Kafka didn’t belong in
German literature, because
the drive for stateless Ungeziefer
crossed the threshold
Austrio-Hungary
spoke.
The doctor lies
next to my dreams
and babbling through
the death of kings
speaking and shriveled,
the words no messanger
portends, no
man allowed.
A video-game Kraut
screams, “Ich sterbe!”
and the memories flood
as maps for next conquest,
but who would Kafka play
in a board game of rich men
as the hungry die for faith,
to know is to satiate
as hunger is to death;
the rest play roaches,
not described,
but what’s kept.
Taleless Cats Ltd. 