watch?v=FuAMrRFSCRw
Black Princess
Slick, she slides
As swan on ripple rides.
Glib, she glides
As bluebirds on airtide rise.
Gawks, up she chalks
As breeze above reeds stalks.
Then talks, but balks
As she by others walks.
Crouches, still pouts
As in that crowd, breathless, I run, I hide.
Yet hunt she must,
She of constant, moody flight,
clinging,
of hips swinging, tail zinging,
a prowling river cat
making me pray
I'm not her prey,
because of nights
she cannot forget
watch?v=FuAMrRFSCRw
Waiting for Henry
Most people spend their life
waiting for him.
I didn't
until I was fifty,
immediately following
those
early years of innocence.
Innocence is dismissing,
he never entering.
But now
it's: Is Henry coming,
on his way?
Where do I hide?
For Henry's death
and
death's Henry,
isn't he?
Sailing
Power Plug Pete
and
Wet Jack Stel,
back from
rounding Cape
Carnal Binge
Took a breather
on the deck
of their Catamaran,
basking,
glowing,
in the burning
Also of the sun
Mother
My mother
likes blossom on a tree
much better than
apples,
growing later,
usurp,
disturb,
she says,
like some of us
steal Spring,
spoil
everything
Monday
I waited for Monday
as seldom I seem to wait
forgetting how quickly
black'n white days alternate,
after
someone stole soft Sunday's air
with me
going round in circles
and sometimes in a square
watch?v=V71BbueC3XA
Icarus Accused
It’s nice to be shameless. It comes in handy when finding oneself, formal as always, highly dressed before judge or committee set up to inquire about one’s ways. It gives one the opportunity to lie through distinguished teeth, faking how one cares, dodging truth brilliantly through vain brain nimble and memory for utility drilled
To be looked upon as sincere when in reality one's a corrupt and pin-striped whore
With such honourable voice, deep only at its shallowest, and, success justifying the means, being real or authentic never having held one back. One's acquisitions, profits and gain furthermore, incidental only to one’s need for much esteem, seeing as at the end of the day the one for oneself
is so profoundly thin
Still, attacked, outrage and denial one's best friends. For skimming not outright stealing and self-reward not robbing, one convinced oneself long ago. And never mind if one leaves the disadvantaged scrambling in one’s wake, it’s not killing is it, as in tyranny and violent crime? Much obliged in other words, small murders not murders at all
It’s nice to be shameless. It comes in handy when flying high and forging ahead
But remember the sun and wings of wax
And Icarus neither victim nor hero
but greedy,
and
Ignoble
fool!
watch?v=bujFf2ETmR4
Cloudburst
Poor rain!
Drops
lowered into
river into
sea,
wiping ooze off wings unseen,
float to float upward unperceived,
drift to drift back
and hang
Over
barren folds
and thirsting souls,
ready to moisten and caress again,
but paying with liquid
loneliness
Poor rain!
Her Face
A rich
and angular yet
undulating field
graced with two flowers,
two eyes
unfolding slowly
each day, each moment
lit by warmth from deep within
Heat oft hidden, but never quite gone, nor dark,
even when imperilled by fogs
of doubts or fears
Doubts if yesterday's hurt
will come again;
Fears only disappearing
when kissed by
my heart's fresh outcry
Her face
in sudden
celebration
after
clouds swept 'way
by this,
love's tender thirst
and dawn's new dew
Offering
liberation
Them
What's them
is all talk
and marry well
and travel far
and talk some more
and talk
and talk
and take
and take
and never give,
especially
a damn
She
Sometimes I embrace her body
Sometimes I embrace her mind
And when I embrace them both
it tends to be divine
Of Tomorrow
Evening,
lace of moments
round my neck still beating
from your interrupted embrace!
Darkness,
only awaiting
the arrival
of your next touch!
Nearness,
like a light
incapable of conquest
it seems,
without inflicting
Hurt all are known to hate!
Morning,
prelude to tomorrow
and the final certainty
that while embrace unwillingly sometimes,
Darkness
and careless pain
also must
abate!
Ever More
A profile hewn from light and shadow
under umbrella-rounded hair
so fine,
I tremble before my hand outstretched,
awe nearly causing I withdraw,
except now her eyes burst open
and her mouth curls sweet
and her teeth speak bright
'What are you doing? What are you thinking?'
