Jericho

they should've seen Bird comin'
should've heard the warning out now
loud
should've interpret the soundsteps
right

shhhhh... goes the sordine...
hush
went the bricks
dead went their baritone singers
with their razorblade
ties
& plastic moondials

jazz overcomes forever...

nobody phoned
god
& the golden telephone
throated
out
dead lines
armed the delicate 9
pushed it through a strange woman's voice
w/ a tattoo on her
lip
eared to the shhhhh....
like a wall's eared to your neighbor...

jazz overcomes forever...

shhhhh... goes Bird and erects his
wild
thing

never to look into trumpet's white face
gilded magical silenced

dead went their whorehouse
cherubs
dead went the mothers
who've given birth
to unspeakable monsters of song

jazz overcomes forever...

times were all confused
& the clocks did never
run for real...

shivered the wall
and so did Jericho
crumble

Temper the longings

you see... love's a near death experience
near meth experience
near black ringed eyes of solitude...
and I thought I'd teach you
but oh, how you taught me...

nearly autumned in your presence
or presented as a strange young specimen
of night
when you asked me
"what style's this cathedral built in?"
I had to answer
"miss Dada, you know what I meant, now don't you?"

and I loved the places where you'd take me
only they were not enough
to soothe me
and we were not enough for lovers
at this here special
occasion
and I've been searching for something more
but it's only by the way
by now...

you see... at the Pink Dots' gig
I thought I held an angel
who'd give my work a meaning
and a further
investigation...
but instead your Nazi brigades
almost slayed the
pitiful
singer...
and I really loved your stockings
then
and I wish they could play
Belladonna

and I loved that elegance
gutter
and the sax that smashed into
eyeballs

there's a strange little rascal backstage...
& he doesn't go for the calm
territories...
"my god, you're just like an earthquake..."
remember how you denied me?

second row... first encounter

all's fine now at my side of the pool...
all's vivid
viciously
yours

& in pauses of my breath you speak...

& I guess that it makes you real
happy...

if only we could temper our longings
and make them somehow
work...

Fuck thee Gabriel

with a trumpet forced into his throat
& wings polluted with SF air
he came upon a chariot of trashcans
& gravel
& of putrid fruit distinction
along w/ his heavenly-oriented
pyromaniacs
& some of them were
queers
& some of them were
hopelessly
jimjammed

he had wonderful sound
& light
technicians...

the famous
Lunatics&Drinks
the famous
red and white
catholic
boys...

almost made him look a real angel
crust
starfish...

sadly still not enough Gabriel...

"come thee, come thee..."
reverberated a million times
spiced w/ phasers and choruses
treated w/ a bow...

Dolby surround and 3d-vision
w/ the 4th & 5th dimension
added...

they obviously had no noise gate
too...
but the cameramen kept on watching...

"come thee, o tangled blue sinner... come thee, I'll show
you a good godly way... come thee and cease to resist...
come thee and take thy Master's hand..."

still not enough goddamn Gabriel...

well, fuck thee Gabriel
I'm a show you who's Master
'round here...

I'm a fuck thy ass
& stuff thy trumpet deeper
into thy slothy throat
to feed thy gluttony
writer's wrath
& maybe some
writer's hunger
& then some writer's
everyday wake-up pain
& then eviscerate thy goddamn
corpse
w/ some of the writer's
March
solitude...

& then perhaps thy angelic
majesty
gets
it...

& then perhaps it stops
fuckin'
whine...

I'm a show thee my own filthy
scene...
the one that wasn't Your-Chief-Directed...

well, fuck thee Gabriel
w/ a broken dildo
w/ a whip &
fellatio
too
& fuck thee with all Babylon's
serpent
twisted
grace
& fuck thee with a million volt tongue
& fuck thee with a million horsepower
suck
& fuck thee with bull's thrust
corrida on speed
& fuck thee with all my mistress'
sick
sophistication
& fuck thee with thy own very
escort
& fuck thee with the tree
that grows by my window...

fuck thee Gabriel, fuck thee three time
fuck thee Gabriel
the false pretty
angel
fuck thee three time by tree by tree
and fuck thee all sevens by sevens...

fuck thee who cometh to visit the writer
in his rusted dyin' bed...

Patricia in rooms of song vain abortion

I detuned my guitar again
& stringslit my wrists for the kicks
then I kicked out the whole goddamn
sappy string section
then drunk a whole liter of
heavy
sandpaper
danced naked like a mountain
faded
hermit
w/ masks of Adam's last
damnation...

& I tried to write a tune for you
yet still couldn't come close
to your
essence...

yes - I admit I failed...
not the first time this time
though...

