Thirteen East

of a hammer-and-compass,

Stasi officer’s cap back-to-front

on history-drunk head, hands bent

into “East Side” and “West Side” gangsta-rap gestures

and watching the concrete-faced Russian Embassy guard

caress his Kalashnikov, I slip into a bar

where missiles launched by

hairy arms in a T-shirt blurting

“Hate Edge”,

the name of a local heavy-metal band,

fly through fog into an electronic dartboard,

to quaff a frothy wheat beer or two

and waffle Deutglisch with someone.

Hate Edge.

Hassrand, Hassgrenze,

Hate Border.

“And you Berliners know all about hate borders, you

built the Berlin Wall!”

I cackle like a paedophile with a ticket

to a cheerleaders’ dance.

He doesn’t.

                       A mouse                                                          scuttles along

the skirting-board.

                                          A used crisp-packet

                           un                                folds                                  itself.

                                                  I can hear my tinnitus,

whistling through my left ear like a jammed radio signal.

Berlin Wall.

Berlin Door, Berlindore, Borderline,

Hate Borderline.

“That is not funny,” he replies.

“The lyrics of this heavy-metal band

have nothing to do with the Berlin Wall.”