The Escapades of young Herr Ploppel

Young Herr Ploppel to his mother, his father, his niece and his colleagues, to his memory and to his mirror. Yes, he was Young Herr Ploppel to most. But to the ladies distributed on his bed, so naked and Nerichian in size and superstition, to the high-thighed lurkers of nightly Gasses and city gates, to the alleys and oil-lamps and unforested fields, he was only Hermann.

vienna
Ever older

Young Herr Ploppel, or Hermann if you like, was a seeker of the most precious and pure escapades, a wanderer of the paths moist, soiled and unsacred. An explorer of coves and caves.

And he laid her upon that divan.

Her skin pale and fresh, reflecting light diffuse.
Her curves, womanly and fertile, yet modest and continuous.
Her eyes, tracing his, rays of creation.

And they laid upon that divan.

Ploppel (Hermann, our man) awoke as if a new man, and that new man was old, so old … He walked into Viennese streets, upon Germanic cobblestone and ancient manure, piss, blood, sadness. He was changed and unchanging. He raised his gaze, and saw nothing. The scholars of the Sexual Soldier’s Sorrow School hold today that this was the very moment at which Ploppel & Europa slipped irreverisbly into infinite debauchery, endless genocide, unending un-logik.

 

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The Paoloan Divan

That most curious piece of furniture! Such fine craftsmanship, and what curves!

Lay down here, young seeker
With so much yet to learn
Soon you will grow meeker
A new position earn

Yes, you find yourself in that House most highly acclaimed. Indeed, you stand in its innermost chamber! Lay down there, young seeker, upon that soft bosom standing splendid on four oaken feet.

Ayem, ohm, oh!
To be continuous!
To exist eternally!
To know the sixteen shades of
Phong, olde Master!

Vienna is a ghost, and you are Her murderer. How could you betray Her? And worse: How could you betray Him? You slumbered in his magnificent tower, upon that magnificent divan, as your days of youth expired in wild spiral motions, in Icarian fly-over.

Weep, Walle, cry
You know the Truth must die

Mourn, Walle, wailing
“Aye, ayem, oh, ohm …”

You live in memory. You breathe through time. You are still, as you are no more, and no more will be than you were (and you’re gone). But yes, you live! In that innermost chamber of the Holy House Helwegia, your imprint is deep and strong in the soft pillows and sweet textiles of the Paoloan Divan.