Irony! How is melodious,
innocent breath to know
through mouth divine
it has
to enthralled ear
traversed,
giving life
twice, thrice..?
Moment
I want to keep it!
It is not dirt!
She said,
refusing my hasty kerchief,
placing her hands protectively
against the upper insides of her legs, wanting this part of her
moist and warm and fertile
a good spell longer,
the other still shaking;
weak, weaker slow spasms
ebbing, way below layers
of clothes in disarray,
deep inside the dusk
of my car,
quickly
speeding 'way.
How utterly loving! I thought,
touching her hand;
but too stupid
to slow down
or
stop
that
goddamn
Chevrolet!
Impunity's Death
There is
every chance
a body
buried illicitly,
meeting its end
less than fortuitously,
encountered
the kind of
justice
it once dished out
If not,
there
soon to be
second loss:
impunity's own demise
bequeathing
crime's hidden author
death's
infinitely
more Just
toss
A Funeral For Immortality
(Subtitle: The Lodes of Time)
There is no sweeter contingency
Yet consider the promise of endlessness and finding all things good, become all hell
So that the possibility of immortality's own death sneaking up, to this deception we should not over-react,
cuddled as
we were
by her
only
when still in need of
nurture
Indeed, if immortality were a woman who had a certain way with us, holding herself out, making us go and go on, when otherwise and long ago we would have given up: yes, such is the power of suggestion and the degree to which our fears and at once the self-preservation behind our beliefs, do stimulate
The terrible power of fantasy, as it is called
For as it turns out her generosity always exactly mirrors our generosity towards ourselves
Now one day such a lady surely deserves a warm-hearted elegy, seeing how before our very eyes she suddenly grew so very old, and cold. Or was it slowly, but nobody paid attention? The cause of death, since you ask, usually ignored in as formal an outpouring as an obituary, and futile bringing the matter up except perhaps for those themselves blindly moribund. And having loads of time coming up with a suitable epitaph, there rarely existing need for impatience or thrusts of other sorts
For it is nearly impossible to write a well-reasoned prose poem on something that isn't quite real, something like a real enough obituary or elegy for immortality and the reason lady-embodiment serves us well. For in defense of things it must be given a try as life only valued as a constant 'raging against the dying of the light' so often leads to the de facto denial of one. Like the stating, as so many do, that wisdom is 'accepting life's limitations' and from there swiftly going on to suggest how terrific and infinite and un-'limitated' the next one is. Commencing the search for the holy grail of this immortality, even when there is not the faintest hope of finding it, the real, organic universe unable to function in this fashion. Or as a friend of mine expresses it, immortality having no future
And which I only now begin to understand
But let us return to the task of burying a lady: it is not easy celebrating someone who never was and could not be, someone comforting and fanciful, alive superbly in our desires, one we only recently and to our great shock learned no longer lives among us. Gone, defunct, dead and needing to be buried with great pomp, out of respect for what we perceived were her extraordinary accomplishments: dishing out limitless, beguiling reward as recompense for our own perceived victories and qualities. A spell-binding, an overly generous lady, deserving an elaborate grave, a solid grave, for she was uncommonly elusive and thought to be extremely tall, with all of us knowing her but none of us ever really seeing her, even though, incredibly, we would kill for her if we had to, chips down and seemingly in the service of some deep need of ours
With an elegy or obituary that could say a lot or not so much, because she meant a lot or not so much, depending on to whom one spoke. In fact there could be more than one of each, the irony that she knew so many and survived such a long, long time in the minds of most. Longer, and get this, than all her admirers, adherents and good friends put together. The Daily Telegraph probably celebrating her service to King and Country. The Times her estates. The Guardian her fellow man and Radio Four her forceful voice. And that is because we are all so very much inspired by anything or anyone confirming what we already stand for, making every attestation like it rich, because... in fact... our own
Though strangely, dead or simply disappeared, she keeps on popping up, sighted by those who can't give up, wanting to have a fresh go at her. When the only thing the poor dear wanted was to be remembered, not be seduced again or in the other extreme driven to exhaustion. Or ridiculed by some, because that's the way we are: sometimes good, sometimes nasty, just don't push and as long as either way we bag redemption. But seriously and swiftly removing tongue from cheek, is it not the premise of promise of such another life, the one after the one we know to be so short, precarious and cruel, the sole element of change that possibly makes sense? For what is the point of extending life with one just as fraught with uncertainty? And therefore making the dreaming up of one that is neither, such a perfectly natural endeavour? Putting to good use the one faculty making us differ from all other living creatures: Need something you cannot have, thus badly want? Why, invent it, of course!
