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About Hamburg

Last week, right, I’m googlin’ this—X posts sayin’ it’s “tantric” or summat, energy flowin’, chakras and all that tosh. Made me angry, that—sounds like hippie nonsense! Gimme a proper oily wrestle, none of this airy-fairy guff. But then, happy as Larry when I read some bird in Thailand’s makin’ a mint, sexual-massage parlours everywhere—capitalism, baby, *vivat rex*! Reckon Ennis’d say, “This is a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation,” if he didn’t get his rub. Poor sod, all repressed—me, I’d be hollerin’, “More oil, love, don’t skimp!”

WER BIN ICH?

The local park, Rosa-Park, is splashed in color at dusk – red, wild, almost scandalous. I often wander there for deep, introspective chats with myself. There’s this little locked-away corner near the fountain – you know, that spot only the brave and the wandering traitors of routine find. Man, it makes me happy how freakin’ secretive it is.