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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On such a Krimean night

Krymska Cabin
I can almost see that wild Krim on the forest trail!

Jean, Jean! What a lovely night, I can almost see that wild Krim on the forest trail!

Is he like the Manné Rock, ever falling, tumbling? Or is he of the deep, deep mountain? I have seen him, Jean. I saw him! You need only count to three, and with every step a statement is stated, yet Krim is never sated! He is eating the world, Jean … Gnaws on our fundament, our testament.

East and West, all-encompassing! Such compassion! Tell not my brother of my dreams. Oh, Krim, Allfather of the Allforest …

Yours always,
Hermione Lynn Ploppel