Then buy it! And need itself then, so very facultative. And artificiality on the surface so very beneficiary. For it certainly seems to work in other parts of our existence, like matters economic: half the world lives decently by the fabrication of products that are useless or invisible. Goods and services based on fear and contingency. On mere impression and suggestion, with them crazy or smart enough to provide the stuff and us daft enough to buy it. Yes, along broad lines it works, just like the cold war. The economic catalyst without which we would all have been eating dirt and for decades fostering industry upon industry keeping us directly or indirectly in a job. Though nothing ever happened, no shots fired, only those empty, angry menaces and threats. And what did Yves Saint Laurent ever do for Joe Pizza? Sodomy and velvet hats? Just what everyman was pining for? Of course not, but let the poor designer be, you do get the point: he successfully employed thousands of us in hundreds of stores in a dozen countries, or more. But in the end, both Yves and the Cold War tired and went. Yet fatuous immortality, despite all funerals, ever so kept her allures
For on a further level it seems self-evident that there can be no life without death. So why then eliminate death? It is like trying to steal the horizon: it cannot be done and to begin with does not make sense. But by insisting on doing so, by trampling on others in the act, by being blind to every breath-taking landscape on our way, what are we achieving, anyway? To a growing number of us the secret lying in staying away from this sort of thing, by overcoming existential fears and silly ambition. Not craving immortality and reward the answer, ignoring that innate vulnerability to incentives of the kind. For it may be that in this ignoring and the human dignity it engenders lies the only timelessness that matters. Additionally and as a by-product, a delightful element of discovery left to our children, a stretch of road truly their own, nothing handed down or for much longer. The case before. Yes, not having their existence cut and dried after the ignoring... no longer ignored
Is this not the very least we can do, bequeathing them life's magnificent sense of adventure, the one that we are busy claiming on the late side? Therefore, besides her obituary, the funeral for immortality, our lovely but somewhat sly and once ancient lady should be an extremely joyous and even repetitive one. Itself an unending New Orleans jazz funeral with laughter and dance flowing through the streets of five continents. Listen! Listen to the sway of that music, slow drums rolling, brash brass and soft reeds blowing, all feet moving, all man's skins aglow
What a way to live
as live we must,
within thin
lodes of time
the party
far from over?
(conceived just prior to FairyTales, the essay)
Paris Streets
Pas de Deux says one affiche
Pas de Chiens another
Pas du Tout say I
Quebec en Trois Saisons
O, glorious autumn
of red, burnt falling crowns
What more
can one ask for
but to lie
among
Cree and Gallic tongue
quivering
below
eloquent winds, wings,
and
black tender tree trunks
Just
as long
and later on,
shielded from frost,
this
to
new
birth
brings us
Another shared exhilaration
another unanguished confrontation
with the gods: ourselves;
another Spring
Inspiration
Through
desperate
imagination
The breeze of her,
across the ocean,
in this hotelroom,
washing my hair,
writing it dry,
found my pen
and so
this
sudden
peace
on paper
About Richard
He drank
first to luxuriate in,
then to hold off life,
followed by
shoving the whole show
up his arse,
deciding
dying
greater
than
crying,
apparently
On Anger
But also about rivalry.
And I do say
while often horrendously legitimate,
flaunting anger
a tragedy
especially if entered into culture as a social commodity,
like the handshake, say
For young men having nothing but a worn set of running shoes, a stained old polo shirt and a pair of jeans, no job, no education, no knowledge, no expectation, no girl-friend, no car, no place their own, anger more than sentiment
It the only possession, the only weapon with which to duel,
and having more of it
the way to best
even more lowly
pals
Yes, man the competitor, also when he has nothing, like who's first getting to the square or corner hangout, and once there who puts in the most useless hours, bluffs or fantasizes more, and above all
Who hates the most,
there seeking
and getting
attention!
