In the Reina Sophia, Madrid,
Baldwin can't help but think;
What are these German tourists
going to make of Dali's, 'The Enigma
of Adolf Hitler'? Christ, they're
all old enough to have been teenagers

at the fall of Berlin. He hovers,
his voyeurism driving the spectre of
adolescent ruin (A Tin Drum retarded
work-in-progress, isn't he Dear
Readers?) & waits for the first tear
to churn up the snowdrift of faces
grooved as tank tread. The gremlin
is not disappointed.

“Gott in Himmel Rox”, he barks
out across the gallery courtyard,
juggling two styrofoamed coffees
like WW1 'potato mashers'.
“I should have bought that
second-hand record I found in Athens

you know, 'German Marching Songs
1933-1945'. Would've been a blast,
back home eh?”
Roxanne, perplexed, chooses
to ignore her obviously insane
husband – burns her upper palate
as an elderly woman collapses
into a bench chair beside her
& weeps; a white embroidered
handkerchief parachutes
into her face.