Am fits all the colors of passion
& it's mighty good for tango's
first
bars...

how can one make strawberries
sound so
hopeless...
or silver spurs so mighty black
while on my papers
suicide's pink fluffy flakes
fall on mouths of babies
like wedding rice & dimes
& death is your Santa
Claus
here...

one goddamn fiddler was still hidin'
in my closet...
thought I'd murder him for his
optimistic
tone
perhaps he's the culprit...

don't know how he survived
the major minor kick-out...

you should've seen me in my
Kinski
mode...

or I'll pass the fiddler some absinthe
so he finally breaks his fingers
& heart
to sound real enough for my
pain

or perhaps treat the bastard
some
coke
or stinky razors
& Beelzebub's
socks

but the song was still not so lonely
it still was
too sweet
& contained the very last flavors
of Patricia's hazel hair...
& the very last curves
of Patricia's cirrus body...
& the very last cloudlines, frozen,
of Patricia's iris face...

too sweet
I thought
I've got to forget this woman
& focus on my
barbarian
duties...

find some dust to rely on
folks are not good at this...

a massacre's needed here...
a massacre's needed fast...

lord, how I wish you were here..

to witness the rooms
of song
vain
abortion
& the idiot
who fell for you
in the Autumn

Use just once and destroy

The cruelty's cold queen passes on another card
smiles...
the corners of her mouth
evaporate
the joker's thin excuse
& the timing's respectless
flaws
as she wraps her legs around my neck
& comes closer to Kadarka bottle
she's a sandglass
chandelier
deck

& I wish I could drink her up
feed her some nails from the savior's
tower

powdered...
instant...

& the crystal web of crushed velvet corridors
I claw at
& tear at
all the way through
like a garden of all acid pleasures
inwards
corners
preys...

& I'm useless...

then she cuts through my spine
shudders
feels the blood that's bleeding
for
her
feels the numb patient surrender

knows I'm hers
all at once

powdered...
instant...

Love is a fungus

I came across this ancient graffiti
at the vegetable shop's wall
in fluorescent paint
there stood
a statement of attention
a statement to be reckoned
with:
"love is a fungus
and the street's where it grows..."
it suggested a whole epic
after...

there were all these green things
present
and they sure taste like your bodily
odors
and love is a fungus,
yes sir
indeed...
it reminds me of how are you dead...
it reminds me the juice
never spilled

love is a parking meter, too
and love is the cigarette
machine
it is also the crossroads where we first met
and the kiosk where we
swung
apart
and the Boogie St. dawn
which opens all nite

then I came across this graffiti artist
I somehow knew that's the man...
could tell by his hand
and serious fish eyes
I asked him:
"are you a goldfish, man, like me?"
he laughed
and said
"so that's how they meet..."
and whispered
"all love is a fungus"
and there's always an epic
after
cause the first line is always
the best
one

and our women are always
so
willing

Soul radiation in the dead of night

She extended the tongue
sliced in half as the lizard's restless sign
language
penetrated the screens of my heart
attack
delusion
while I've been stealing poem titles
from Pop's old
lyrics...

we've had cold coffee
& bourbon on ice
ice on the windowsill
snow on our angels long gone
clipped
heartaches
while the winter was dyin'
and so were our clothes...

"damn, it's beating so loud
I can hear the meat
through your murmured
lectures..."
she said
collecting dregs
sediments
ashes
pretending she's feline enough
to make it
halfway through
residues of unburnt powder
sludges from washing and cleaning
or spirits in the house
knockin' at the greasy
windows...

Electric light's gone
3 AM's gettin' closer
& the supper's not ready
I'd yell at her
I'd beat her up
only I'm not that
type
& she'd kill me earlier

she took hold of a little kitchen knife
she looked as if she's gonna
use it
to stop the goddamn beat
the heart's delirious
ramblings
to offer the poet salvation
& save him from his
monsters
evacuate his longing
make him write w/ the monkeys
in heaven
make him finally
smile & starve...

a hopeless little girl
pretending to be my whore
choosin' resentment
over
disguise
& masks above all
freedoms
freedoms above all
classes

& I miss her now...
even standin' at the opposite
river's
muddy
bank

City centre howl

sway through the city centre
sway through dozens of downtown women
keen on uptown dealers
& middletown sailors
decked safely at the ocean liner's pretentious
steer
like a belt
or a giant beard
you be the judge
you be the prince
of the marked cards

smug harbors
smog cutters
rag havens
scum investitures...
up against the wall
up against this side of the gun
up against the marvel of
oblivion
& the steep amazements of her fury

shit talkers
need a single bullet
a single dollar to shut their mouth
and begin to pray...

emerge out of the car horn fog
swallowin' the shallowin' sound of music
some cheap swing matters
hidden in the big bass drum
safely pinched inside the
banjo
young enough Sinatra imitators
dead cunts on prison bars in Cuba
swollen to incredible sizes
like raw dead rats
consumed as chicken
wings

sway right through the city centre
to find all paths meet
at the very same spot
to find that they all lead straight into death
straight into nothingness
apathy
kids
drinkin' their beers and whisky and vodka
and who-knows-what that they can afford
and I wish I were that rich

shit talkers
need a single bullet
a single dollar to shut their mouth
and begin to pray...

and I'll burn all the fuckin' smug harbors
at any given
chance
watch bombs explode in the rag havens'
hearts
watch poison gas overflow
the sick smog cutters' veins
& kind institutes of art
collapse...
be a hopeless guerilla in the concrete wall's shadow
ready for
execution
ignoring the falling down
new
architecture

Locomotive for Billie

whistling the love for sale away...
chasing the ghosts of hysteria, the men of town
the men of a million songs
the men of a million debts
the men of cheap cigars
the men of low reputation
of high life's gutter pleasures
and humble wives making pancakes
the spurs of the madness on top of the wing
the wing on top of the madness
the pancake gets thrown at the wall
the wall forms an answer for Billie
and yeah, that's a quote from the
Holy
Bible...

