Let’s bomb Dresden
with the black fire
of thousands
of bookmarks
with poetry
of poets
far and
wide

-so it
goes-

and
each
side is
printed
with verse;
flip flopping
through the air
each to land on
Dresden’s ghosts.

If I were to talk to god,
I imagine that he would look like an aging French artist living in Germany,
With a slightly severe case of depression
And also an unsettling smoking addiction.

I imagine he would be living in an apartment room barely big enough for his ego.
With nothing but a bed and a nightstand
with an ash tray and a bottle of whiskey, half full.
And between puffs of smoke he would sip from a lowball glass, and sit.

He’d keep his door unlocked, for no one ever visits,
And when they do, they assume they’ve opened the wrong door
And they would quickly go search for the man they thought he was.
He’d let out a chuckle between sips.

However, if I were to meet this artist,
I would just ask him what he’s done.
And he will reply, with smoke trailing from his nostrils and the tone of a drunk,
"Hell if I know."

I have studied **** Germany
Someone stood and preached to me
All the ‘important’ names
All the ‘important’ dates
I wrote them down like longshore secrets
And debated over them
Like they were the pencil sharpenings
With which I littered the floor
‘Excellent analysis’ she said
I have even stood by the gas chambers
And the gallows
At Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp
And written insensitive poetry about insensitivity
But have I heard of Hans Litten?
Of course I haven’t.
I have stood in the Berlin gestapo office
And formed philosophies that feel more like profanities
Wondering how it can ever be appropriate
To take a school trip to a genocide
But tonight my ‘important’ education
Feels like the greatest atrocity
My guilty ignorance beats almost unbearably
Around my rib-cage
And waits for the shatter and the shards
Because I have never heard of Hans Litten
We all know six million
But who knows the six million?
We remember names that we stored away
Because mentioning them in an essay
Might bring about a higher grade
Displaying ‘a highly developed and complex level of understanding’
We remember names like we remember shopping lists
Or science lessons;
A few particular points
No attachment necessary
In fact, clinical detachment is far more becoming
When it comes to essay questions
They never told us about Hans Litten
Or about the men who also ran in the race to be in history books
Or about their mothers
And their fathers
And the people they shared cells with
And the people they shared graves with
My God, they never told us about Hans Litten
And Hans Litten is better known
Than most of those phantom dead
Those cracked-open voices that dared to raise
Until they were too loud for anything but the conveyer-belt
Concentration Camp system.
And the thing is that six million is not such a big number anymore
Because there are 49,506,514 views of Simon Cowell crying
And nearly 300 million of One Direction singing a song which is not so beautiful after all
And people are so desensitized to the number six million
That they believe that the world
Would not have enough **** in it
Without them posting hatred after obscenity after hatred in the YouTube comments
And Hans Litten, I can’t help feeling that I’ve failed you
My generation could tell you the private lives of their idols
But would not know your name
And we will still pour into school on Monday morning
And chorus our tireless fatigue and our lack of motivation for life
And I will still pour into school on Monday morning
And let myself complain and moan and grapple for sympathy.
I’ve acquired this abstracted self-loathing recently
That is less a hatred of myself than a hatred of what I have made of myself
Of my ingratitude and self-centred inability
To compose poems that do not start and end with Me
And of my procrastination and my ceaseless desire
To live something other than the life I’ve been given
Like I asked for extra cheese and got given Margharita
****.
I’m insufferable.
Hans Litten your list of injuries was ten times longer
than the list of all the wrongs I’ve had done against me.

I am a dramatized china doll,
but I never rouge my knees.
The MC introduces me as Scarlett.
Lulu embraces me as we saunter
off the platform.  Whistles follow my footsteps
digging into my brain, fermenting,
to strong wine.

Gentlemen enter the club to leer
at cabaret girls dancing in lace.
Some are drawn to the boys of the club,
the ones in the dark corners with kohl-rimmed
eyes and eager kisses.
From their seats in the dimness, the audience
fails to notice rips in my blouse, cigarette
butts smudged out in the wings.  No one
sees the ***** face powder spread out
among the lighted mirrors, overused,
my own makeup dried out.
Their giggles and applause keep
the club alive, filled with dead
grins from dinner to dawn.
Drum roll—my turn.  
We rid them of their troubles.

You’ve left a handprint on my heart, from where you reached in and nurtured the burns and scars and helped life to grow again. you held your hand out to me and lifted me up to dance with you, a slow waltz that I had to learn as you lead me ‘round the room. When you left me to catch my breath, the fear of leaving you almost paralysed me - and the realisation that I must nearly broke me.

You showed me what it was to live, and to live in such reckless abandonment that I knew I would never belong in the place I once called my home. you redefined home for me, showing me the truth of “home is wherever I’m with you.” Your sunsets were painted more beautifully than anything I’ve ever seen, and the way you always lead me to the artist behind such great sky-paintings left me in awe. Who else can teach me to fall in love with two beings at one time.

I still reach for your hand subconsciously, lean in to rest on your shoulder before I realise that you’re no longer with me. You’ve left me homesick, wondering where home may be, the place where these itchy feet can finally rest. You’ve filled my mind with reminders of cities, people, prayers and dreams, and I’ve found that as long as these thoughts rattle in my mind, sleep and rest are impossible.

You’ve shaken me to my very core, and all that remains is that still beating heart, with your palpable handprint glowing in the darkness

What tragedy has seeked me out this year, I know not.
For in hope I expected, but t'was disappointment I got.

He never got to kiss them
those lips he had vowed to kiss when they met
She had always refused
Even though Lord knows she really wanted to
She had loved him too
It just took years for her to realize it

This is a story of two best friends
Who fall in love in **** Germany
But I'm afraid it's not the ending you expect
No, they do not end up together in the end
They could have- but they didn't
Because an arschloch called ******
Decided that he was better than everyone in this whole ****** world

So this young boy died never knowing the taste of her lips
And she was left behind
To kiss his dead body 
And declare her love for him
But it was too Late.
He was gone
And she was alone

My mother always said to get along with people.
I made allies, I worked with people, and I stayed away from
Fights that were not mine.
My allies and I have had fights, but we worked it out.
(WWI and the treaty of Versailles)

It all changed though, when nearly everyone around me
Began to hate each other.
One of the kids I knew, but never played with,
Began to bully the others.
He said he hated Jews.
(Germany/ ******)

He was a part of a promise my friends and I made,
Because he was a part of our fight, before.
He broke the promise
And he began to... Collect.... My friends
And take over their lives. They were controlled and
Manipulated and suppressed by him.
(Taking over Rhineland, Poland, etc.)

We decided to leave it alone. We didn't want to
Get involved again. (France/ Britain appeasement)

He promised that he would leave a few kids
Alone, but he lied. He controlled them, too. (Italy and Japan)
He had his friends that helped him,
But I think they were just scared of him
And acted like they were his friends.

When my other friends got involved, I wanted out,
But if they needed my help with some things,
I would help them if they gave me a cookie (cash).

After a while, I started to help my friends more,
But I wasn't really fighting... I did, though, when one
Of the bullies friends (Japan) threw a crayon at me.
It hurt really bad and I got angry.