Tuesday, January 25, 2011

battery of Brel

ee are a maran key shon
lay may ugh
flet sey ogre un parti
ey wey

.

Slimmer Rick's Bar Americain

O wailing gorilla who danced
while at his fat mama he glanced
crikey hey look at me
he criked from his tree
I'm almost quite every advanced

.

this earthly tic

this ran orange alert
by the castle
but really that guy was dead
three hours ago

they stood around watching
a car in a lake

Jacques Brel sounding off insanely

in some astral dance hall

nothing now but standing
and going home

just to be sure
one fat monkey puts a gun to his head
and laughs
jumps on the roof
waves his ass

you want to talk philosophy with me
you'll need a dirty towel

.

cool nun

I am a monk in a tree
with a gun in my ass

a cool nun holds the trigger

this is nothing but my latest attempt
to enter Space as an amateur

I am Wan Hu and I do this with devotion

of course I fucked her first
plied her with extracts
plied her
and inveigled her into the position

but now get real
my time has come

I love everything
everything is nothing
love is a slight panda that starves
slow and mild and bite unconvinced
I am not unconvinced
I am Wan Hu
my heart is in the stars

sister it is time

our love is of the stars

feed my shattered hide to the pigs
of the monastery of Wan len Fu
his pigs are devoted and will eat with care
midnight flutes will play
along the eastern wall

see my detachments
cool nun
fuck

.

more and no more and more

reassembling those riverboats at the rapids
on the way to Omdurman
well it was time-consuming

and anyway just hard work
as of that thing again
so soft as I become a zephyr blows me

over the feathery hills
all around the lights the cries
the great long splash of a swan hitting water at night

if this same plastic melts
over and over
like a hat
if it forms a sort of heat-chemical future
one day
will it cease with the fumes?
they come on like paddle steamers
but it is not this downed freight swoon of a swan
that submerges and laughs beneath

for here at this the stringhead sits up and laughs

in the fiery place just across from which
the vang contours
the just-under wrecks for which no depth is listed
hey have you oh no of course no and one

would frail from calloway but ask ask ask
away a bridge a fuckoff black fingertip
bridge falls into the river of cows
all their big nostrils smoking out antimony

lead, barium again the wiping stench of the melt
maybe there in the lowercase baroque frenzy of them hitting
thrashing one bit says yes this comments settings design

upside down in your downy mud udders the music
every one a start of many trees
it works its way a summerset a way over

halfway flighting at its uplast the couplet of streak-basil

.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

cinquain

eyes out
on two long stalks
the lecherous old pig
frequents the local student bar
for gawks

.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

a ghazal for wide red elision/elysium

lugeto veneres cupidinesque—Catullus
as in a tabula raga/rasa that off with
the fairies drifted through much fog
—No One
Molon Labe—Terse Laconics in Hypotaxis

a curious liberation in this announcement
of the Platonic footing all the night
I felt in her that fairies had taken me
I strapped my new feet and thought of fire
eating up the houses all around
their faces pressed against windows
but in this I am not predatory
and would abandon a chase if a slow gazelle
turned with haha heaving breast to demand there be a rest
but still, still
the fire creeps down the houses
and who could believe
in that little box
that no one of us had thought in the fire's steep
and thought still in our sleep
of how it might be
if the gazelle the ghazal had been quickened
in all of its rhymes in its hindquarter chimes
till the breath that flew there
the claws that there grew

fastened all through her hair
in the rain-steeps I am learning
to be mellif as all Eve
always to believe
in the last-lying heave

.

Monday, January 17, 2011

a virtual lekking so proud and denatured were we then

there once was a tyger
whose heart was quite black
fear yet me he cried
whose heart was quite black

a peacock happened there
in that tyger'd tight world
he hop't and he blew
and his tail unfurled

in a scrape and a hollow
such lekking he did
and there in that wallow
he boasted and hid

and slid him a fever
in a packet so tight
that e'en a tyger
could nestle that night

as a cigarette nurstles
in the lips and cavorts
in the lap of all vessels
that sway at his thwarts

[and in the morning the voice
that spake that there was the third
and that there were only three
and of this it was the third
and that no more would there be
but three and this then was the third]

of the tyger was nothing
returned or yet seen
but the slow acre danced
in stripes dun and green

the peacock arose
he flut then his tayle
whereupon he dids't lift
in quite a great gale

