After Hor Zu by Gottfried Benn
Yo, listen up, this is your last free evening.
You go out, smoke your Players
Drink Martinis at the Drake, alone
with your Mirror you sit reflecting
At a small table, at last round
close to the heater because you feel cold
surrounded by regulars and their torpid debates
the married couples and their designer dogs.
Where is the recognition, the cairn in your honour?
You planned to end up in Mauritius
not fading away in this shrinking funhouse
You thought you were destined for a better departure.
Back in the day you rivalled Trump
and Iacoca. You thought the sun shone
out of your ass, but it will come up blazing
without you. This is it. Good Night.
