Dancing on the sward
From the aging mansion where the youngsters are wont to commit
The most horrific suicides – they
Electrocute themselves high in spiky towers
They hang themselves with chains at the end of which wolf traps snap
They disembowel themselves with kitchen knives
They sedulously maim and amputate themselves
They go at it always with a keen intent
And succeed in making such messes of their own corpses
That picking them up it seems – I’m told
It seems to be really disgusting.
From the crumbling sumptuous melancholic mansion
Where awed shamble the doomed
The manic fervidly set their complicated self-killing contraptions
The degenerate mechanically ensnare their own wasted bodies
It’s good to be just the gardener
Always outside – (never been in
Who’d be so crazy to want to?)
Always semi-busy and about trimming the paths
Always married to the deep green of the plants
And the deep blue of the sea that peeps up where the sward
And the turf gently slope
It’s good to be just the gardener
Occasionally musing at the pink rain while shacking
In my shack at the other end of the huge garden
My holy sylvan abode
And when the old woman of the house
Ancient survivor in the old rich mansion
Comes out to dance a few steps of a minuet on the vast lawn
It is good to be the gardener who reaches out his hand for she to hold
During her simple pirouette
Alas always before yet again she is summoned in front of another ghastly
Last of the bloody brood already – not many more left
House without youngsters house without angst.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
First I hate crowds
Second I hate lines
Third I hate bureaucrats
Trite trolls ensconced in their clotted quonset cabins.
Now the times presses
It is becoming too late
The runty fairy takes my passport
I make a few remarks
Notice that I could’ve move ahead with the notables
And the other shitty v.i.p.’s
But I’m one with the people..
Hate prerogatives and privileges you know...
Must be mightily pissed off by now the damned spook
Too tired with stamps labels countermarks that kind of garbage
Nonetheless he fucking takes his time with my passport
When the syrupy hours elapse my head collapses on the counter
I take a few exhausted winks
The mob thins
The din subsides
Somebody else – a lowly woman – elbows me
Hands me the passport He had not enough
Space (leaves) (pages) to affix his afflux of notes
My passport all smeared with multicolored provisos
And mainly with insults innuendoes questionings
Plain frontal assaults regarding the state of my sanity:
I’m not only crazy I’m also dangerous
I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere for a span
Of more than a couple
Of closely watched days – and at the least slip I should be committed
I’m frothing with anger
If I’m so crazy mayhap I’ve got a license to kill the turdy
Son of a bitch...
Only that he’s out to lunch.
I’m pacing outside at a loss now
I’m sizzling inside
I’ve got to destroy that fucking state (state of things) dares deny
My rights and moreover officially makes a walking disaster
Out of me.
I’m boiling mad
Roaming without a clue
Even bathed in the afternoon zephyr
I’ve been rumminating along that narrow street
A tub precariously balanced at the edge of the curb
Placed to be picked up by the garbage people soon due
Gets a furious rear kick out of me
It comes loose
It rolls down gathering speed
It will crash into traffic
It will cause chaos and mayhem at the crossroads
Against which the ally abuts
That’s why I’m running down some handy side street
I see the sea at its end
A marina where in floppy idleness the well-to-do
Use up their last one hundred sixty-two days allotted
How am I to mix unnoticed among them?
First let’s cross the torrent separates me from their tasteless luxury
The torrent skids down along the solid rim
I’m running on.
It’s all sham
Decoration put on
The open sewer goes to the sea
Near the sea it gets canalized it sinks into a culvert
Under the flat pier it seethes
Under the flat pier above which I’m walking nonchalantly
To mingle with my worthless peers.
Am I too conspicuous
Too conspicuously a branded crazy
A patently non-allowable...
Who’s to say?
Can’t I stroll also with a certain flair flaring my nostrils
Lifting my head tilting it so and pinching my lips
And tut-tutting myself
My image on the shop windows
Faking it maybe a mite too much
Not that anything ain’t faking
On the contrary all fakes in a fake setting
It’s all bunk all bogus
All show off...
The dying (and the living) taking place always elsewhere
I’ll melt all right
I’ll melt and wait for the coming smelting
Where I’m bound to fall also in a few
At last going in full consent with the current
With the current down down
Another dead smelt borne by the smelting.