whistling the duty out to the bar
mingled in silent death's little sister
the one with beautiful heels
the one with a spirit and lips of ashtrays
the one that's waiting for love for sale
whistled
far from behind the stage
far from behind the cornershop light
far from behind the
sex in the lobby
the poker at church
Melinda on Fridays...

and it's all so strangely
satanically
spiced
so tingled
and carelessly
undermined...
the thick white lips shaped in a D
like Mr. D
like dis way to de Konig
like here are the Germans
and they're waiting for your song
and here are the last war's
disabled heroes...
like the D's so goddamn black
it hurts
& the D becomes an icon:
very soon forms a little tail
a tail just perfect to step on...

a tail to be hit by a locomotive
rallying through the counter
through the sad old lady
through the tankards
through the barkeep's dingy face
heading for Billie at death's sails full-fledged
driven only be the setting sun steam
of the probably last true black
angel
the goddamn flying Dutchmen
of trains
the red-bearded
undertaker

There's a lie...

there's a lie at the base of this world
the one that goes:
there'll always be a dawn
the one that goes:
I love you
the one that goes:
we're all mad baptized surgeons
the one that goes:
I love your skirt
the stars are all always so cold
in the autumn...
the one that goes:
it got warmer by now...
the one that goes:
thanks, I'll walk alone
and I'll get you another drink, my lover
I'll get you another lover,
my friend...
the one that goes:
we're sacred hummingbird's hearts
yet somehow so dimly entangled
and lust is the key to all palace's
doors
the one that goes:
you taste like my birthday
the one that goes:
fry me some eggs
there's always some bourbon
at Jimmy's old place
the one that goes:
I'll see you tomorrow
the one that goes:
I bought you some tea
and the ocean's my favorite
ballroom
the one that goes:
we'll die tonite
the one that goes:
we're immortal...
the one that goes:
there's a map for your skin
the one that goes:
I'm your man
the one that goes:
I wrote you a lovesong
and I'll sing it tonite at the bar
there's a lie at the base of this world
the one that goes:
there's a lie at the base of this world

"The Moon as a Talker" - complete poetry chapbook.

No.1 (Enter)

As you walk past the Florian Gate
The world becomes
A word
In ragged busker's occasional
Tune
Or one false note of his
Rheumatic
Gypsy
Richly ringed
Fingers
Or even a 200 years old tune
Straight from his
Latest
Homemade
CD

The world becomes a cat
Curled pretty well into Bracka St.
And a flag waving „heaven”
While moonlight spills death all across
All lovers

Dirty dancing at 3AM
Then poetry readings
At a sausage stand

The Time Keeper wishes us lucky
He managed to stop
All the clocks
By now

Soon all we get to see
Be our reflections
In Planty trees and benches 'round midnight
Smoke signals

Cold cappuccino
And white umbrella
Vita
Very
Dolce

Decrescendo

Serenity's cunning gardens... try to portrait
Her cardinal rule's
Composures
Draw it or write it down with
Notes, spirals, whatevers
Crypts and ovals or badly broken Englishes:
B flat
Suits here
Best

We're in Cracow's hell-pit, dear
With no one to confide
In
But the devil in wild red heels
Dancing
The rain-dog rumba
In St Mary's Church
Religiously drunk
And ecstatic
Parading in drag
'Cross the altar and back

Unstoppable echoes crash
Velvet
Corridors below him
Her
Explore and rewrite
Serenity's cunning
Mute
Breakdowns

Devil's heels click like dew drops
Decrescendos
Immuted

Mon Petit Chou

Oh... so there you are! we were about
To meet some
Where
Else
You must've had them bridges
All wrong
The cabman as drunk as usual
Autochthon shadow zone
Goddamn Gypsy cutthroats
Pickpockets
Putas
No crossroads here:
And your soul stays where it's always
Been
Put to
Drawn into
Put out of
Declared
Mimosa

You leave cab
Ah... so here am I
I was about to buy you some
Dyed black roses, but,
mon petit chou,
I just had to get drunk tonight, you see?
Spend all my change
For second rate gin
Drank it under the
Bagatela theatre's
Gorgeous
Curtain wall
Giantess

So
Bonne nuit now,
You know the fate of all
Rebels

Planty Park

Leave me sleepless at this here star-bench
I'm perfectly comfortable
Like that
I know all the bum-poets of
Planty
They're my
Ineffable
Compadres
Some of them family
Ramblers to all
Sweepers
Winter Street's corners
Birds' Path lowdown palaces
Silver River's
Lethal depths
Putrefied amongst the
Piss
Traces
Passing clown's red sunglasses
Tombola
Prizes
Corroding with the raindrops
Amazingly
Slow
Putrefied
Legislated
Lords of God's own wrath
Poet's justice
Survivor
Shells
Masters of wino
Indiscipline

In Attila’s Wake

Uncle bloody corrida Attila has lost his damn
Accordion
Again
Must've left it at the slums
While playing with ladies
Or giving them boys
What they want
Won at poker
Or lost at
Loaded
Dice with skull-bones

Must've painted the basses
In blood and semen
Run all over the slums
With a razor grin
Shining
Chrome
Dementia incarnated
At 4 A.M.
Cheap dinner time at
24/h
Greek Bar

The fiddler reminded him, damn it

Fucking squeezebox must've cost
A fortune
Way back
In 1906
And uncle's so easily
Forgettable
Deaf
While on cider
And cheap Greek
Whatever

I'll have to go down to the slum
Tomorrow
And see what the hell
Can be
Done
All about it