Though
besides all this,
what to do with oneself,
how to keep busy
every day,
every week,
month after month,
year in
year out
Anger, hate
become
phantom victory,
become
useless dignity
Hands
The proctologist and the gynecologist had lunch,
he thought her scent beguiling,
she
that his
could be better
and,
only a hunch,
having
to do
with this
guy
thing
Same to You
As theory has it
tree climbing mammals went on to rule the world
due mainly to the thumb,
the use of which
forced the brain
to make all kinds of small decisions
Improving it,
gradually guiding
mankind
to ever greater heights
But since,
it seems,
become a waste:
after
two million years,
humble thumb
subjugated
to the
upturned middle finger
And especially
in your case
making me wonder,
if evolution
all
it's cracked up
to be
Into The Lair
Humans were propelled
not by muscle, not by mind,
but by thumb
and
clitoris
Early on, One
mechanically developing
the brain,
the Other,
more delicate
than cello or violin
that most marvelous
of anatomical instruments,
instead of excruciation
creating pleasure most intense
Male orgasm functional, vulgar,
mere secretion,
but nature's genius providing
women with ecstasy
of the noblest
and most intelligent kind
No longer resenting
otherwise most inelegant penetration,
so saving us,
weak,
few,
unlikely to survive,
from
both
early extinction
and lonely
desperation
In nature and privately
making them
so
altogether
exceptional
Mindless
Free.
Euphoric.
Cheering.
In charge at last:
ON TOP!
After the misery not only belonging,
but of the highest stratum,
at long last
not
having to care
for those
below,
forever more
Relief!
All smile!
Doesn't it feel great,
what's wrong with hate,
resentment,
terror and violence
almost family,
on our side?
Except look everywhere,
whatever achieved
never
ever
lasting
Jack
Not one
but two
tall beanstalks
and the damp,
hot
tree house
with the leafy entrance
to try and climb into,
thrusting head
deep
while in the breeze
desire's
all sway
And
where
he
curls up
and rubs
the floors,
and walls,
and ceiling
without arms and hands,
going up and down like a seesaw
till the stalks cry out and in twilight
go limp
and he
slides out and down
all smile
and wipes himself
after
soft,
moist
play
Aliens
America
in psychosis
about Socialism
(governing it)
Latin-America
about Gringos
(exploiting it)
Russia
about the West
(invading it)
Africa
about Europe
(re-colonizing it)
China
about the Occident
(belittling it)
Japan
about the Rest
(not buying it)
Hindus
about Muslims
(not bowing to them)
Jews
about Arabs
(bombing them)
Muslims
about Christians
(out-believing them)
O, where the Extraterrestrials?
(if not humbling, uniting us and why so much in need of them)
watch?v=737YV4B-wNo
Eighth Floor Second
No matter what you read
No matter what they say
and sounds like war
World crisis
is never Armageddon
but
a set of reversals
in the Babylonian building of Finance
whereby
occasionally
Basement becomes Penthouse,
Third floor First,
Eighth floor Second
with the sad stupidity
of rapacious
architecture
evident
Once
more
watch?v=AVh9JpvlkM8
Deception
Who the hell are you,
they tell me
at the Evening or Finance Post,
having lost everything,
pointing at institutional abandon,
them asking
if
I don't know
society cannot live without
graduation,
elevation,
going on and on
pretending it is never summit
always bottom,
me, who else,
in charge of everything,
including Wall Street, and why not,
throw it all in,
Route 66, Hawaii or even the West Coast?
So,
then,
why publish the foregone?
say editors
and other doormen,
keepers of gates,
unlike with their favourite
soap, pop and movie stars
too reverent,
not cornering,
not tracking down
absconding Ceos and Chairs
who own not only judges
but all yachts and all shares
Asking these angels
of extermination
to explain themselves,
by their lapels grabbing the lot,
in their vowels kicking the rots,
as the improbable objects of serious adoration
already well INSIDE
the show
And things predictable
in a strange sort of way,
always right, they say
But o
Poor the system
in need of might,
though not nearly as poor as one minded
with unreasoned respect and deference,
in deceptive society
rather than what does get written
what goes not written, not published
the bleeding
difference
watch?v=UIBhS4t6VQo
Mocha Man
There is something tranquil,
something stoical
about mixed blood,
the
Half-Breed,
Métis,
Mulatto,
Mestizo,
Creole,
those not
remotely
impure.