Running to catch the last train
Always so hard to get into that last train
The annoying goodbyes the emptinesses the aloneness
The realization of nothingness implied in any broken packet from the past
And then the flight
The climbing of the iron steps full of piles of recent defecations
Over the old ones – and those last over what one might call already the coprolites
Your skill in avoiding the shits
And now the running along the decrepit ones’ sinister street
With all those coquettes of a few old women without teeth
That concomitantly laugh and defecate only lifting a little their wide
And now where would you put the emphasis
Of your slipping soles that add commas of shit or quotation marks
On the text of recent defecations on the gaudy street where the dying strut...?
For you’ve come to the brink of the cliff
And now but fast the big decision
About what to do then about that road that stops or ends abruptly
Whether you should jump for the ledge to the left
Or the ledge to the right
Both ledges so bloody narrow
The drop at the lip of them so steep and deep
The ledge at the left looking more worn out and greasy
From the steps and hands of previous passers...
The left it is then...
But the drop is so fierce
Your heart is dangerously faint
Oh and now here you fly down the precipice...
Your death before the last train’s arrival certainly certified...
What a pity
But wait that your hands have managed to grab the railing
Of a balcony belongs to an end shop of a lower rung ledge
Where the people are younger though maybe meaner...
The termagant of a shop owner wants you disengaged
She comes a-poking with her butcher’s knives
She wants you down she wants you dead
Hooligan! – she’s shouting – Damned hooligan!
But the lady customer imprecates in your favor?
Well maybe she does
She’s lifting her arms to heavens and reproving the boss
Telling her to mind the eyes of the hanger-on
Look at his terror look at his outrageous fright the man’s a wreck
And anyway the bump you complain of
The bump at your window it was made from the inside
Not by any outside hooligan but by one of ours it was...
So the miracle is on
The boss’ heart softens
She turns her back she allows you to climb up the railing
And walk down the gallery to the next floor...
From that flat deserted floor full of rain and ruins
Through the neck looking down toward the lower rung
At your peril you must now traverse
The gangs of younger and younger thugs...
And then the unending useless works
The works impassable
Where the workers look at you with irrepressible hate
And their gigantic machines of raw iron dressed in loose concrete
Would swallow you whole (are they even yearnig to?) with a gulp
So you better turn legal
You better turn into the normal way of access to the station
You better alas try to make it through the worse gang of them all:
The cops – they don’t need any excuse to harass and to murder
They are the fucking law...
How they poke at you with which haughty stupid loathing
How they pretend to look for drugs or who knows which other shit
Inside your gullet with their filthy monkey hands down your choking
Finally a cruel cultivated captain – a nasty fairy
Lets you go forward into the station per se
He recognizes a fellow skeptic
Only that down on his luck
He sees a kin after a fashion a kind of compatriot
One of them with the scarred hopeless disbelieved soul...
The trail trembles becomes white hot
The train is in abeyance sighing like a dragon in the last throes of sleep
You’ll make it yet
You’ll make it
Companionship of pullers
We tried to save his life
The boy was sick and in bed
The bed high on the hill
The bed his deathbed if nothing were done
Before to impede it
The bed his carapace of burning brimstone
Of red hot iron
His Nessus’ shirt.
Long ribbons white and red
Were brought down to the road’s rim
So that all that wished to could also pull
We tried to save the sick boy’s life
With long ribbons doggedly pulled
By all the stopped automobiles’ drivers
Striving toughly on the road at the foot
Of the hill.
All to no avail
Of the ah all so truthful saying
Everything comes to nothing
After the striving.
The sick unmovable
Soon apt pasture for the vultures and the rodents
Loving the morning
I love to belong into the early dawn circle
Even if only discussing
The earlier fires that ravaged
The small businesses
The big businesses wanted ravaged
In order for them to build on the ravaged
Love to belong among the pestering sobbers
And the blubbering complainers.
Love to belong for a while in the circle of humanity
If only commiserating with those that lost
heir earnings and their little businesses
If only cursing and railing against big business
And the big business thugs
That disguised as arsonist thugs
Burned down the whole row of little businesses.
I love to disengage myself from the depressing circle
Grab a friend
And walk together on the roofs
Munching toasted slices
I love to peer into the two windows
Where my old humorous drawings
Are exposed on the walls
My old humorous drawings
Funnily twisted little guys colored
With colors bright
And sensible nonetheless
I love to stand at the door of my house
When the rows burn.
