework devilry of Arabs.
With a Cordovan black chalk in his right hand And from the corner, he’s watched at profile length By Meph-ibn-Stopheles: an Arab agent.
The candles burning.
Screeches under clothes-bin. «Herr Doktor, midnight». «Jawohl, schlafen, schlafen...» Two dark black muzzles open utter «meow»,
From kitchen quietly comes a Yiddish Frau.
She holds a sizzling omelet with fried bacon.
Herr doctor jots the address on the letter: «Gott Strafe.
England.
London.
Francis Bacon».
Concerns and demons come and go further,
The years and guests do come and go further...
One can't recall then dresses, words, or weather.
That's how all the years have passed and gone swift.
He knew the Arabic, but didn’t know Sanskrit.
And yet quite late, hey,
Faust had discovered Before him, eine kleine Fraulein Margaret.
And then to Cairo he had sent epistle By which he voted back his soul from devil.
Meph had arrived while he had changed his clothes.
He gazed into the mirrow and saw close That he forever is metamorphosed.
To maiden’s boudoir, with flowers, kitschy He then set off.
Und veni, vidi, vici.
Ich liebe clearness.
Ja.
Ich liebe promptness.
Ich bin to ask to see here no vileness.
You’re hinting that he loved the flower lasses.
Ich understanden, das ist ganze swiftness.
But this transaction macht der grosse Minus.
Die righte Sprache, macht der grosse Sinus:
The heart and spirit nein gehabt in surplus.
In vain you alles would expect from creatures: «Behold — said to the moment — you're so gorgeous» The devil all the time among us wanders And by the minute he awaits this phrase.
Nevertheless, a man, mein liebe Herren,
Is so uncertain in his greatest darings,
That each time lies as if he sells the air And yet like Goethe could not goof by chance.
Und grosser Dichter Goethe made a blooper With which subjected to a ganze risk that matter.
And Thomas Mann had ruined his best seller And cher Gounod confused his lady actor.
The fine art is the fine art is the fine art...
I'd rather sing in skies than fib in concert.
Die Kunst gehabt the need in truthful kind heart.
By all fair means, of death, he could be scared.
From where the demons come, he was aware.
He fed der dog on all Galens,
Ibn-Sinas.
He could das Wasser drain in knees and fingers.
He could define the tree age by the log rings,
He knew where to the stars' ways lead us rightly.
But Doctor Faust nichts knew of Almighty.
There's mystique.
There's faith.
And there is God.
There's difference between them.
And there's oneness.
Some men are itched by flesh, while some are saved.
Unfaith is sightlessness, or rather swine-ness.
The Lord looks down.
Up above look men.
Yet everybody seeks his own profit..
God's infinite.
Indeed.
And what is man?
And man, most probably, is very finite.
A man has got his ceiling, which in fact Could always be up there, a little mobile.
A flatterer will find his way to heart.
And life no more is seen beyond the devil.
That's how Doctor Faust was.
Likewise Marlowe, and Goethe,
Thomas Mann and masses of singers, intellectuals und, alas,
The readers in milieu of other classes.
Same flow sweeps away their foot steps too,
Their retorts, — Donnerwetter!, — vibes and musings...
So grant them,
God, the time to scream «Where to?» And listen to the answers of their Muses.
An honest German for der Weg zuruck Won't wait until he's summoned by the others.
He takes his Walter out of his warm slacks And then forever leaves to a Walter-Closet.
Fraulein, please tell me was ist das «incubus»?
Incubus das ist eine kleine globus.
Noch grosser Dichter Goethe gave us rebus And Ibycus's evil bearing cranes,
When having fled off Weimar's foggy cloud,
They, of the pocket, snatched a key right out,
By Eckermann’s insight, not being rescued.
And now we got,
Matrosen, in a fix.
There are spiritually thuthful queries.
Mystique is indication of a failure In an attempt to handle them.
However,
Ich bin — unworthy topic to debate—.
Zum beispiel:
Ceiling starts the roofing layers;
One poem lavisher... one human — nietzsche-r.
I can recall Godmother in a niche there.
Abundant Fruhstuck served right into bed.
Again September,
Boredom.
Full moon's blown.
Gray witch does «meow» at my feet below.
I put a hatchet right beneath my pillow...
Some schnapps will do!
Well this is apgemacht!
Jawohl,
September.
Character gets rotten And spinning, in a field a roaring tractor.
Ich liebe life and «Volkisch Beobachter».
Gut Nacht, mein liebe Herren.
Ja, gut Nacht.