La-Di-Da Rebirth of the Cool

La-di-da – rebirth of the cool –
Let's declare it – let's face it – let's
Immortalize
It
Souvenir it
Realize it
Cum it
Refrain it
Trash it and can it
Perform it
Reform it
Strike down get over
Come on in it
Begin it and finish

Free free jazz from the jazz
In the free, then free the free
From the free in it
And free the cat inside
The drum

Let's be at
The beat let's beat
At the be at
And tap at
Train daughters of bop
Be bop
Were bop
Are bop
And will be
Bop be at
Beat
When they cum uncut
To the be at
Soothe swarms of
Bodhisattva
Raindrops
Beating
Bopping
Replacing, rebirthing
The bitching brew
Cool
La-di-da-la-da-di
The in out inn
And out in outt
With the da-di-la
Baritone
Rehab
Explosion

Interplanetary Crumble

The interplanetary crumble begins
Bars and bordellos wide
Open
Earth's dinner is ready
Old Market's filled with
Word whore
Volunteers
Alien visitors
Sniffing for fresh
Meat
Sanctuary scenery keepers
Whistlers of pre-war blues
Gunmen editors
And goofballs
Queers and transvestite
Lovers
Longtime opiate admirers

"Calita, I must be mad...
Off the rocket completely, dear
You tell me I'm sane...you loosen
Them chains..."
She says:
"I love it when you whisper
Dirty Spanish
Words.
I love it when you write down
My period. I love reading
Dictionaries with you..."
Sips her Quick Death
Drink
Entertains the cock
"God, I suppose I'm now
Tangled
Completely..."

Calita keeps selling her ass
While I keep selling
Cheap record reviews
Writing poor
Swing tunes
For B-class bar-brawlers
For movies never
Directed and such

Guess it's time for a change
For worse
At my
Best
Or else, Calita, I'm finished

Zen Gauloises

His hands were shaking and so were his eyes
As if dreaming a dreamless dream
The paradies soft
As expected
No matter how hard he tries
Can't write the moon
Down
At all

A mime researcher in the
Strangest spiritual hour-zones
Invisible
Octave author
He wrote in estacades
Bimbos
Churches
And strange pictorials
Found at untranslatable
Ancient
Scriptures

He had the alchemist's
NACHSCHLÜSSEL

He wrote on the backs
Of 11th century zen
Monks
Like we all
Did
Now didn't we?

His hands were shaking and that was
A sign
Of another
Latte
Longing

I lit up his Gauloises
And the zen monks
All laughed
At our
Clapping
Sustained
Debate:

At the very start of all writing
Stands a fortunate monk
Who sneers
And constantly
Chips

Blues Fang

Karma... you ship-less captain, you
Warmer now
Might even find a haven
Down there
Might steal those drunken sailors'
Women
Might even
Take one home
Or win one at bridge
Tie her up
Or even
Marry her later on
You might play Samson's Blues
All night long
All 12 boring bars
May lose your voice
Lose your
Money

Karma... you port scum habiteur
Pigeon frightening lines
Watcher
Your fate might await in the
Morning siren's
Debauchery
Murdered small-town boy's
Shriek
The revenge on
Pasolini

Karma... get on with the
Blues
Fang

The Least of the Best

She was stretched out like leaves pattern
Leaving patterns
Laters
Maybes
Others

Cheap orchestral Beatles' renditions
Some cactus
Gardener's flasher
Wife
B/w photos Mike made once
With his one of a kind
See-through camera
Monster
See-in
Drenched
Assertive
Raptures

It is now time for the pattern
To reveal
Its whole complexity
Death trap
Wish
And leave the leaves alone

For the best we can do
Is the least we can
Do

Caged

Caged you say... that's interesting
Caged by whom by what by
Which by why by where by when???
Caged
Signed and delivered Polish magician:
No longer the somersault
Madam
No longer cheap posters
In pencil
No longer the nights in bars
Wooden broken at the table
Awakenings
Days so sleepy
Almost non-present

Katzenjammer prophecies
Tendency
Always rolls on
Unlike you

No tricks to show
This week
Caged, you say... that's so revealing
A brilliant thought indeed
By whom? for which? for whom?
By why?
So seriously
Concealed

You might need a shave, magician
Take a bath, buy beer, visit Gina
Eat breakfast or smoke
Your last
Cigar
Then you'll surely forget about the
Cage
You speak of

Soma Friday

Aye... all we ever got was everything
Perceived as
Nothing
Percepted as stones on the road
And knife-dance
Inertia
Admired as our higher
Presence
Praised as Siva
And drunk as soma
Each Friday

Lowdown security
Systems
Blinking red lights
Smoke and sirens and mirrors
Ripped off and dotted theatre
Down at the drained bottle's
Bottom
Broken into
Dumb observers'
Copyrighted
Eyeballs

They collect the play
In mirrors
And razor's reflections
Then they sometimes comment
Or not
Was it worth it

And all we ever did was
Ride in the tightrope passenger's sit
Hoping never to slip... and aye
We slipped
At our very own
Wish

Star-Storm Jamboree

The mind lives mostly at it wishes to live
Leaves no spare room
Demands no
Reward
Cries out for no protection
Expects no divine
Intervention
Loves no one
And hates not a single thing
It slides
It flows
Observes just to gather

