A conversation w/ Jacques Brel's ghost

had a conversation w/ Brel's ghost last night
strangely
sun still up
& tripled
blurred as a warning
obsolete
shimmering
while the moon placed firmly
in Brel's fur coat
pocket

his long hair resounding
reverberating the cloudshield
exploring all there is
to explore
speakin' only in wind's
haunting
deep
vowels

He lit a cigarette. Came closer.
Flew by & sat right next to the chimney
relaxed on the
armchair

put one of Piaf's plates on
trapped in vinyl
death lark

he told me:
"boy, you quit these sentiments...
lullabyes & ballads are over
quit them black keys
quit all notation
listen to me & you're
settled..."
said I should visit
the "Blue Butterfly"
where ladies in black
leather
await the next
Dean
& pour out their mantras
all nite
all dirty

"I'll lend you my voice You sing them the stars
out w/ cancerous throat. You make
them all wet. They'll love the challenge.
They'll take it... they have no
choice but to give birth
to things...they have no choice but to
bear our sons..."

almost sucked the cigarette
dry
took hold of my verse
strangled it
whipped my eyes w/ it
life-juices spilled over
blood followed
shortly
"now this here you cannot sing'em...
now this here ain't metal&velvet...
this here ain't even a
real
song..."
licked'em off the floor...
cold concrete left
shinin'
I cold & amazed
& he howled

howled...
howled...
howled...

stopped abruptly
yet the music
continued
the room still
resonating &
hallowed

I realized he's signing
the Endless Death Hymn
in 23
tableaus

he smiled - he could tell by my eyes...

"Start up the bike, boy"
he gasped out w/ his
operational
lung
"You bring me my son back...
I will wait for you
in bar's filthy
fuckin'
mirror..."