Boris K. and the Shaving Kit


Upon his stint as a taxi driver, where he was accused of taking the customer to the wrong destination, Boris K. decided to seize different business ventures. He turned bitter and frustrated. Surely he was a remarkable driver, but the phenomenonizations did their trick.

He had heard through the grape wine that some busses of the city transportation, especially along certain specific routes, defied the laws of phenomenonization. He picked up the wanted ad for the bus driver position on line 42. This was unbeknownst to the she-passenger entering the bus at the front, in obvious high spirits, spreading the sour scent of Black Kashmir all around. Others looked at her abhorrently.

Boris K. tightened his grip on the steering wheel, stepped on it and the bus came to life. Parallel to this a panicky tenor of a frightened man soared within the vehicle. What happened was that a shaving kit went missing from an old man’s bag. Panic ensued. Droplets of sweat sliding down Boris’ temples. A saintly smile adorned his face, which horribly mismatched that hellish eyestare of his. Someone sang mid-dream, and the old man/mugging victim threatened to have them inspected and vacated the vehicle cussing and swearing. All of this, an endeavor too much for Boris K. to handle.

He turned towards the most gracious she-traveler and, the moment the well-off lady was powdering her nose a la France and Chanelled eyebrows above her eyes, he spoke to her courteously:

“Were you, perchance, in a dire need of a shaving kit?” The sensitive she-traveler teared up in an instant hearing these words, noting that she had just finished performing her bathing ritual in a sweet-scented bathroom.

“By the Majestic Mach-3, beyond a shade of a doubt, not a single hair ever grew on my body!”

Looking at her, Boris K. was imagining that Chanel the she-traveler was in a glass jar rounded up top. Noting Boris K. staring at her with suspicion, she said:

“I was born in an airplane, the moment the Chernobyl nuclear catastrophe took place.” Having said this, she took of her wig and the baldness popped out in full display.

Face Mask

Boris K. pupils contracted. He was at one moment observing her bald head, at another her white, smooth hands in velvet gloves. The passengers leapt from their seats. They were pointing at the top of her head, accusing her of stealing the distinguished senior gentleman’s shaving kit.

“We all saw her!” The loudest of the voices accused, belonging to an older woman with a hat.

“She is the perpetrator! She lies!”

Boris K. asked to see the contents of her bag, which the lady opened. Ampules of ketamine powder emerged. A drug evaporated which put a spell on the passengers and blurred all of the windows on the bus. They all jumped off their seats and started banging on the four sets of double doors, begging Boris to release them.

The she-traveler exclaimed, disappointed:

“I should’ve taken a cab.”

With his last ounce of strength Boris K. used his walkie-talkie to report a diversionary Mujahideen attack and fainted. When the fog dispersed, the bald woman was no more, and the granny wearing the fedora, the loudest accuser, pullet the shaving kit which she needed out of her brassiere, not to remove armpit hair, but for magic – to harm the neighbors stealing her exotic flowers.

 

When The Geese Go Marching In


An explanation for all fortunate one’s who do not live in Serbia, this poem – act play – a historical action is a parody on the arrogant, rude and aggressive behavior of the controller in the Serbian buses. 

I leafed through the pages of my sacred book
Servian bus controller runs
between the lines

there is something inexplicable
Nazi and ghostly
in connection with the bus plus controllers in Belgrade
there is something so völkisch
The ‘body’ of the ‘new’ German Volk

They are flowing on the go as the crimson streams
in their purple T-shirts with the SS logo
while pushing smelly mob around them
similar to the chapel of the crematorium

When they are goose stepping beside me
with fylfot tattoos on their forehead
and a swastika on their butts
I am astonished at how nice it is
When The Geese Go Marching In
grinning, knobby and roly poly
in the heat of the sluggish afternoon
in haunted Belgrade busutitution, somewhere near Dachau morgue

blankly tree tapping in their heads is heard
tap tap tap

I, immortal Empress Wu Zetian
I ruled China over four millennia
cling cling cling
and now they’re threatening me to undo this funny ticket
Qigong has awakened my true nature
on the nameless throne for the uncrowned queen
some rulers may not live forever

“Prepare 6 Bus Plus EInsatzgruppen
for the invasion to the following bus, my Lady Buchenwald ”
(Bald reptilian Goose hugs Ilse Koch with a walkie talkie in her hand. They are laughing together, while thousands frightened eyes are staring at me
“What will now happen to her, to us?”)

tap tap tap
cling cling cling

PUBLIC ORDER!
PUBLIC ORDER!
CANCEL YOUR TICKET!
YOU… ALIEN!

(Mob is creaming in unison. Many of them are in tatters. Some will go mad with hunger for the day, still unwaveringly holding the Card with the tip of the middle finger. Daring Servians)

I replaced the rich Serb twice
for the controller,
I’ve canceled my ticket on his big smartphone
I thought it was repressive apparatus.

Forgive me, Confucius,
I do not find it hard in dire straits.

I, immortal Empress Wu Zetian
I am canceling my bus ticket!

You.. little… Punk!
Give me my wig back!
Falling down.
Punk!
I stood again!
He didn’t fall.
Now he did.
Click!
pop pop pop
advancing!
Swing. Swing. Swing.
A WINNER!

seething with anger, unlocking my Chinese boutique
I’m already late for work.

Ilse Koch Of Surdulica
Kreisleitung Of Little Krishna
and Spitzenreiter Of Laika – pueblo

are my new A – shop assistants.