Below their wings
the peace of future
lingering softly,
as
nature
redefines
itself
Creating
Seraphs of Dilution,
of
Negro, Caucasian or Oriental blood
flowing
into Obama,
Woods,
Dumas
or Pushkin
And
a matter of physics incarnate,
the confluence of molecules
not through
gravity,
temperature,
pressure,
or volume,
but hormones,
in bedrooms
and on the backseat
of cars
A Brazilian mosaic,
though in bossa, in mambo Rio
hate far from over
and also awaiting
the quiet arrival
of the ultimate redeemer,
modern,
the total,
Mocha Man
Followed by
the slow
discovery
that
beneath his skin
and all along
Resides
Everyman
Dizzy's Dead
Glenn didn't,
Bill, Jimi, John,
Franz and Charlie didn't,
in the end
only Dizzy
given
time
to pay
life's bills
For
like Oceans,
Music,
besides
delivering
magnificence,
also
kills
Seizing its
most ardent
practitioners
with a pain and tension
as if
slow delirium
ravaging them
The only assuaging
the wrecking power
of compulsion and perfection:
more music
more of it,
ever
ever
more of it
Creation
by obsession
consuming its children,
killing those
known
as
Gould, Evans, Hendrickx
Coltrane, Schubert,
and young Parker
Sucking them
deeper and deeper
into space,
like a vortex
not only getting louder
but dense,
darker
watch?v=bujFf2ETmR4
Lips
A cliché dead wrong,
not stiff upper
but
stiff lower lip,
producing
not a round
but square mouth,
one prevented from closing
entirely
by
an upright toothpick
Belonging to the antiseptic
'I'm very well,
now
be off!'
Englishman,
in an awesome display
of careful class crap
Expressing himself
in
ghastly speak,
by ordinary mortals deemed
a crass,
not high
but
low blow,
last
gasp
Kafka
Kalled
the Government
the
Arrangement
For me
Life
should be called
the mysterious
Arrangement,
as it's much
more difficult
guessing
who
or what
placed
who, when, where,
why and how
Though
as I'm kinda busy living,
it doesn't really matter,
just now
Cool it!
Ever stood in front of an Aviary,
barely lifting your arm,
hundreds of birds
in one swoosh taking flight,
the flapping of alarmed wings
moving the air violently,
on either side of wire meshing
nothing really happening?
Yet when
newspapers,
television,
journals
and
the
radio
raise voice,
clear throat,
spit phlegm,
we also churn air,
headless,
fright laden,
all at once
going every
nowhere
Why?
Motion, mass,
time, light,
space, speed,
electro-chemistry, gravity
and
fire
Everything revealed,
except
the
Origin
of
Purpose
Leading to
pathetic dreams
and the irresistibility
of ire
So What
She doesn't know
why she's here,
this leaking raft of a woman,
floating on currents
she doesn't understand,
drifting from coastline to coastline,
never to land,
not thrown a lifeline
by anyone,
except one man
Himself
floating not far
She a little plain,
a little plump
He a little scared
a little dumb
Now paddling together,
indifferent to weather,
suddenly
no more clinging
Defiant
Caged Pedestrian
I saw them in the street
Man takes,
woman holds,
but nobody says
for her to walk
two steps behind,
bent under weight
of eyes
checking on her
from all sides,
invisibly tied
not
to a passionate friend,
but to some captor,
property
And
telling us
not enough
about her,
but
about him
Everything
Love To Slay
Paraphrasing Sinatra,
the problem now of course is
that people are not horses,
reduced to mere premise
A space to walk into,
a place to invade,
a desire made habitable,
not merely providing comfort,
catering to every wish,
where
'Jump, I say!' all poor bastards jump,
but
in the long run
still not
the
contempt
offering
much fun;
a domicile
onwards
even
tiresome
No, the joy of
inspiring fear,
the real edifice
to be demolished,
this addiction
to instilling terror
making demagogues and bullies
seemingly rise
before their own eyes
The seeing
of others not only
crawl before them,
but crawling 'way,
no legs, no arms,
almost gravity defying,
like forcing water
up tall walls
Only for the slaying,
this low anomaly,
this dark perversity,
Revolt!
