Last Night

Last night sleep refused me entrance into its anodynic domain with increasing resistance. Intermittently I would turn on my side, reach for my bedside lamp, turn it on, and read Headbirths. The Turks and Asians are milling around in the Führer's room. They are setting up their Döner Kebab stalls and selling six tees for ten marks, respectively; as Helmut Schimdt pontificates on the virtues of the pill. The non-practicing Lutheran has taken over the pulpit and the altar will remain, barren.

They keep a cat and still have no child.

They give birth to Athene at the crest of their skull. They shall nurture her. An immaculate conception.

Why push little Karl or Gerhard out of the poor unsuspecting cervix, when Germany is severed at the head by ideologies: communism and capitalism. No, once conceived, let them fall off the precipice, desperately grasping at the inhospitable uterus. They shall all meet again in the Rheine.

Thirty years later, give or take, I sit here contemplating the rise of Jewry, and how Europeans are still grappling with their sterile wombs after all these years. Take a pill, once more, vanquish this thought, take these palpitations and allow me to sleep.