Sleeps beyond all sleeper's will
Still in the womb and never conceived
Breathes Night's immortal
Pumping
Jewels
Hears the star-storm
Jamboree

Vibes of the sucking space thrust
We omit
And deny
And forget to deliver
Obedient to the skies
Overhead only

What are they but cloud projections
Moonlit sculptures
Thrown onto sheets
Of fire
Carved in rain and barely visible
Smoke-rays

What are they
But our eyes
Looked upon
From the other
Side

And the other side's not there
And then this here's side
not even here

So hold on to your mind
That's the traitor
You know
Best

Curtain Cut

Jump cut curtain run
Cut
Sliced to pieces artifact
Run and jump the cut run
Jump
Night cut night jump
Into daylight
Curtain
Cut jump run
The artifact
Cut the spice up spice cut
Barrel
Run
The night gun cuts the curtain
Runs and jump cuts jumps
While the daylight
Waits for none
Cuts runs the curtain down
Jump
Frenzy

No Title

Gina's like Swiss cheese Mediterranean Sea
I'm goddamn subterranean rat river
Cracow’s the goddamn delta
We all
One day
Meet
Here

Like a graveyard, only better
Like a movie
Only live

Here boxers and sandals confront golden dresses
White lace tops
And brocade ties
Blonde on blonde
Mind on mind
Object
On
Object

I consume the goddamn cheese
And then I get
Exterminated

Brocade ties and golden dresses
Remain

White lace tops
Now stained with rat-blood
Rat-shit
Rat-over
Swarmed with
Accidental
Johnnie Walkers
Swim in this delta's
Black muddy
Waters

Where river meets sea
All's so
Naturally
Perfect
At instant

Delta Come-Again

There's just one rhythm for trains
Blues rhythm
Slim Harpo excess
Late night cafe at Planty
„Thank you Jesus” written with blood
On the
Black
Wall
„Excuse me, brother” spelled out in
Chimneys
Freedoms
Rendez vous
Where there are no rails to your
Sheltered well
Heartland

Inhaling bop
Exhaling
Life

Or just the other way round
Or just the other round way
Or just the round other way

From passion to passion
The stations exchange
For a bunch of
Rose-garden
Ladies

Exhaling bop
Inhaling
Life

Marilyn, Skulls and Bones

Sleep now under the Old Market candles
Imagine that you are the same
As Marianne
As the leashes of her perfume and guilt
Undercover

Sleep
Undercover
Spilt over

Now the pillow becomes the Master's
Skylight
Soaked in Caribbean drums
And the jingling armor of scentless
Death

And she swallows her spit so much faster
Swallows the drink like
Single drops of
Mercury
Salvation

Like the emperor – she's there
And she wants to go to the zoo
To see the monkey's
Toy
Violin
And watch the teeth form
Pretty rows
Of wisdom

Deep
Undercover
Breathe over

And so talks the moon:

Marilyn, skulls and bones
She’s in love with her reflection
Hands scratching at the ceiling
Eyes offer up protection

For Celine

I guess we've been lovers
Some-chance earlier
And we've visited
The very same bookstores
Made love
To the very same ladies
The femme-fatales
The losers
Guess we've been hiding
In same words
Reading / commenting
Same
Books

Guess we've been doomed by the very same hand
That opened our eyes
On creation's
Blood
Day

And the Seine gleams
And the moonlight blazes on
Revealing another scene
Another week
At the world's
Golden
Centre

Here – there are no rules
Here – there are no wrong
Predictions

Here everything's guided
By the prophet's
Wrinkled
Bone

And I guess we're still in this bookstore
Where we first came upon
Joyce

Novocaine

it's too early inside, too dark on the outside...
lacerate... punctuate.... investigate...
wallow in the shadows so you'll never be seen
to evade the
excessive
penalty...

are you breathing still
or is it just the ocean sighin'...
can't tell for good... can't tell
in these rooms of
flat calm

hand me some Novocaine, my child
the iodine's not enough
hand me some caffeine, my child
the bloodrush's way too slow
this time...

I want it much faster so the death won't catch me

there's still enough Novocaine on your tips
still enough iodine on them hips
still enough of your
careless
anesthetics...

how you spoil me... & caress me...
& touch right below the pain's sacred
lair
one more step
& the beast's on his way...
how the salt reacts with the wound
with the ripped off skin
with the scent of burnt
lashes...

everybody's wounded... true...
if so, why suffer
why satisfy the dole collector
the manic
preacher
the vacuumed up
rehabilitator...

there's still Novocaine enough
to survive
in your rooms of
flat
calm

Especially if she's a writer

yours truly shaky fingers grope again for a no-filter
Camel
reach out for the sky
the beloved concealment
but surrender before they can drown
surrender before they can cum

or they claw at the cool actress' face
the dirty lips
they'll never again
recognize
though it's only three years
of boredom
& it's only a gallery of
losers
& she studies her Spanish right now
& I hope she studies it well
& I hope she got herself
a decent cock at last
& I hope he's a goddamn torrero
& I hope he kills her
each night

while my soul's been soaked in beer
soaked in barroom paint
in shit & piss & laughter
for ten amazingly long Christmas Eves
& tons of dirtbag snow alleys
& tons of dead absent
birds
not necessary at the wire
& I ain't no goddamn Christmas tree
though I'm all lit up
as usual

my soul's like this Camel's been reveled
in the treasures of the unkind
& the wisdom
of cheapest wines ever
bread & butter
or the nuns who've been offering me
shelter
when all I've needed was
a solitaire
fadeout

yet I'm still alive at the bar again
the one at Maine St.
the nice enthralling darkened womb
sheltered under the lightbulb
red
glow
makin' me think of umbilical
nooses
& gallons of bourbon
mothers
who've given me sweet
resurrections

and I know I swore to the Maker
and back
I'll never drink again
I know I become a bastard
but this here chick looks contagious
enough
to pour her another dollar
& have my whisky
served
cold
especially if she's a writer
especially if she fucks
harder

