Gefillte Fish & Pudding

The lyrical cat puts pen to paper and drafts his firstling. Burnt out by poetic conception, he commits himself to nurturing an artistic malaise. In today‘s oneiric interlude, the already endured dream-loop is relocated in lavish Roman opulence. Light-footed ascent through ruby red vineyard terraces & and final retreat to the composer‘s asylum.

July the 5th – Post-rainy weather and hint of a rainbow for breakfast.

At the first yawn of dawn I escaped an aphoristic animal dream, which I could not decipher. Noticing the bare doorstep of limestone cold, my heart slipped into my paws. But, fur slippers dragged to the door, and there she was – Aunty Golda in the sacrificial incense of the becoming cake.

My dreaded heart took a seat back at the breakfast table and I decided to honour the day and answer Weintraub’s post. Finding no writing paper at hand, I grabbed yesterday evening‘s divining card, released my thoughts from the leash and had them retrieve fairly well. An apollonian wink to ancient times and notable gratitude in filigree lines should enchant the mindful recipient. I finally crowned my firstling with ambiguous inkblot-butterflies, bribed the post-raven with tequila worms on orange wedges and went for sushi.

Gefillte Fish: A Limmerick by Felix Blum

July the 7th – Bad Hair Day.

The worm of lyrical neurasthenia nibbles at my ventricles like vermouth dices with sugar. Withered, decaying and ailing, I rot on the shrubbery lawn. Fire-ant lines gush from earth gutters, dissect my benumbed body to wafer-thin carpaccio and bear it away piece by piece. Perspectively pulverized, I fade into the nirvana of an ant‘s vanishing point. Good night, you dark world... 


July the 11th – Pines in Rome. 


A summer-night‘s dream.

I bask in orange blossom on veiny marble, eunuchs fan my temples with palm fronds, as pearly harp tunes fizz in sunset’s balm. Poached nightingales on rose petals and pomegranate corals in ice wine provide for epicurean ease. A rose between the lips, I dip my paws in well-tempered colour and paint the bare wall with pagan beauty and nudity crowned in vine.

A crab step: The creator tilts his head to the side and nods to the creature... Then, razor sharp, the scream – buffalos and bisons from petrified times snarl from mutating walls of blood and charcoal, lobsters grab me with firy tongs and chain me to the resin-dripping pyre. Fervently swinging, an incense burner hits my left temple! O chopped liver of Promotheus! Divine fire sparks! Hosanna, I burn, I burn ablaze!

Ragged rabble roars at the market place.


I wake up bathed in sweat, boil a soft egg and think of Germany at night.


Special thanks to Brenda Landes for her diligent proofreading of this english translation.

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