Free Ashes for Breakfast by Durs Grünbein Page B

Schutz
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Genommen brauchst du keine Alibis
    Du funktionierst, das reicht. Und good old Hobbes
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Kommt für den Schaden auf im Dienst der Ordnung.
    Niemand kann sagen, was ihm fehlt eh nicht
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Der Schock ihm hilft. Aus Ignoranz gestürzt
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Fliegt dir dein ganzes Leben auf. Im freien Fall
    Zieht ein Projektor die Verlust-Tabelle durch.
    Lochstreifen nackter Angst. Vor meinen Augen Schwarz.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Kann sein, es ist Verblendung, die mir sagt:
    Nicht erst seit Vico oder Machiavelli sind
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I due occhi della storia blind.

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG BORDER DOG (NOT COLLIE)
    To the memory of I. P. Pavlov
    And all the laboratory dogs
    Of the medical academy of the
    Russian armed forces
    Â 
    Â 
    Frozen dog
    Brought back to life.
    â€œAstonishing!” called the man
    With the reedy voice.
    â€œAnd he’s not the only one,”
    replied the stranger.
    (to be continued)
    Â 
    1
    Being a dog is an empty car park at noon.
    â€œNothing but trouble…” and seasickness on land.
    Being a dog is this and that, taking instruction from garbage heaps,
    A knuckle sandwich for dinner, mud orgasms.
    Being a dog is whatever happens next, randomness
    The mother of boredom and incomprehension.
    Being a dog is being up against a bigger opponent
    Time, which does you in with endless chain-links.
    So much of too-much in a tiny space …
    Being a dog is a ride on the ghost train of language,
    Which keeps throwing clever obstructions your way.
    Being a dog is having to when you don’t want to, wanting to
    When you can’t, and always somebody watching.
    Being a dog?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â It’s the bad smell attaching to your words.
    Â 
    2
    â€œGet out of the light,” you say, talking to the demon
    In the glass gone blind with looking,
    Giving you the glad eye these many years.
    Its harsh glance pierces your face
    Like a spy from the clan of the X-ray spirits.
    When you turn your back, your fear of
    Going rigid turns with you.
    Till something’s certain …
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â behind the grins.
    Even in your phantom image, the brain scan
    Picks you out. If only partially.
    An alien among aliens, you stand out
    As they stand out in you.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â With walled up frontal bone
    Every refuge is left behind you. Will it be too late
    By the time the autopsy sheds its bit of light?
    Â 
    3
    â€¦ umpteen years of service with a view of barbed wire fence,
    Trotting back and forth upcountry and down, only a dog could endure,
    Captivated by his lead, trained to behave from infancy.
    Even asleep, the tiny gap in the wire
    Shrinks to the size of a bullet hole behind his ear.
    A smacking of the lips proves even dogs have dreams.
    The thing that sets his juices flowing is the idea
    That parallel lines meet somewhere.
    Where Pavlov stands for the residue of spirit
    (instinct mobilized, a zigzag compass)
    Dialectics is nothing but … dumb loyalty;
    An ear for the feeling in his master’s voice.
    The moment of clarity is the lightening before death,
    At the end of the trial.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€œ Like a dog .”
    Â 
    4
    You look old, young hound. Atom age old.
    Curious in the mornings, heavy with leftover scraps
    Of vivid dreams, you amble into your day,
    Penned in by the traffic streaming by, the