XIV. Donner les verges
And in my solitary contemplations, with Boris’s inspiring words still fresh in my mind, I looked again at Hannah’s holograph—the lewd orbs of her ehs and ohs, those shamelessly plunging jays and whys, that truly unconscionable doubleyou. –Angelus Thomsen, from Martin Amis’s The Zone of Interest
Golo Thomsen as Der Tod, from the String Quartet No. 14 in D Minor (1821)—By the crema’s provision of slurried
Cordite, on this Reich Day of Mourning, November 9, 1918, 1923, 1938, 1942—Slavering kommandant, on break from his lieder,
Goebbeled on the mottled doves of warrior-poets as if it were cause to derive Bach’s signature, 14—Misty, for the Putsch's remaindered Mark I and II standard
Cartridges, until Nobel’s improvement (1887) of ballistite, and then volleying in an evaporate of camphor—Rather, put delicately,
After the Cannes newspaper, Le marchand de la mort est mort (1888); or, until then, the villa
Training our muzzles to a stand of familiar Rosenheim; tattered birches exhale their salicylate crystals for cinders underwritten by I.G. Farben’s
Das Mädchen—Heroin (1867, 1898), aspirin (1897), pethidine (1932), or the unfinanced corrective, amidon (1939), of Kat Zet III; if not all of the I.G. Farben
Patents in our adjoining bathroom cabinets, where water condenses around his poorly joined seam of a trap door before which I rub myself into a slurry
Knowing he watches—Occupation having dropped the doubled tariff of Baltic petroleum; its tailings of Buna elastomer compound the wake of an early hour return to the villa,
Which, by then the retorts are fully operational, and choking from the resinous lieder—
My father's ethyl acetate, for insect collecting, with the standard
SS metabolites, of pilfered schnapps, into this heaving paunch, for a conjugal quickening, admitted delicately,
Der Tod: Impotently, into blackout—Descending the subterranean thirteenth bunker of Mobius’s office abutting the sauna; delicately,
The Sonder's scuttling, after ten minutes, I trace the missed M, of your first initial, and on the mezzanine railing from Hotel Eden—To blank invoices for I.G. Farben's
Test subjects, or the visits you described by Uncle Josef, whose lustful gaze on your daughters, strains the standard
Courtesies—Disappointed; for not bringing one of Klee's canvases out of storage, where, out of the slurry
By studded snow tires, of the graveled Vistula, a burnished ocean; my private name, die Goldmackrele, the dolphin fish—Knowing that consuming hearth, the villa,
Less imperiled by an exhibition of Degenerate Art; I nevertheless resisted—You, who could no more rasp innocence within view of the erupting ground, your serving women; there is life stirring in our aureoles, of unwritten lieder
Das Mädchen: Intoned in his sleeping, tea and cheese sandwiches will be served immediately, and later, there'll be a piping stew—The lieder
Of Welteislehre (1894); the icy resolution morphine hastened nailing my underside into a bolster—In the night of fire and snow / Save me from evil (July 1941)—Delicately,
Turn me over, for the girls are in the stable with a foal too-soon separated from its mother; suffering all manner of airborne infections that are the villa's
Incorporated mortar; as another’s wheel, Meinräd—Without the benefit of I.G. Farben's
Dyestuff, then pro-drug, Prontosil (1936), for puerperal fever, for the purulent nodes causing its strangles—The standard
Hippocratics justified their lager rabbits as undiscovered intellectual property, if patere is to lay open—He left behind prints from the Hygiene Department, of a slurried
Der Tod: Choking victim from intra-cardial phenol, after the other, for mortuary comparison—The buried slurry
Upturned the water table; hectoring you, with what was widely known in the Old Town, you would not be leaving—Lieder
Of martyrs so much the worst for being witnesses; not Frau Grese’s life-size dancing Coppélia (1870), Boris’s Esther—Fastidious records, tamped serial numbers, vanished before arrival, as the Reichsleiter standardized
Typeface, Fraktur (1941); in consequence that no would be able to read their grandparent’s letters—After Der Doppelgänger, by Heine, composed the year of Schubert’s death (1828), where the moon shows me my own form—Delicately,
As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among young men. With great delight I sat in his shadow, as your visceral consciousness, the female Solomon, Shulamith—Szmul’s final moments at the villa
Were of her, who was taken from stitching Wehrmacht epaulets, where her bridegroom went mad from rolling leaking drums of I.G. Farben's
Das Mädchen: Tabun (1936)—Until portions of this ague were equal, and unafraid of sentries overseeing a shipment of unspent canisters, by means of trinitroglycerin Nobel shelved with nitred sawdust (1867), packaged by I.G. Farben—
Among the trunks, whose lighting-struck duramens were a putrid slurry,
With Romhilde Seedig, we reentered the eyes of the birch wood west of the villa—
At last remembering the scent, for remolded splints, or tonewood of the high and low frequencies, among its bundled twigs for their dachas; and this, our splintered lieder
Of the Berkano stave, is completed with ancestry—Beyond the standard
Waffen-SS at their vipers, and rendered the absolute license—To the humanity underfoot, what else than to speak of trees, how their miraculously intact paper bark bore properties of wintergreen, for delicately
Knitted cairns in our nerve fibers, for their next fourteen generations, beyond where I.G. Farben's agrochemicals plot the Aktions, we sleep in delicately
Unfolded wings of our cocoons outside the villa—Bifurcating inside ourselves; freshly hewn, burn well, without popping, with our lieder of blood and phosphorus
Expelled in an eerily glowing slurry as our body's standard issue, approaching as it encloses the void hours as our talisman—
