Galathea (English version)

Years ago, when the New Cathedral of erotic Misery was mere scaffolding, and i did not really know what i was doing, but it felt good, so i kept on doing it, i had the privilege of conversing with one of America’s foremost intellectuals. The brilliant mind of Alan Sondheim noticed my doings and welcomed me to the Writing-L community, a fact for which i am in his dept and grateful forever. I’ve learned so much from all the people there. Alan apparently enjoyed my work, but he kept wondering, a bit annoyed, why it had to be a damn Cathedral, of all things. My answer then was childishly evasive. I basically and bluntly told him to go ask Schwitters why his Cathedral was eine Kathedrale. The following poem that i wrote this morning comes closer to an honest answer. It is badly rendered in English, and i don’t know if he’ll like it, but still i want to share with you, in his honor. Thank you for the works, Alan!

Oh yes, the title refers to this famous old Dutch song:


I have the beauty in my sight
From when the Occident began in us.
There was no limit to desire
The muse was inside all of us & sang.

We stood beside each other, child after child.
We made our dreams to deeds & deeds were word.
We were g*d, & loved by g*d.
We murdered each & every dream in us.

Europe is a musty cradle, sterile
Blue screen where no one sees no one.
Lampedusa is the wound at our heel
We sink into the slime of this, our area.

I have the writings in my head:
Saints, heretics & a dead philosopher.
I see cathedrals rising
In the swamps of my faith.

Come here, my darling
I will caress your thighs
Stroke your golden strands of hair

And in the morning when the day arrives
All of this land will be on fire.


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