Verse 1: Riverspool by Rob Krohn

Speeding in lightspool brightspool in deathstar deathspool.. I'm on the Night job: driving ten-seven: sleeping ten-four: it’s tough: with the meat-gnats dancing to the tempest you constantly hear a vatic (a predicting what’ll happen in the future) hum.. to lightstar to brightspool in deathstar and riverspool: the tension is when with the poetry of the outcast you arrive.. carrying in clear-orange capsules a box of morphine.. making the air burn to fire a flame: a flame it flares to sloth the heartbeat: striking nine chimes: and to the faces of the Night in the street you say we can end this pain: of all the ten-sevens: all the ten-fours: and you turn onto the ring we call it with no exit-sign: speeding round and scrambling for the cinders of lightstar in lightspool: because only then you veer for riverspool: because only you know it’s torture: how every Night hollows us in deathstar in deathspool: and Like a Wraith, you titled your song and said the wraith is life flitting us by to which I said the agony of wanting you is the wraith: to which you handed me nine capsules.

Verse 2: The Hex of Your Aura Stains My Heart Obsidianly

I watched the Fassbinder film.. half in English, half in German..

Only this is a lament for a real Veronika Voss.. that’s her name..

Besotted is the right word.. but how could you be so deepblue into someone you’d just watched on a 1980s cinema screen?

Answer is: I am an all-lonely shoegaze poet and she’s an all-longing synth poet..

From out of the fade a VV-shape appeared and virtually hexed or virtually hooked us with a sort of magick aura of spooling attract.. is what I thought like an utter slob..

Then flipping-hell: it was fire-walk-with-me: truly ridiculous: every second thought was V is for Voss.. V for Veronika..

Veronika Voss..

Who is she?

Singer of glorias.. composer of unquenchable flame..

Bam anyway: she stunned me into a chronic flurry: and now in the white nights, as I bicycle round my private art labyrinth that is Berlin, this long-long spiel of Voss-thought spins and spins: mostly unprintable part from ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bam..

A voice monopolises the howl in my head, saying: Right this second what’s she doing?

Dunno but I wonder..

Maybe she’s on the couch snuggling in beautiful goblin-mode, wearing red pyjamas and watching a film, Meantime say or..

Imagine her dozing.. the ohms of each breath..

Before she drifts, what appears in the moonlight of her mind?

Is she kipping now at 2:23am?

Does she snore?

What in her dreams glisters like the purring of a morphine-fed tigress?

What’s she eat for breakfast.. toast, a tea, croissant and coffee?

What is it about the brown syrup of her eyes that you wanna swim into and drown and sink to the seabed and get eaten to the hollows of the ribcage by all kind of crab or mollusc or octopus?

They suffuse an opium glow.. those eyes.. like her poems..

And look I’m totally fucking spooled.. am asking: when’s it gonna stop?

How do you unspool her witchy powers from my sad wee brain?

That's the tormenting question..

Does she own mandalas, any Ouija and how many waxy candles aflame in how many circles each waxy night?

I love the shape of the bones of her hands and..

Actually what’re her ears like?

The thick glossy wild velvet richness of her russet-black hair is the best..

Or those dancing-like-a-candle-flame-moves when singing..

Rewire time and reality: elope with her to Venezuela.. two runaway soul-writers..

Have you read Vossobsession: a landmark essay on paradox in the poems of Veronika Voss from 2018 to 2025?

Picture it: she frequently casts three dice against the curb.. and the numbers roll very frequently on 3 and 3 and 3..

What’s that mean?

Means awake ye muses nine: the self-begetting V of many hymns.. the sublime angle at which her upper left eyelid tilts is a clue to the secret of art.. and she plays the tremolo..

Vosswave, who from the angel of poetry became the poet..

Think how good it’d be to protect her from some monster, some scoundrel, some riff-raff like a Yevbot being a total wazzock..

So at midnight in Acidhouse Kafka: if she asked, for the key to the cage, what cage, would you duel with a fellow buffoon?

Natürlich yes a simp is a simp is a simp but only in fiction would she ask and if we are in fiction how about traipsing over a lake of blue ice with hungry polar bears because she wanted you to fetch eight-milligrams of sushi, which is code for morphine?

She got a VV-eye on me..

She got a VV-eye on me..

She got a VV-eye on me..

Yeah.. Acidhouse Kafkagaze was the plan: as in I’d complete the (Swirling) first of my two-part novel (Skazz) in which I explore this idea of acidhouse as my own self-creating genre based on the voice in my whirlpool brain.. but the editorial coincided with V-Day and therein it was impossible to focus and flow..

I meta at meta..

How many geezers have spun inside that obsidian heart?

Solid obsidian is it or just obsidianly-plated?

Listening to the music in it beat: the spaces of silence separating each thump: this is the soundtrack: this is my idea of unutterable dreamwave..

Cool how Voss’s speaking Voice is exactly as I heard it first in my mind’s-ear..

Damn though, it’s dumb: but wish we could go angel-hunting together in nighttime Berlin.. Veronika and I: photographing all of the (how many: over a hundred?) stone statue angels: their wings aflap: how that'd make supreme poetry..

Because bet in her nature there’s shyness plus a kind of surging distorted guitar blast of vital Cleopatra-ness..

What does VV long for?

And when was the last time she swirled pink with laughter?

Equally, when-why was the last time she cried?

In the world of this poem anything can happen: and her tears taste of salty caramel: like the song Caramel: like the tang of the Voluptuary Sea: like the swells of the Vico Gulf: and the spouts of the Vortex Ocean: all match the voltage of her tears: of course they do: why not?

Like her arms are as smooth and white (as wow) as alabaster, same as Fassbinder’s Voss.. but notwithstanding this besotted aftermath: the real Veronika (ever-radiant synth poet) totally spooled most of my everything to the fullest pitch: and it is definitely the hex of the V aurora that full-on stains my heart in a way that's proven to be completely obsidianly..

The data says all of this is true.