While darkness falls down on Georgia

what am I...
0.32 seconds of lightnin'
over sizzling village aesthetics
burnin' the barn
where sleeplessness
whines
as scorchin' as the chicken in the
decomposed
sky
or an outtake from Mr. Waits
while darkness falls down on Georgia...

what am I...
3 or 5 seconds of fakir void
inside some 'bam based hooker's
fornicated in satin
& then suffocated
visage
ironed & steamed
& passin' through locked doors
only
while darkness falls down on Georgia...

what am I...
a Mexican breakfast regular
nicotine/water
aficionado
throwin' knives at the dim bar's corner
barfliely silent
Keaton
type
keen on the maddest chicks
only
while darkness falls down on Georgia...

what am I...
feels like standin' on top of the fire
burnin' out angel's hair
entrails
spillin' out all neurone grape
while roamin' away on a one-legged
mule
just like the mule I am
pullin' a red car crashin'
at midnight
while darkness falls down on Georgia...

The ghost writer sighs

the ghost writer sighs - wishin' he had some fingers
to run them all over her light-yeared hair
to run them through her
waterfall
skin
to wrap himself up her thighs
to get lost in her thought's wild
birds of Eden
&
rivers
to find comfort in the beauty of her rawness
fury
blisters
fevers
& ultimate surrender
to her pastures
them thick angelic voices
soothing the karma
killer
the wild boy
the dense suburban
drunkard
verse roach
junky
executioner
Spain-tingled tramp
on the stoned
immortal
make
the ghost writer sighs again...

the ghost writer sighs - wishin' it's all been
one drunken winter back
one happy Sunday forward
& one Italian night later
on the 2AM show
where they sell you those pills
for your fat
or
psychosis

the ghost writer sighs
wishin' he had some good legs to wander
some ears to listen to her
sunken promises
dead surroundings
of dictionary mania
or some lips to meet on
the dirtiest laziest corner
& an arm to hold on to, golden...
to write even cheaper words
if only for her
amusement
& it's all a poor sitcom
& we're all kicked out
in the end

the ghost writer sighs
it's all just another year in the back

This way to the exit

other people is hell is other people is hell...
so the seagulls have told me
before they turned into
cobblestone
dead
mirages

the seagull song was Yester
the whispering sea
was Day

other people is hell is other people is hell...
so the poet & actor has told me
before he ceased to play
as he left unaware the world's
numb
interiors

the poet's name was Jester
the actor's name
Voyeur

other people is hell is other people is hell...
so the midnight train did whisper
before it rattled through
with a single
deadended
deafening
howl

the conductor's skin was Light
& the train rolled on
for Years
 
other people is hell is other people is hell...
so the newspaper's news of the day
rang out
announced another
mass
murder

as the families had their Dinner
at the seaside daze
Vacation

other people is hell is other people is hell...
so Judas told me in secrecy's pit
hangin' firmly on his gut noose
silver dollar
spaghetti western
style

as the pages filled w/ Fire
while the tongue
spread out like Water

other people is hell is other people is hell...
so the spiritwalkers walked me
guided into protection
forced into submission
driven up to
nausea

& the mountains crumbled Into
while the sunlight
whistled Out

I simply can stand
the beauty
no more

I simply can't stand
the form
without
exit

Under Berlin sky

the Berlin sky is all set ablaze
w/ Fernsehturm candles & vertigo
cafes
where districts roll by like swans
in search of black&white angels
in search of our good' ole Nick
or some Cabaret
blazin'
revival
all footnotes
to heaven
& such...

weddings, funerals, orchestras...
shock rock guitars...
the whole avant-garde
in a single black dot
the hair-ties
& sunflower suits...

so the sky scans the crowds
on the lookout for patchy jackets
cheap worn-out stetsons
jeans & boots full of holes
or a field of sand to play in
to draw mandalas
& cease to wonder
to begin a life
at every shredded breath's corner
or find yourself in a room
full of strangers like snakes
& ladders to Jacob's
milkshake
dream
w/ one of your notebooks in hand
still empty...

get in line
for the casting:
One Second Assumption
A Lifetime of Sweat
& Repentance

perhaps Polanski's cut out
to make such a killer
real...

under Berlin sky we're bound to die
we're bound to reflect the mirroring
skyslide
certainty
we're bound to exist
on the U-bahn girl
single
handclap
the Irish songteller
D-flat
the red-bearded sailor's
stormwatch tale
on dead ship-clouds
in night's filthy bosom
or postcard
memoirs
or film noir
magicians
or Japanese tourist
hunters

gettin' tired of them anything pushers
crammed in underpasses
like stillborn projections
of death in a second
the seventy-seven times cheaters
& theater poster magic
all right at your feet from the whore's
balustrade
where you're standin' like Lili
herself
smilin'
eatin' the 5 mark tortilla
to get to the slut
in a minute or so

while the Fernsehturm candles blaze on...
blaze on like their name was Suzanne
blaze on like the
gamblers
be angels
or Jesus atop of his tower
the caring resentment's
groan

& the Fernsehturm's castin' her shadows...
the cup has a hole in the bottom...
& Lili will never quite patch her fishnets
or the very cheap
leather
jacket...

