Archives for October 19, 2015

Achtung, Achtung – alle Migranten !

(Opening scene of stream of dejected, burdened stragglers of all ages

on a road somewhere in eastern Europe)

A pestilence in Budapest,

bleeding out of the shrapnel wound

that is The Levant, gaping migrants,

outcasts of the Peak Oil Feast,

congealing scabs, starving for healing

in Hungary.


(Camera pans out and away – into the studio

where a slick Steve addresses his unseen audience)

“These are the contestants of Survivor Syria,

our latest reality TV show of the highest ratings.

And now for tonight’s episode we cross live to

Walther Cruikshank: …”


(Switch to reporter / presenter at railstation)

“Ah … thanks Steve, yes folks tonight we’re in

for a real ball-buster …”


(The railstation’s megaphone blares out – in jackboot stocatto,

drowning out Walther’s puny voice)

‘Achtung, Achtung – alle Migranten !”

Your free ride has been cancelled.

Once your name is drawn,

you will leave the embarking area immediately.

The tribe has spoken.

Return peacefully to your place of origin.

This announcement will not be repeated

and no correspondence will be entered into.”


(Camera leaves station, switches to recorded clips from the previous week’s action)

From the beaches of Tripoli they swam,

their bodies washing up on the shores of Sicily,

like late ancient Cathaginians answering the call

of a forgotten and defeated Hannibal.

From Damascus they walked to Istanbul,

and like The Apostle, were struck down

by the Light of God,

yet blind they wandered on.

In Vienna they suffocated in the waltzing heat

of a too well insulated fridge –

the road-sign might just have read –

‘Auschwitz – Achtung alle Migranten !’


(Camera picks out a buckled over hag with a snotty child strapped to her back)

Old strong grandmothers on one last road,

backs bent burdened by young sick babies

nursing at breasts wrinkled like the Roads of Life

sleeping in cold forests on dangerous nights,

only a baton-charge from the borderguards.


(Walther’s high-pitched voice inserts itself into the scene with the following words)

“Are you ready for tomorrow’s challenge ?

Wanna see what you’re playing for ?

– your life.”

“Steve, it’s back to you …”


(Steve now relaxes on a leather, brass-studded

seat reading out aloud from a newspaper)

“They are gone with a wind called Diaspora,

blown wherever she would blow,

and like seeds scattered on the stoney ground,

they are abandoned to the heat

in Syriza, and in Syria.

Stay tuned for surprising, uprising scenes

from our next episode.

Good night and God bless.”


thats the question is everyones lips. others agree that it seems like they are more concerned with the idea of dying than accepting that indeed the’ll die. if someone dies he/she will be born in a different country or continent and that particular person wont recall that he/she once lived. somehow this is true, there is a time in which you might bump at someone who looks exactly like someone you know from somewhere. you may consider this a coincidence, but i guess that’s how god wanted you to think when a person diesw, another one is biorn to rep,lac e the one who has departed.this whole thing is like a spiral, that’s we wont figure out if there’s life after death.the only thing that divides us is religion. for example; indians ; when a baby is born they cry and mourn for the fact that the baby has come into the world of problems. on the other hand when someone of their race passes away, they celebrate gesticulating, this shows that the departed person has been subdued from all the troubles and sufferings of this life