[and thereupon he spake again
that this was all of the three
thrice he had spoken from five
to three of which it was the third
and this proclaimed the three]

and now I must flit
where the hearken is through
I wish you were here
where that tyger-root grew
.

the straight and left wing clapping

men die quicker because they are heartbroken
at the age of four
introduced to the violent resolution of conflict
taught that no one is to be trusted
women on the other beat
still believe deep in themselves
that war is a game
that will never fully tear their bodies apart
they can laugh and dance
while the boys do it
to the rock and roll rock and roll radio
not all of this not all of it but enough
still we die four years younger
and it closes as we learn
that war is not all our inheritance
but only a spoken thing that sinks through
the footfalls on the stair outside our yellow-lit rooms
drums into our little hearts
steals us away to the dry place
beyond the warm wet place
and all our songs and speaking
in such loud whispers hereafter
have I already given this to my boys
this infection that will make them stand
beating their little heads
against the long wall of their lives?

.

mass spectrometer

Oradour
like a bubble
they don't lick your fucking toes
these guys
(Plains Indians/Tibet
Das Reich)
every letter a word

tell you what

.

reflux

each human a saccade in which we sincarnate
a stroboscope of serial-slow suspension
a line of leading lights out from the lee
a staccato spasm of apprehension
its mist and moan of siren and the lowest
astronomical tide that divides you from me

.

Maria's childlike delight in chocolate

all night he looks
he can't help himself
for somehow the fact that her nose moves
like a little animal
when she smiles
has eclipsed all the far-off lights
down the eastern road
to the seashore

.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

cinquain

a tongue
and a glottis
a cutoff with a flop
all you need for the mythic glot-
tal stop

.

cinquain

with clothes
flapping wildly
the killer on the roof
looks along the railtrack mildly
aloof

.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

virus

I expected the Trojan Horse
(that was par for the course)
but the Trojan Rhino
was a new one on me
it jumped right out
of my infected PC
ran across the lino
and ate my TV

.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Pulpo

the same city on the same day—Carl Sagan

after coitus a tentacled lovecraft that wriggles pink
wild panicked in the retreat it is sea purple that cannot speak
he disengages inked blue from his girlfriend
carries her to the red bathroom and turns her inside out
hangs her on the violet girlfriend armature to drain where

he watches the dirty stuff all disassembled start to live
start to cluster and squeal with multiple heads
vast echoes down the basin the waste the hollow halls
that fill with smoke and

in these spaces Pulpo comes to himself
in the wash in the froth
laughing to the elbows
he washes her out with warm water whereupon

careful to avoid oily soaps that could damage
her delicate tissue
he looks at her there in the basin rolled
inside out oh oh Pulpo what of you
now that your batgirl is

]inside out like Ed Gein like blue soldiers at Shuffling Lances
to hang those interiors high and right and not to slide[

down the lift shafts Pulpo heads in hand bellow
the dropping lift frets mostly
for how not the pus octo on the crash the most

famous successful male sex toy in the world
but what good is that wriggled itself to death
there in the blood
Y chromosome basin

somewhere overt the rainboat?

(they say eight legs walking over your eyes will cure it)

Pulpo, it ain't just about the slamming impact on the wharf
even now it is more than that, Pulpo

)you know Love best when you find it afterwards
just about twitching in starlight floating away(


LOL:WTF:LOL

.

Wednesday, January 05, 2011

fat Mahdi with concubines in retreat

More Head spoke of a general Gordon who unspeared by running
the time back from Mahdis
to where they ran as ichor and afreets into the sand

the spear was a cold thing that schlupped out of his chest
into the arms of an unravelling young man dark and sweating
who rewound down the steps from the embassy
out into the desert where the words flew from his ears
into the mouth of the Mahdi black and whirling
who in another time would grow fat and apostate
but in this would fade in equal proportion
to the words that flew back in
with such diminishing and disempowering
that he shrank back even then into the far Afrique Interior
where he slowly ceased and shifted, silted and shut up
like a motorcycle a mammoth a monolith half buried in dunes
a skeleton laid across it
all its tools buried in the wind below

ribcage-deep lightfalls in the blow bells of hell


.

the lights wink out

on the mountainside a dead channel suddenly opens
on the cracked radio
a thin human voice calls out

come back you say
through your broken legs
but it is gone and will not speak again

it is in moments of dread that we feel our gods

Vox AC30

Marshall Stack

Fender Twin

Orange

what could you want
you jellyfish of purple cold?