Love to defend my property
And my friend
With a shotgun and a clean shot
Through the intruder’s
All by instinct ruled
Somebody wanted to kill him during his sleep
He had parried the blow with the hot brick
He had said to his wife
–One in your family tried last night to blow me with a whack out of the map
By instinct alone I grabbed the hot brick and smashed him
First before he fled.
Or she fled – she said.
–Anyway he must be sporting a nasty bruise
By now on the head
Or the face or the shoulder you know
Please be so kind as to in a discreet manner
Ascertain then who might it be.
–You are too friendly with the woman folk of the household
Commenting too favorably on the color of their dresses
And insinuating how healthy and appetizing their bodies look
The man folk don’t see it with such leniency as you’d hope for
And then there are the jealous hags
They feel spurned and affronted if the praise coming their way
Is deemed to be somewhat of less import than the one their rivals get
Or there are those that reckon that you are coming on too strong
–Me? On the contrary no way
Unfailingly too gentle
For instance can never approach the heteroclite spread
Or the blackening pile
Of any suddenly offered bargain
Never dare or care to push away the eager strangers
Vying to get a piece of the shitty loot
Truth is their touch alone repels me excruciatingly...
Soon the abode was in turmoil
His clothes were always wet
His cushions and his bed always wet
His pillows teemed with untamed oblique quirks
Burned films of horrors past
Soot swerved about from new prickly tiny craters
On ceilings and walls
Enigmatic sounds of fetters heavily drawn
Along narrow passages he surely heard
Filtered through the partitions that grew like mushrooms overnight
Lewd anchorites burgeoned from erst homely nooks
They frowned defiance upon the foreigner
He was heckled as any defective too ugly neophyte would...
He screwed up his courage and readied his suitcases
And started his journey at a break-neck pace
Endless vaults and new alleys appeared in the building
New crannies new stands new shops...
A vertigo was his that blatantly unsettled his wits
His reign he was relinquishing bit by bit
He was a pharaoh doomed
He had embarked in that druid business and now he was alone
His acolytes flagging
His vestals and nymphs swooning hither and thither
The unholy mirth of the enemy closing in...
He scratched and growled
Rent were the slimy curtains
Scruffily sighed the imps
Whoever dares impinge into our realm
Anyone who crosses the jinxed causeway in deadly earnest
The lost soul that strode over the unquelled worms of our corpses...
And so on.
He was worn off
In the throes of despair when he found the door
To heavenly outside.
He fell agroof over the flagstones.
Flabby scared on his soiled duff
No longer personable and smooth
He had been just zapped
By the clammy law.
The residual chaos of himself bemoans
Almost instinctively the unfairness of his luck.
Peers from a garret orifice
She seems to hold a parsnip in her bill.
The animals you bet
Animals always so busy
Their busyness dizzying.
I told my family I’d only come if carried
But when we arrived at the foot of the scalinata
They left me slumped in my wheelbarrow
Wrapped in my blankets
Not for lack of charity as sundry a tourist must’ve thought
But because they were fed up
With my childish attitude.
I got up to the dismay of the charitable ones
And took the little wheelbarrow where I erst was crammed
And filled it up with clayish mud
The result of last night pouring over the seven hills
Surrounding the city.
I brought the mud into the riverbank
And emptied it there on the scant strand
Then I gave away the quaint wheelbarrow to some ragamuffins
Who were elated with my gift
On the shingle of the shore its wheels rang
And its metallic body boomed.
Next I went to see my friend’s little gipsy dog
And took it for an eventful stroll along the rear
Of the row of the fairgrounds permanent shacks
Fronting the river.
Behind Madam Magician’s gaudy shed
We met a little witchy cat
Boozy and breezy and so cute
With whom my gipsy gray doggy
Both played and slightly fought
In a deep muddy puddle
They wallowed and frolicked
In the end both were dressed in slime.
We went up to a ramshackle badly leaning faucet
And washed away the muck
Luckily it was a warm afternoon.
Now we encountered a makeshift memorial
That had under the cross two tablets
One with solemn easy verses
The other with some cartoons by a skilled hand lovely made
About a soldier who in spite of having had
A quite ordinary youth
Had to go down in battle at such a tender age.