And in my solitary contemplations, with Boris’s inspiring words still fresh in my mind, I looked again at Hannah’s holograph—the lewd orbs of her ehs and ohs, those shamelessly plunging jays and whys, that truly unconscionable doubleyou. –Angelus Thomsen, from Martin Amis’s The Zone of Interest
Golo Thomsen as Der Tod, from the String Quartet No. 14 in D Minor (1821)—By the crema’s provision of slurried
Cordite, on this Reich Day of Mourning, November 9, 1918, 1923, 1938, 1942—Slavering kommandant, on break from his lieder,
Goebbeled on the mottled doves of warrior-poets as if it were cause to derive Bach’s signature, 14—Misty, for the Putsch's remaindered Mark I and II standard
Cartridges, until Nobel’s improvement (1887) of ballistite, and then volleying in an evaporate of camphor—Rather, put delicately,
After the Cannes newspaper, Le marchand de la mort est mort (1888); or, until then, the villa
Training our muzzles to a stand of familiar Rosenheim; tattered birches exhale their salicylate crystals for cinders underwritten by I.G. Farben’s
Das Mädchen—Heroin (1867, 1898), aspirin (1897), pethidine (1932), or the unfinanced corrective, amidon (1939), of Kat Zet III; if not all of the I.G. Farben
Patents in our adjoining bathroom cabinets, where water condenses around his poorly joined seam of a trap door before which I rub myself into a slurry
Knowing he watches—Occupation having dropped the doubled tariff of Baltic petroleum; its tailings of Buna elastomer compound the wake of an early hour return to the villa,
Which, by then the retorts are fully operational, and choking from the resinous lieder—
My father's ethyl acetate, for insect collecting, with the standard
SS metabolites, of pilfered schnapps, into this heaving paunch, for a conjugal quickening, admitted delicately,
Der Tod: Impotently, into blackout—Descending the subterranean thirteenth bunker of Mobius’s office abutting the sauna; delicately,
The Sonder's scuttling, after ten minutes, I trace the missed M, of your first initial, and on the mezzanine railing from Hotel Eden—To blank invoices for I.G. Farben's
Test subjects, or the visits you described by Uncle Josef, whose lustful gaze on your daughters, strains the standard
Courtesies—Disappointed; for not bringing one of Klee's canvases out of storage, where, out of the slurry
By studded snow tires, of the graveled Vistula, a burnished ocean; my private name, die Goldmackrele, the dolphin fish—Knowing that consuming hearth, the villa,
Less imperiled by an exhibition of Degenerate Art; I nevertheless resisted—You, who could no more rasp innocence within view of the erupting ground, your serving women; there is life stirring in our aureoles, of unwritten lieder
Das Mädchen: Intoned in his sleeping, tea and cheese sandwiches will be served immediately, and later, there'll be a piping stew—The lieder
Of Welteislehre (1894); the icy resolution morphine hastened nailing my underside into a bolster—In the night of fire and snow / Save me from evil (July 1941)—Delicately,
Turn me over, for the girls are in the stable with a foal too-soon separated from its mother; suffering all manner of airborne infections that are the villa's
Incorporated mortar; as another’s wheel, Meinräd—Without the benefit of I.G. Farben's
Dyestuff, then pro-drug, Prontosil (1936), for puerperal fever, for the purulent nodes causing its strangles—The standard
Hippocratics justified their lager rabbits as undiscovered intellectual property, if patere is to lay open—He left behind prints from the Hygiene Department, of a slurried
Der Tod: Choking victim from intra-cardial phenol, after the other, for mortuary comparison—The buried slurry
Upturned the water table; hectoring you, with what was widely known in the Old Town, you would not be leaving—Lieder
Of martyrs so much the worst for being witnesses; not Frau Grese’s life-size dancing Coppélia (1870), Boris’s Esther—Fastidious records, tamped serial numbers, vanished before arrival, as the Reichsleiter standardized
Typeface, Fraktur (1941); in consequence that no would be able to read their grandparent’s letters—After Der Doppelgänger, by Heine, composed the year of Schubert’s death (1828), where the moon shows me my own form—Delicately,
As an apple tree among the trees of the wood, so is my beloved among young men. With great delight I sat in his shadow, as your visceral consciousness, the female Solomon, Shulamith—Szmul’s final moments at the villa
Were of her, who was taken from stitching Wehrmacht epaulets, where her bridegroom went mad from rolling leaking drums of I.G. Farben's
Das Mädchen: Tabun (1936)—Until portions of this ague were equal, and unafraid of sentries overseeing a shipment of unspent canisters, by means of trinitroglycerin Nobel shelved with nitred sawdust (1867), packaged by I.G. Farben—
Among the trunks, whose lighting-struck duramens were a putrid slurry,
With Romhilde Seedig, we reentered the eyes of the birch wood west of the villa—
At last remembering the scent, for remolded splints, or tonewood of the high and low frequencies, among its bundled twigs for their dachas; and this, our splintered lieder
Of the Berkano stave, is completed with ancestry—Beyond the standard
Waffen-SS at their vipers, and rendered the absolute license—To the humanity underfoot, what else than to speak of trees, how their miraculously intact paper bark bore properties of wintergreen, for delicately
Knitted cairns in our nerve fibers, for their next fourteen generations, beyond where I.G. Farben's agrochemicals plot the Aktions, we sleep in delicately
Unfolded wings of our cocoons outside the villa—Bifurcating inside ourselves; freshly hewn, burn well, without popping, with our lieder of blood and phosphorus
Expelled in an eerily glowing slurry as our body's standard issue, approaching as it encloses the void hours as our talisman—
