"Umdrehn, bitte umdrehn…"

frantic photographs signed in moonlight
most likely make her cry
he always leaves them
in a telephone message,
on his LP’s back cover
instead of casual kisses
light on black death scene,
where their colors are
absurd, lace love
& telegram tiptoeing
voices, in nasty sunshine
remind her a favorite
rock star, forgotten in relations,
on tour in Holland
enjoying offerings of the road
with the queen of dandies

she’ll see him in Paris
he said don’t you worry
I leave you with B side, track six
I cut just for you
where with Tibetan sound palettes
& moog
I paint you physically
younger
in sax party scarf
& your sister’s heels
when we met in Berlin
but the world got smaller
since then
c'est the bridge, same old
quarter, where’s you?

I remember a photo
of your
youth’s role model
sexy, with a big fat joint
advertising collective uprising
& I hope it was her voice
on an old scratched record
that said
“umdrehn, bitte umdrehn…”
all night long
forcing the famous
to collapse
booming in the majesty
of nature

"The Package"

Arctic winds swept my body under a pyramid of ice
showered it with gold, its forehead decorated
with diamonds – covered the walls
with the script of first sowings – verses included steered sails of soul
high above the dome, with the flow of current affairs, urgent
digging in the sun, ironically
with eternal journey’s claw

They buttoned me up to my neck, anchored their azure shawl at my feet
forming a neat package of eptitude – temporal armament of grace
which now ready to travel the stars was resting on a platform
of half-truths, false reports from space
waiting for the signal for flight, compressed like a hero’s bow
bent in a boomerang toy
stripped of spiritual antics, compiled, quiet
ready for take-off & weightless

The countdown has begun – the bodily pile twitched one last time
digested with engines’ breath – slick paper shells
hiding the nut of oblivion
snacked on shortly before death
plundered, in fanfare carried – swiftly into night’s barrenness
the commonplace of average persons
gawking at their ruddy slice

We all have to bite in – scanning our plate for a photoflash of
ventilation – the air that’s everywhere, air
on which we could constantly drift, younger and heavier
like bread stuffed pigeons – dropping our package
on the fertile land of dawn
a bigger, broader luggage
collected, squandered & found
we want more of us here – wherever we plant
idiotic uncertain steps – treading dead, de-weeded
paths

My package doesn’t weigh – it orbits around larger,
hotter suns – it went along there with the glacier
under which I got stuck for a while - a piece of man’s history
escaped my eyes:
in a fragment of the lens I threw
dusk on the quiet hills, where a lonely, weary wanderer
received his tablets

I lifted off
with the nut of knowledge on my chest – with a diamond & dust of stars
my body threw its weight
only where of such seed
another corporeality makes use

"Pulsar"

The wanderer picked up stones,
precisely weighed his personal dose
& hung them by his earlobes
inhaling lotus, gazing at the sideboard in his well-aged room
with different eyes he painted
traces of his finger on a slowed down kettle
he got up, brewing tea after tea
day after day looking out for distressing symptoms
heralding bop disease
in a syringe thinned out mirror he was looking for monsters
which he earlier unleashed
thoughtlessly, they criminally ran
following traces of their yesterday’s feet
& disembodied limbs of trees hung in the sun
his kettle raving
demanding gulps of warrior blood, who so brazenly
stared at the scene from under pale unconquered
mountain tops satori
higher than the stench
of woody infantile hands ever reached
or lovers, spotted idyllic, locked in a bomb shot
to dawn – to the mad monks
& such an orgasm
chrome-covered familiar sun
& roofed the trees with distaste

No one predicted the scale of events
& couldn’t present on his canvas at least one step
of the wanderer, who now planted comfortably on the sofa
absorbed music sheets, scored over with years
of pleasure, the entire past ceased to exist, in a moment, same
in which we started keeping diaries
to write poems as foolish as this
& sketch increasingly
balding skulls
of rhythm instigators
muffled with their women's scarves

I think I sat with them in one box, drank vodka with the devil
when my dancer changed partners, they all were unhealthily
glancing me, giggling in mind when I coughed
in the intervals, between successive Marlboros
maybe you'll get me faster, but if I keep my norm
of incineration, I foresee I won’t be with you
in a year, or so, & then I’ll giggle from above the clouds, you’ll admit:
we knew a wanderer, who was alien to human tongue

The wanderer was broadcasting via immortal pirate radio
same blunt lyrics, comments on a rigid life
& cough, coffee grounds, dilemmas
he glimpsed from his deck of cards
at his personal, indefinite
& with human thought impregnable
cherry pulsar with a delicate hint of sundown