VERONIKA VOSS
Verse 1: Riverspool by Bob Krohn
Speeding in lightspool brightspool in deathstar deathspool.. I'm on the Night job: driving ten-seven: sleeping ten-four: and with the meat-gnats dancing to the tempest you constantly hear a vatic (a predicting what will happen in the future) hum.. to lightstar to brightspool in deathstar and riverspool: the tension is when you arrive with the poetry of the outcast.. with the morphine you bring in clear-orange capsules.. making the air burn to fire a flame: a flame it flares to slow the heartbeat: striking chimes: and to faces of the Night in the street you say we can end this pain: of every ten-seven: every ten-four: you get on the ring we call it with no exit-sign: speeding round and round and: in the cinders of lightstar lightspool in deathspool: you tank it to riverspool: because only riverspool knows what the agony of wanting you means: of how all the ten-sevens: all the ten-fours hollow us in deathstar in deathspool: for like a Wraith, you wrote: life flits on by.
Verse 2: The Hex of Her Aura Stains My Heart Obsidianly
I watched the Fassbinder film.. half in English, half in German..
Only this is a lament for a real Veronika Voss.. that’s her name..
Besotted with her is the right word.. but how could you be so deepblue into someone you’d just watched on a 1980s cinema screen?
Answer is: I am a lonely shoegaze poet and she’s a swirling synth poet..
From out of the fog a VV-shape appeared and virtually hexed or virtually hooked us with a sort of magick aura of spooling attract.. is what I thought like an utter slob..
Then flipping-hell: it was fire-walk-with: truly: every second thought was V is for Voss.. V is for Veronika..
Veronika Voss..
Who is she?
Singer of glorias.. composer of unquenchable flame..
Bam anyway: she stunned me into a chronic flurry: and now in the white nights, as I cycle round my private art labyrinth that is Berlin, this long-long spool of Voss-thought spins and spins: mostly unprintable apart from ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bam..
A voice in my head howls, saying: Right this second what’s she doing?
Dunno but well, I wonder..
Maybe she’s on the couch snuggling in goblin-mode, wearing pyjamas and watching a film, Meantime say or..
Imagine her dozing.. the ohms of each breath..
Before she drifts, what appears in the moonlight of her mind?
Is she kipping now: 2:23am?
Does she snore?
What in her dreams glisters like the purring of morphine-fed tigers?
What’s she eat for breakfast.. toast with coffee or tea?
What is it too about the brown syrup of her eyes that you wanna swim into and drown and sink to the seabed and get eaten to the ribcage by all kind of crab and mollusc and octopi?
They suffuse an opium glow.. her eyes I mean.. like her poems..
And I’m totally fucking spooled.. am asking: when’s it gonna stop?
How to unspool her, those witchy powers, from my sad wee brain?
That's the tormenting question..
Does she own mandalas, any Ouija and how many waxy candles aflame in how many circles each waxy night?
I love the shape of the bones of her hands and..
Actually what’re her ears like?
The thick glossy wild richness of her red-red-black hair is the best..
Rewire time and reality: and elope with her to Argentina.. as two runaway soul-writers..
Have you read Vossobsession: a landmark essay on the poems of Veronika Voss from 2018 to 2025?
Picture it: she casts three dice against the curb.. the numbers fall on 3 and 3 and 3..
What does that mean?
It means awake ye muses nine: particularly she of many hymns..
And how good would it be to protect her from some monster, some threat, some riff-raff like a Yevbot being a wazzock?
So at midnight in Dostoyevsky: would you duel with a fellow buffoon if she asked?
Natürlich but only in fiction would she ask and if we are in fiction how about walking over a lake of blue ice with polar bears just because she wanted you to fetch eight-mill of sushi?
Totes, said an annoying voice..
She got a VV-eye on me..
She got a VV-eye on me..
She got a VV-eye on me..
Uh..
Acidhouse was the plan: meaning I’d complete the (Swirling) first of my two-part novel (Skazz) in which I explore this idea of acidhouse as my own self-begetting genre based on the voice and music in my whirlpool brain.. but day one of editing coincided with V-Day and therein it was impossible to focus and flow..
I meta at meta..
How many geezers have spun inside that obsidian heart?
Solid obsidian is it or just obsidianly-plated?
Listening to the music in it beat: the spaces of silence separating every thump: this is the soundtrack: this is my idea of unutterable dreamcore..
Cool how her speaking voice is exactly as I heard it first in my mind’s-ear..
Damn, wish we could go angel-hunting together in nighttime Berlin.. Veronika Voss and I: photographing across the city every one of the (how many: over a hundred?) stone statue angels: that'd make great poetry..
When was the last time she yawped with laughter?
Equally, when and why was the last time she cried?
In the world of this poem anything can happen: and her tears taste of salty caramel: like the song Caramel: like the waves of the Voluptuary: the swells of Vico's Gulf: the spouts of the Vortex Ocean: they match the cream of her tears: of course they do: why not?
Like her arms are as smooth and white (as wow) as alabaster, same as Fassbinder’s Veronika Voss.. but notwithstanding this besotted aftermath: the real Veronika Voss (the all-radiant poet) totally spooled most of my everything to the fullest pitch: and it is the hex of her aura that full-on stains my heart in a way that's proven to be completely obsidianly..
The data says it's true.
. . .
