If Wikipedia is to be believed, the advancement of glaciers at the end of the Pleistocene saw vast parts of central Europe covered by the Alpine ice sheet. Like correction fluid spilled, in divine ejaculation, onto the rugged features of what now constitutes the picturesque climes of Tyrol, this icy flow embarked upon grinding its path down in an unswerving motion of deceleration and congealment, terraforming a glacial series that stretches, conincidentally, to the Franconian Zonenrandgebiet, the alleged cold war watershed of ballpoint pen prevalence.
Yet the indiscriminate layer of plaster cannot smooth all coarseness and grout all fissures; the white veneer is tainted with spots and bumps, aqcuiring the dubious complexion of smutty snow, or that of my bathtub's mildewed enamel.
Inevitably, the potency captured beneath the ice, the things which unter Fernern liefen, is set free in the interglacial thawing period -a polymorphous perverse Glasnost, engendering growth into lopsided shapes, spawning weeds and vermin; lumps bulging and limbs in a sprawl, attempting to copulate with all das nicht bei 'drei!' auf dem Baum ist; tissue proliferating by unintelligible design; black and blue toes, swelling with hurt after having been stepped on winterlong.
Like the splatter pattern garnishing a sangria-soaked session in the park, like the sexual tedium of well-fed zoo animals, like the stinging despair shadowing a perfect day of forgetfulness, we are going to reap just what is sowed. As the frigid white cover melts into fertilized soil, as the permafrost retreats,
I hear hurricanes ablowing,
I fear rivers overflowing,
I see a smelly spring ripening, a coalescence of dilluted fecal matter and stirring procreational urges, a harvest of nipples and dog poo, ingredients of child- and adulthood alike.