Seduction
With smallish organ
some acquire a very large car
With luxurious hair,
and painted mouth
even minor fortunes,
and
with help from a surgeon
three, four extra husbands or so,
astute calculation
opening their society
after
closing
some very posh bar
But not Marilyn,
singing diamonds are a girl's best friends
a lark,
buying them herself,
through healthy appetite and
a small excess of immodesty,
hot the way some like it,
making it entirely on her own
Speaking softly,
face tilted, eyes half slut,
voix de fillette baisable, adorable
lips simulating fellatio,
showing each man she means well,
driving him quite crazy, sometimes old
Exquisite bird bagging hunter,
Statesmen, fine French Crooners, Actors,
Ballplayers, Playwrights,
though not necessarily on the same day
mopping up after them
with other guys,
on the road,
where she comes
and boldly goes
Only ever dumping Norma-Jean,
her pumps, her bobby sox,
her lonely adolescence,
all the rules forgot;
the thing to do
with caliber,
a velvet smoke,
and a couple of
Tequila Cocktails,
cold
watch?v=737YV4B-wNo
Century XXI
Can you speak a little faster,
I have a short attention span!
And louder,
because I'm also going deaf
from what I used to think was having fun!
Hey, don't you see I have no time to be sincere,
are you that dumb, not on the run, like everyone?
Hurry, Driver, slowing down my nerves get shot!
Tell me, M'am, how long will you ignore me,
so I can go, not lose this spot?
Waiter, can you speed it,
the Vichyssoise is getting hot!
No fooling, Paris through the roof, the Pope in Cuba,
erosion in the air, got to fix my hair, but what if I'm late,
my kid with AC/DC AD/HD, wonder why it is that he can't concentrate!
At any rate
For Christmas I want my own traffic lights and parking zone!
Hi Mom, haven't seen you in a while!
Was that her?
Can't believe how old she got,
head shaking
as if her child is lost
Or is it Parkinson?
watch?v=FuAMrRFSCRw
Time And Again
While on stage
a pause is fire
sometimes mirth,
in a poem silence
space,
in space itself
darkness not death
but a flame
dying
to see
birth
The Bed
Some Cops to Thieves,
all Minorities in Power,
Officials to Builders,
Bankers to Swindlers,
Women to ill Suitors
do it
Saying
'Come up,
but
make no waves,
you knaves,
and
for the sake of Christ
upon a foul act,
DON'T move the blanket'!
Splash
The brain has two hemispheres
forming one tiny planet,
but
the beginning of someone
sometimes
the end,
like the woman with the exaggerated fish lips,
asleep in an armchair
in the lobby
of a Montparnasse hotel,
dreaming perhaps
about
returning
to the Ocean,
a
fine catch
for men
no
more
Ashes
The Press
comes up
with good ones
sometimes
Like the extraordinary case
of two eccentric
rich girls,
no arsenic,
no lace
Roaming the streets for rummies and fate,
themselves derelict looking
only
to win the friendship of
the lost
Putting them up in cheap apartments,
giving them one last address
before
once again
dropping them off
Having closed eighteen life insurance policies
on the otherwise worthless existence
of those homeless human cats,
pretending to be their fiancees
Paying the premiums diligently,
making themselves
beneficiaries,
of course
Then drugging
and
placing them
on the cement or asphalt
of the alleys they knew so well,
for good measure
bludgeoning
the good bums
before
with their beat up Van
running over
them
For eternity resting
lying bleeding
in
dripping
cardboard
coffins,
without pillows
or on the lid
Chrysanthemums!
Both ladies seventy seven,
and smart,
their victims fifty
and dumb
For who
needed
the money
Most?
A Megalomaniac's Song
I felt like an army,
the voice of my footsteps
so powerful,
the footsteps of my voice
not merciful
but masterful!
Oh, how they listened,
nobody suspecting
the mess I created,
over their heads,
behind their backs,
under their gaze
With cold heart
confirming
warm trust,
telling them
only
what
they wished to hear
My strength
and loud conviction
pointing
at anything
or anyone
moving
the wrong way,
quickly
assigning blame
for all hunger,
pain,
humiliation
If not by design
certainly
the
fruit
of
an
ignorance,
even greater
than theirs
and than mine
Plus those close,
snakes and of reptile mind,
mouth mute,
tongue smelling,
savouring domination,
never taking their fangs
and hypnotic stare
very far
from where
exhorting
I stood
Yes,
in this universe
there exists no crime,
and so no punishment
though I did try stopping,
stopping all guards, acolytes
who wouldn't let me,
fake fate thundering
well
down
deliberate,
firm,
paved path
Me,
this late,
afraid
only
of myself,
of
no longer
being
the strongest,
the most ruthless,
weakness pretending to strength
and noise to conviction
and hope to victory,
soon descending into
fury,
disgust
And,
tiring,
the sudden,
the irresistible desire,
not only
to punish myself
but
to pull
EVERYONE
into some hell
Where
if I,
all humanity
must
damned and well
rot,
rust!
