Marcus Meister

An old friend’s name. California, back then. A house interior, a bookshelf, Le Corbusier’s chaise longue. A lonesome man. And a painting, with a model, a recurring model. An image fixed in the pastime. An obsession. A guilt to expiate. The let that name wander in your ears. Wilhelm Meister oh oh. My lonesome young man, pretty boy, you’re trying a book, but can’t concentrate on it. Nostalgia. A long long time ago you willingly tossed the wrong dice, my blondish pretty boy. The City of the window, she won’t help you no more. She won’t be around no more . She’s lost, you’re lost.