.

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Jazz and the flying trapeze

Diana Krall suddenly became the synchronous other-end-arc
of a feedback loop when someone sent me a link from Italy
that could be closure and finality
the beginning of this is obscure and ragged
it is difficult to use it as information

her chords and melodies hammer and collide
throughout this.don't think they are not there.they are as birds
dropping in flight.clouds of ash flooding the troposphere.flowers with bent heads

but two references to the unknown in a few days
means everything and nothing

I think of my uncle in a Lancaster bomber in 1943
young as black rainfall

think of Modernism and high boots sheening out

think of Sinatra and McCoy Tyner

the thrash of those marches

lost children in parks of dream
the attempt to hold them, to stop time

I am clutching in the night for omens
drowning face down in a reflected moon
reaching for poems that are too far away, too deep, too soon

.

snowy fugues in 6/8 time

this inequality of purpose
creates a gyring motion out of which he spins
find himself out of shape, pressed flat, immobile

it is as though a car drives too fast
along a narrow country lane
and you are forced to squeeze yourself
against the hedge
it is as though you came into contact
with a form of energy of a different order
than your own

look into the eyes of someone
who has no interest

know again that your currency
has only marginal value here

that anything can not happen in this denatured tissue

something blew by
looked briefly in at the night window
then moved on full of its reflections

the people in the house stood at the window
for some time afterwards wondering

everything is still and dark and empty outside

whatever it was out there grows more distant
at every moment
in swoops across the fields
where the recent snow melts quickly
and is soon forgotten

.

Monday, January 03, 2011

hard labour
giving birth
to a whole hedgehog
middle-aged woman
pedalling
a little badger
a lighter burning
my arm
the day dies there
John runs over
a big lizard today
then it pops back up
a tortoise walked by
as we picked tomatoes
nothing then

in heaven before your head hits the wall

you have a gun to the head
of the Son of God
it is ten seconds before 0 AD and you are there
you are a laughing waterfall in this scene
that tumbles over rocks
dark-eyed and intense

but still inside
with that calm
of the high mountains
sunbeams swirl about you

everything is wild and full of omens
everything in this moment says yes

now, love-child, blow his brains
into wine-dark mist

.

we are all in the gutter but some of us are looking at the cars

Sunday, January 02, 2011

cigarettes pile up
like little corpses
the night smokes

sniper rifle

man on a cross
in the shimmer of distance
sniper rifle

Saturday, January 01, 2011

a watch and a strap
my wrist
all scars and time
car in a ditch
rabbits
look through dark grass
three miles away
this murder happened
you can see that far
the pine tree lowers
its limbs
snowy children

.
a hedgehog unrolls
the car the lane the light
run backwards baby
teeth and your big eyes
the slow day
of the Dead

.

the carphouse of love of trees of bitching grassy teeth

we are all fucked up
but some of us are fucking back
—Madeleine Shine

the parakeet killer in the treehouse
replete with love stirs himself
to finish the job a little tighter a little more
and this bitch will stop forever
out there the night the day the fields unfold

this love that bubbles up from the saproots below
well it sings and howls

we are having a family party fishing
around a tank adorned with blue and pink ribbons
when we catch one we slide it back in
watch it hang there big and stupid as a dead angel
sinking slow in the trauma and fog

I have forgotten myself again
I am far above the ground
in the treehouse where I first carved your love-teeth

.

Tarot electric disease

we are all in the gutter
but some of us are looking at two years
—Stephen Fry

oh my memory has changed around this
it comes back as electric shocks and psychism

I am no longer unkind and can now feel love

up and down the horses dance in starlight
& etc cliché

memory and change together say stuff of reflexive therapy
and disaster

all that night that stood between us

this myth of the stolid farmer who stands by a hedge
looking

and then ashtrays overflowing
music that spills from the radio and crawls all over the floor
like a person whose madness suddenly encroached

uh uh

freak the night the night that keeps leaking
you and I eye to eye

oh I say oh

I can't help attacking you

like that we squirm together attacked and in love with weather

my hand on your breast casual as rabbits but with an edge

all dead now look through new telescopes

my voice has dropped an octave tonight
old man river river
into the flood I will fall

the killer at dawn shaking his shift
worries about crumbs and stains
the boy in the cloud writes of his father's huge shoes

begone stink of outer places

.