We went back a bit morose into my friend’s shop
He said I didn’t know you had taken the dog
I said You were so busy at the time
And now I went behind the counter
And prepared myself something to eat
For which I even paid
A client came in
He had a thick dog on a leash and on a little string
A painted rodent
I said to him Is that a rodent or a very small dog?
He said A rodent
A fashionable rodent if you please
Its pelt has been shampooed
Barbered and colored
As you see in orange and green
And do you know that I was asked by phone
(I said I know him!)
To write an article about that type of rodent
And its domesticity for his magazine?
I said He never pays
The client said He did though very little
I said This is how he became so rich
By not paying his flunkies
Didn’t I know!
The animals meanwhile were going hither and thither
The shop was alive with the movement of animals
The earth itself
The universe loved it.
Help from above
Who whispers foul play
Is awfully wrong.
The numbers he ratchets up
The beautiful stranger
At any game
Be it physical or intellectual
At strenuously jumping or sitting in thought!
He amazes the pants out of everyone
Myself not excluded
(Though himself excepted
I’m just a coach for little guys
I’m saying to all and sundry
What a great example
No longer dozed the giant
The roar of stardust
Was clawing back into his
He’ll fight the harder now!
May the public be prepared!
If I’m lying I’m dying
The fear upon the bunch.
Here they were again
The jolly mothers
With the ample flowery skirts
And the wide-opened umbrellas
Voluptuously splurging at the soon not so crowded
Arrived like a perfumed breeze
To pick up every eager and boisterous tyke...
Every happily puddle-churner of a tyke
Rain drops on their dripping
All cross the river (1)
Those that walking hug the side of the bridge
They peer from the balustrade
And down there are the waders
There are the bulges of those that drowned.
No parcels or belongings too big are saved
Just little stuff
The big items slowly flow away with the drowned.
On the train that running at the center of the bridge
Crosses the river
The cops are hard at it
They don’t want “nobody that don’t belong”
They wield the flat machines
Against which none is ever shielded enough
The machines that ascertain if...
If you then really belong
If you wouldn’t then be a damned stowaway
If you’d be then a passer of forbidden material
And then so on.
Here they come
They scan the blind man
“And what is this...?”
They snidely ask – (a thick sheaf of smuggled banknotes?)
(It rather looks like)
“Those, sirs, must be the observations on the beetles”
But no really
The blind man is an expert on beetles
He’s got them all carefully described
In them tightly packed sheets of rusting paper
He examines them (and damn the stings and acids)
Plus he has all the sounds they ever make down pat
Only missing are the colors
Every bug gray
And the cops are puzzled
“Should we kick him down as the train moves?”
“Do we ignore him also?”
“Is there gonna rain another blind man
On the sedulous
There are some rowdy youths
That divert attention
They are combating at twisting one’s limbs
Let those that twist farther without breaking
Be the winners
Ok but less loudly
The cops are against a woman now
“Smelling cunt and melting and molting and melding hard”
But a harmless joke amongst comrades
(Hey is she infected...?)
With a sudden strike of his talon
The cop scraps and snatches
A lentil of blood
That was stuck on her body
“That woman has lentils of blood!”
The cops get busy
Snapping at the lentils of blood
Scrambling like rats on a body that’s dying
The woman’s screaming
And now she is tossed down into the reddening river.
How agreeably though in the beds
The few that cram them
Seeing the combats developing afar
“It is all like a movie”
The wives touching the legs of the husbands of others
The husbands likewise
(Or widdershins rather)
And the warmth enveloping one
The warmth and the bodies
The windows so golden
In the crepuscular light.
Arena of creation the body
The body is a round enclosed house
That consists of a vast core
And a thin outer layer inside the rind.
The body as a round house includes
Under the skin an outer circle
(A single long narrow corridor
That lit only by dim lights
Runs around the core.)
On the upper rungs of some portable steps
The director of the movie of your lives
To the lot of them actors that ever touched
Or approached you.
Everyone listens with a certain nonchalance
Until alas the cops irrupt
And all of you and your (the authors’) directors flee
The essential ones (the brightest indeed)
Save themselves coming in.
Inside the core a circus
A vast school of art
A vast and luminous and colorful arena of creation.
