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Geli Raubal, Alone In Her Room, September 18th, 1931
Historians may not think that much of me.
I only seek to silence the noise of death---
the song of shattered grief, the fated cacophony---
that he believes is the object of his artistry;
his hideous struggle to force the world and reality
(and even myself) to become the resonance of
the majorly minor dissonance of Wagnerian melody.
He believes he is the man---the highest priest,
the preparer and forger---of German destiny;
He said that I must be his Muse of this,
like Cosima was at Bayreuth during the last century.
He says that his desire is to give to me
the finished masterpiece, the Germany,
which is his utmost compulsion and fantasy.
(Yet he demands I squat over his face, and pee.)
He is, without doubt, the most questionable anomaly
that scuttled from beneath the cornered shadows of History.
Yet, here is his hidden vulnerability:
he needs for me to remain, as he says, at his side
as he fulfills his calling to summon, and preside
over, the coalescence of the everlasting Reich
(third time a charm, as the old saying goes).
Perhaps, in this way, I can deflate and deny
his so-called iron will; perhaps I can defy
the delusions of grandeur that fuel his single-minded lie,
the confusions for which thousands---millions---should die.
My death to spare theirs; my demise
to quash his ambition which I curse and despise:
perhaps this is my historical vocation,
a matyrdom, not merely suicide.
Starward