& the districts roll on like swans
& the districts care
for no
one

Hear the road

turn the radio down man
way down...
turn it off
put in in the ashtray
firework it
choke it
blow it
up higher
I've got to hear the road...
the road's the sweetest
music

stop givin' me your blatant
directions
these peacock
astonishments
I've got to hear the road...
& the road
underwhispers
way softer than any given woman
river
star
biker

the road's all I've got here
all I ever care for
throw all the maps out
I choose
directions
unchosen
I become
the unchosen
chooser

while you still keep the radio
goin'
black

man, I wanna hear the road
before it gets too late
& all we get to see
be
dead ends

Not quite aquamarine

she had an aquamarine
latte that night.
wonder what kind of
latte
that was
up to
this day...

I joined her. The table must've been
some kind of von Stuck
fanciest fancy
the absurd of the chairs...
of the air
of her
& the latte
& the row of
pigeons
how I wish I could
pluck'em, the bastards...

le "Milord" was merely some background
noise
for your casual midnite chat-chatters
cafe-crawlers
retro vipers in stripes
who were talkin' on theater
as most of them were
underrated
actors
hopin' to score
some anorectic Dietrich
incarnations
& polish up their roles
to pay the
rent
so this was definitely
not
the background noise...

We talked on life - that's easy
we've lived on talk -
that's harder
we hardened up -
that's walkin'
the life
under the
ventilator's
full-fledged
thin junk
against ourselves & the tide

she said I should write a book
I said she should
fuck
off

suddenly felt so awake...
got the hip, the hep
her hip
& the coolcat latte later
god, she is
golden -
got sober at instant
seen through her
through me
through the midnite
winged messengers
through the world's
improvised
shell...

I've been asleep for days
two or three or goddamn eleven
longest
bourbon dreams
ever
so who do you think I am,
a poet?
I've seen drunk bastards like me
before...
I've seen them write works of
magic..
I've seen them then die
at bus stops or trains...
I've seen their books on toilet
paper
I've been through all this
zoo

& the city
I should
long ago exterminate
rains all over
the angels
wasted...

& as the chat-chatters went chattin"
on
& the Milord went on milordin'
I walked back home
alone
feelin' so out of place
as this goddamn cup of
cold
coffee
& four bare walls of
redemption
inside

The lost "Beat Tapes" poem

when I got samba-pa-tied
& black-magic-womaned
enough
an old friend of mine came
in
& as always according to his
unannounced
visits
the room immediately
burnt
all apart

wine was a-flowin'
voices were shared
women were barely reminded
of
stark & in visions only

he wiped the sweat off his brow
& smiled

said he brought me the "Beat Tapes"
lost ones
real ones
readings saved by accident only
as all of our accidents
are
somehow
sometimes
saved...

said he found them at some flomarkt
down in old Berlin
& he payed 50 marks
for the pleasure

the tapes were nothing special
themselves:
blue, red & white
all dusty
"Ti Jean, Cody & Old Bull Lee"
said the sticker
& said it in barely
visible
pencil
some traces of ink
still there
as well

I put one of the tapes in my old
recorder. I shivered.
He responded.
50 marks' one hell of a price
for something so blessed
& so priceless

We waited impatiently...

& the first tape did run
& the third
& the second
& then there were those readings:
wind, all wind & wind
'til it's gone
not a trace of the trio's
voices

most honest
readings
ever

most honest ever
wind

most windy ever
trio

On the bus to Nepal

so you got on the bus
it maybe ain't Greyhound
but better than none
& headed
directly Nepal

the delectable
reasonable
target

for the ticket
you took my last
dime
that's fine - I can handle
it
gently

you can find the German
emperor there
w/ his golden flies
escort
of
picturesque
disorder's
order

the man still believes in Ultima Thule
& he still
proposes you
marriage
& the honey blooms
while the twister shits
flint
& you're oh so sincerely
delighted

& the options
you'll never choose
the subconsciousnesses
you'll never
submit
to
appear once again
as the air
becomes
your journey
& you
the flower of Orient

& there's a whole melting pot
of Niagara
nirvana
waiting for you
when you
vanish

Vortex

does it really all work like a vortex?
this Engbers shirt
& Man of Town jacket
make a perfect pair of moods...

double dare the observer
& nail him down
with a pink Shoa scarf

so choose a straw for the lady in question
question the answer
in tall frozen glass
frame
while talkin' quite loosely...

on conversations like these
I wish I had a label for
myself...
a price to stick to
a trademark to rely on
a product
to sell her

wish my poems were as good
as the blank morning sky
clear-blue-swifting-
arranging
itself
anew

wish I could tell her about them
wish I could quote
myself

wish I had a bucket for my soul
& a casket
to put my eyes in
a coffin
to call it a day
& good ole cross
to hang on

guess it really works like a vortex

guess she's leavin'
this very
moment

renewed every morning
but still in the same-spot
condition

troubled & trapped in verse
but never as clear
as
the
sky

thus
never
true
or sold

Guilt cog

the hourless clock
grinds
the cogs
the ones w/ bones of matchsticks
& pudding
& tears
of
venomous
fertilizers
the ones at the margin
of
lowdown
being
the ones of the DDT
pasture
like pigs on the rainbow
& sluts
at the Vatican's golden
doorstep

the hourless clock grinds the cogs
spills the abattoir children
swallows the daylight
to waste out
regret
& lie at the bottom
of
murder

the hourless clock makes you
guilty...