Enigma
Chance is dumb,
Coincidence a force,
But where do I fit in,
Unless a horse?!
The Piercing
A mocking smile,
a bullet mind,
lips curled,
compassionate
not arrogant,
her ribbing
playing itself out
only through her eyes,
brow raised slightly,
pupils sizing up
in silence
and all its splendour,
her voice not trespassing
the human landscape
her judgment
long
passed,
crossed,
conquered,
left
behind
The knowing,
the baring,
leaving one feeling
totally unattired,
unprotected,
defenceless,
naked,
laughable,
but never,
ever
afraid!
Odour
Having to do
with betrothal,
Yes,
Perhaps,
Otherwise
they stink!
Never for compassion
always for revenge
vows should at the very minimum
be
Never to vow
again!
No Goodbyes
Yes
It has started,
One by one
Losing them,
Slipping through my fingers,
Become nameless,
Death or their betrayal taking them,
By my recollection first noble,
Then negligent
But what is my name?
Do I remember?
Slid
away
To them?
10 Cents
There are those
who fake interest
to perfection,
wallet tight,
smoking expensive cigars,
telling emaciated Sahel orphans
to think positive,
or
knowing you're sinking,
immaterially
inquire 'bout your bad back,
when
as happy
to let you drown,
and save ten cents
Sure it's Sahel out there,
green once
and more one day,
but NOT for them
Renouncing them
their own
walked 'way,
long since!
Tradition
Is dying for the past,
not
needless repetition?
Exit Compassion
Solidarity's one thing,
Complicity another,
most
not knowing the difference
For though Kindness
also kills,
Cowardice
and Suspicion
doing it
with
much
more
passion!
Hope
My false friend
is back
Turning up uninvited,
throwing me a bone,
pretending
to
lend hand
Rage and disgust
in momentary retreat
as he drops in
but
quickly
leaves
Making me
bite dust,
eat sand
again
Even when
this time,
I saw the bastard coming!
Drowning
Like a Monarch butterfly
lazily,
languorously,
unfolding wings
in perfect sync
In the slightest of breezes,
the deepest of emotions,
motions,
except that
these are
her
mesmerizing eyes
In which I sink
Little Rock
Turning a corner,
the good ole boy said,
suddenly
there were flowers,
flowers,
thousands of them
stretched out before me,
as far as
Arkansas...
No More
I live under grass
not sensing where the surface is,
or that there is a surface,
scuttling, scurrying back and forth
without knowing
where I'm going,
discovering life
at a level
all my own,
not far
For me this grass forest,
every unevenness mountain,
every raindrop flood,
every footstep of something larger than me,
war
I fight
for life
without knowing it,
let alone understanding why
Part of some foodchain,
producing something
even more magnificent
than what I feel and see?
Well, now, listen,
I have no voice,
but listen anyway!
If you have anything
to do with this, then
Care!
and
Let me be!
for
I desire no more!
Gaols
Rage
is
getting invited
urgently
Because mother baked a cake
and the neighbours
and Jack and Syl
are coming,
and her son is home
from somewhere
and it’s her thirtieth
wedding anniversary
every six bleeding weeks
But I told her
I dance only
once a year,
at midnight
In Mogadishu
and Pyongyang
Apologies
Post war,
smiling
Germans,
not daring to snarl,
not daring to growl,
needing to prove
they’re not murderers,
by desperately having
desperately boring
non-blond friends
Oh how they can laugh,
mechanically,
at nothing,
nothing at all
Get over it
I tell them,
STOP laughing!
You did nothing wrong!
History
According
to
my
Amanuensis
Entering
Francis Fukuyama's
historic
End
Is
not
equal
to
entering
the End
of a Llama,
named
Francis
Plunge
Thank you
for shaving my wife,
the man told me,
lips frozen,
barely able to move them,
after I pulled him from the river,
one December morning,
in 1995.