Gottfried Benn, and the Nature of Tragedy

(within the curious kunstraints
of [chaos vs. order]VAS.[chaos as order])

Gottfried Benn is writing a poem
about fame, Ben Franklin, and the
odors of the damned, when a small
yet greatly enlarged photon
enters his Gepetto's grotto
to perch upon his old weathered
krankenvalise.

The photon speaks:

You stayed here with the Nazis
because they were your people.
You stayed depressed, weird,
and odd because you are those
things, but the sick are light.

Dr. Benn is amazed. He doesn't
hear a thing the photon has said
as he has noticed its anatomy
and started to name the correlates
from across the animal and plant
kingdoms he knows.

Though, he thinks to himself:

The logic of the poem
in any form, has never been
more than that of a maid's
dumping her garbage out
before the master, to reassure
him / her that she hasn't thrown
anything of value away.

The photon
nardles its veilicerae
and emits an ectoplasmic cocoon
which it proceeds to autopsy
acting like a clown sitting down
to a meal.

"Would you like a brandy, little photon?"

"Thank you. You can feel my inner
organs from an opening behind
as I drink it. You may like it."

Gottfried Benjamin Franklin
of illuminated sicko world.