Whipped cream
Ices the bitter dark taste
Of this wedding cake world
And smothers its lumpenproletariat
Its disfigured, psychic bourgeoisie
With enough aftertaste
To ease the choking pain
Of a corpusculent empire
Collapsing under the weight
Of its own luxuriant usury.
Swirling
Sliding
Scraping across the floor
These bejewelled notes
Crunch the clangourous sound
Of clarinet and heimat
Poised on the putsch
Of anti-Jewish laws
And crafting the shadows of deception
Outside the warm
Snivelling class of failure
Where bitterness and loathing
Compound fear and its inevitable declension:
The waltz crash
Of the waltz king:
The empire of empires
Topples into the sea of European demise
Tipsy on remembrance.
The skeletons dance
Across the parade ground
Towards the emperor’s
Unshackled guardroom
Recklessly high
On the forgotten yesteryears
In a sensorium of cultured deceit:
History walks on by
Inexorably repeating itself:
To dance, to die.
Gar Jones: April 2012/January 2017