of all lives stuck in the wheelturn

so sigh & roar, you Angel Child
while tore apart
by the panic
dictator
& beg for regret
at lunacy's
door

to find no way out
of the
death trap

Gospel on Sundays

"god's a mighty mustard jar..."
says the Drunken Devil Gospel Choir
up & kickin'
every
Sunday

they even got those
savage
drumkits already
no country
& western
this time...

"the benches are silk
& the chip up your ass
is Styrofoam..."
& they kneel down deeper
as deep as their
throats
& worship the lord
as good as they can
w/ a song
that is weak
as
hell

& the black robe bearer hits the organ
foul
manual
sings out death
in all choices of color

wipes out the microphone
rot

killing the flies
that disturb him
one by one by one

wishin' they were some dive-in
strippers
wishin' he could be Manson...

& we're all poor singers
in this goddamn Choir...
& this is the silk
of deliverance
w/ all these Styrofoam
still up your ass
all good clean fun
& bass
& baritone
chips

while the soldiers line up near the altar:
expecting to find a
faith
bomb
the one they cannot disarm...

"nothing here but a mustard jar
& flies & chips up your ass..."
spits out
the
Choir
already
disjointed...

Skull mural mirror

so... they've got the mural of my skull
here
they allow me to stare
at it
sometime...

I'm recognizin' those yellow
trails
of pillage
red streaks
of constraint
amazingly fractured
wisps
of self

maxilla
cheekbones
orbits:
the unchanging
points of
reference...

all since the time that fears me
& loathes
me
continues

the giant bone tree
stuck to the mirror
of
former
selves
&
dead leaves on coffee
do drown

vast as the sky over Andes
& very well written
on ice
sheets

whose fingers should I blame
whose fingers
promise
redress

& ain't that already
rebirth
in a way...

ain't that already
seconde
vue...

Fly to Saudia

the x-rayed cloud turned its back
to become one of Hassan's visionaire
dragons
gardenously
pinched
caressed by the sun
packed
delivered
unraveled

& through Citadel's structures of sand
the tail
needled
its way
to where
the tongue only knows
to which
the birdtalk
relates to

"fly to Saudia!" - queer cherub exclaimed
explained:
"Boys, you're all oh so pretty in red..."
the fire moon's high in the ninth house
the seventh
the sixth
& the first one
is
jammed
w/ Aquarius...
the Jupiter's ring on your finger...
the starchild...

what's your birth sign, pretty...

...that astrological
mojo handin'...
...that prophet's
cakewalk
shit
talk...

& his hair like spinnin' Cadillac wheels
one vine eye perched
hands like the carburetor...

equatorial rain falls...

the poppy kite's in
immortal
flight
& Saudia
is always waiting

On the abandoned viaduct nearby

she chooses the abandoned viaduct
passing
while mime country eyes
sink into
the shutdown
red shattered
sunset
above the work-in-progress
never finished
construction
bird alike
&
fully
aware
of the cut

she chooses to go
& I follow
though that's not
exactly
routine
& we're not exactly on stage
this time

there are many here spirits
that choose not to stay
when sights like these
are eternal
enough
& so very
alluring
to
the altering harlequin's
mannequin
eyesight

& the viaduct opens:
the vigilante
starless
womb

inviting...
cool
& quiet...

just a few drops of sleep
& we're in

& the passing world's
musical
none of our
business

Is gone, man, is gone

every word is a dustroad spirit
suicidal Manitou on Valium
subway
swift
interceptor
always on duty
right on the job

hurlin' investigator
writer's traces scattered
all over
all places
let-downs & give-ups
& who knows
what more
when the insides turn outside
in

primal beasts caught in
breath
caught in
body
the unholy
inquisition
aloud or
enpapered
hot spikes
on jazzy
tangles
& pistols

measured precisely
dosed as
allowed
rain & corrosion
dreamalike pastures
of hell's
drive-in
all ablaze

drive-out
& the beat still
continues

beat out
& the breath
& the body
is gone

One minute long

one long minute ago
one of the
longest
in mind
the insufficient indifferent
footstep
shattered in the mire
residently
exploring
the gut placenta
sideways
while the clock didn't move
at all
& the time was for all
but for
nova
explosion

while she sewed her sunglasses
way back
together
in memory of her drunken cricket
paramour
& roared out "Build me a woman"
& decided to swing back
the past
decided to swing past
the future
to steer me
away from my myth
& my
fate

put my cowboy boots on...
took the shotgun off the shelf...
realized...
shivered in laughter...

remembered the Moonlite Mile
Suite
seven years of daylight
counted her lives in fear
of returning
too early
& shot three times
a day

bit into
the cushion
fell down

& suddenly the room's
mediocre walls
became
eerie Dada
installments
& the gaslamp
a pale
gallery

as the portrait of an artist
as a splattered
liar
glowed

the coming-of-age
the going-off-style
off-rhythm
& into the
vegetable
existence