All hues and tints and implements
(Pencils of flesh of gorgeous girths)
Are there for the taking by the artists
Whose objects shall shine
Summoned from the hallowed halls of
Joyfully one wallows in the sand
Of the circus where the footprints
Of the moving peoples and the moving cattle
Won’t ever be ascertained
By the cowered police
For the entrance and the exit into the arena
For every intimate flock
Is always unforeseeable and anyway
The cops have always been properly delayed
While the flocks disappear and melt into the crowd.
The arrival of the cops
Is always greeted with amused jeering
“Get thee back into the sewer!”
The more lenient shout
“Craven rats riddled with vermin!”
While the arduous dramatists
Are apt never niggardly in their histrionics
Even to send the worthless trespassers’ way
Torn tussocks of their tragic hair
Where poisoned needles are stuck.
The cops are nobodies
Getting smaller by the minute
Our joy of living affects their borrowed pride
Their defects bubble forth
Their crude tactics
For they realize that indeed they don’t belong
In our circus of love.
Bobby Lightbulb, sluthdom’s top mistress
“Lights out, Lightbulb!”
Barks the dog, the god, the cop.
“Hate bromides, you punk!”
And shoot and kill
The interloper cum awful punster.
Came the aggressor
Through my bedroom window
That with brutal effraction he busted (indeed!)
“Bring thy butt into the bed!”
He commanded while I knew
Exactly under which pillow my gun fretted.
“Bring thy butt into the bed
As my bud develops into the bloodiest of
The most gigantic flowers that be, babe!”
“Bad bid, Bud!”
I’m thinking and
“Bloodiest and stinkiest your flower
Like that lentous and fetid great orchid
With orchitis and sundry suppurating orchioceles to boot
Which flowers once in a blue moon
And the name of which I forget”
As I was making believe I was compliant enough
And therefore going to suck
His tacky flower like a degenerate bee
And my firm dry hand my fretting gun
Was feeling with glee.
The nib of his gun
On the knob of my nob
He notices some of my subtle shenanigans
“Lights out, Lightbulb...!”
“Hate bromides, you punk!
For which crime
I must not be ready to die
I’m a pioneer
In naked corridors where
Nobody else’s yet trod.
But I’m not ready
To go down the dark unlit
Stairs that probably lead to the bottomless
I retrace a little my steps
“Let me go to apologize (I tell
Myself) to all those I’ve left behind
Reading or musing
A little more in the dark
After I’ve lit all those new lights
Along the new corridors
Nobody had given light to nor even trod on
Call the dog Geez-ass and beat the hell out of it
I hate dogs
When that creepy football
Player got so thoroughly insulted
By all – the fucking mob of moral turds
I was horrified
I thought here is a creep kills dogs
And every fucking dog turd lover
Falls fangs and nails on his throat and
Tears him to shreds.
Shitty dog turd lovers
I hate them as much as
The shitty dogs and their ubiquitous
Turds – disgusting animals all
With the soul of cops.
I hate cops
I hate Geez-ass
The creepy football player
Who might have earned my sympathy
Shittily said that he had found Geez-ass
Geez-ass – fucking dog turd with the
Soul of a cop.
I hoped he meant
He had called one of his turdy dogs
Geez-ass and beaten
The crap out of it
He had become just another shitty
Football player – a dog turd
Licker – an ass lapper – a
Cop turd lover
Now I also hate him.
Soldiers : clostridia
Soldiers clostridia you
Are the lowest zombiest
Of the most disgusting bottom crawlers.
“Why to kill or die
For Merkin’s poisoned apple pie?”
“Because we are rotten with murderous stupidity, sir!
With murderous, sir!
- ► 2008 (22)
- 20. such ugly remains
- 19. trouble at the cage
- 18. almost caught
- 17. taut ribbons
- 16. bullet through the intruder's head
- 15. parsnip in her narrow beak
- 14. you bet you animal
- 13. the roar of stardust
- 12. dripping cheeks: blenched
- 11. all cross the river [one]
- 10. body or luminous arena
- 9. lights out for you, rather, you jerk!
- 8. it must be that I ain't ready to die
- 7. call the dog Geez-ass
- 6. soldiers : clostridia
- ▼ de setembre (15)
- ► 2006 (20)
- ► 2005 (39)