Project Citadel: five visions of the structure.

“Move Your Wings”To the poets, who thought to the readers, who consumed to the tribes, who wandered… Sandosa sent me who is she? what form – and the rosegarden hums – a strange melody “move your wings the ancient ones” – interrupted. …by themselves …themselves …of themselves Posterity, anxious trembling of the flower on a whirlwind of sand, time trapped insect drawing sure lines on the linoleum bravely passing the mind door, in the infectious observer’s head, stiff paste-on body Wait, who is she? is it a concept – mere answers, rattling round the fire reptilian maracas, when all you want is melodies of eternal venom, spat on (have you tuned your guitar?) through the octave hustler, bright Arabic one; solos tearing down antennas receiving one too many pirate radiostation Collapsing skulls mute the noise wounded nun appears in the fog of a hard-on forest of ego – it’s not a jazz thing, crippled bandit shellghosts drifting Nuclear campfires blooming in the distance, flowers of new tastes, brushes of old evil, here in the rosegarden kids like me can’t even remember words that fit in w/ success – but a strange melody “soar like kings the sunken suns” – interrupted, moans above the slowly setting sun reminding me to actually move what I thought were arms & soar w/ whatever melody a fragment of I’m hearing at the moment.

“Urban Tribes to Valhalla” Pharaoh descendants, washed ashore giants, occupants of vastened storms, hurricane sowers from age crumbled clusters, war chants & dead screams of heart feeding stars, pumped into the diamond skull of the globe Warm but deadly patterns, swords no man can lift, but those lucky weavers of death, beyond which life is a puzzle – riders of the temple, on which feathered beasts are climbing, directly to lift off, revealing a human face; god has left his temple Shamen lifting sky veils, never inducing drugs on their tribes; sacred fools, damp protectors of the jungle, where death is a pasture of curious bees staring in amazement at the first man awakening doing their job unlike those white apes yawning First drum resounds, pattern of sunlight etched on the banger’s hand, illusion fields appear, just behind the planet – visible from the surface of this moon we live on – how’s that for dinner? we haven’t invited him yet but caves are full of carcass eaten raw to the sound of a living example roaring Who will speak of golden boats crowding orphaned skies, sailing gods to worlds indifferent to ours rowing back in a billion light years to the meadow of blast off finding primitive forms laying flat on the ground, terrified by god noise descending Landing zone, now sacred root of an endless war between infant religions; true prophets stay faithful to the first words spoken knowing the outcome crossing the universe, laughing Whatever happens, happens within matter & anti- mani- -pulations, -fests, contact between the pulsars circling inside us, neutron dawn incoming, like a sudden trip of light guiding urban tribes to Valhalla

“Westward Sailor”Beggar on the cross staring into the universe the suffering of refined has begun… a ceiling of yesterday’s stars still hangs as rug sleep woven w/ myth blunt by excess Incense & candles bought about four in the morning pit wrapped in bags as a dress luring the old gypsy tarot dripping in a pink blanket of bath Not taught in threading colorless bead days the spear dipped in death & blind When home, tough gypsy bleeding from fingers of his seaweed brain; mocking the best moments w/ pit-stops when he could simply stay the same He has never… too many ghosts live in his skull too many skulls populate the riverside townhouse Coca-China, hero-China splotchy archetype bishopic krill Ghost hunters wait here playing games still slack tourists, prone to death by hanging How many more centuries will he sail west Sludge flooded nights push him forward but won’t let go of the gypsy eyes that this piercing day won’t see Liken this man & rip rug to one thousand years of pain diligently repurchased juice & suck into the night his beggar & his scripture

“When Doves Yelled Over the World”Killer night on rock’n'roll grease only years left in hand; broken twigs paralytic you in deaf mandala scraps bedded For Croesus’s rights in spasmic delight sand twenty odd days propheting years of hang rain the barbed dance ends where mandala wire & number music hammer stare the pigeons; feeding bombs to infants I tonight, the draw the trumpet heap breeze scream tell rain trumpet-so-distant shouts the nuzzled sky blows butterflies sad OK up in one surreal night kill to red one spaces I & the colors gesture counting winged jewels sadistic killer movement butterflies dead dancing – so die – cute time wherein sometimes do & don’t combine into the small star rain, thumping the backstreet gaze not into the box into the know of city bon-ton Gull matches where? Bug cool eyes on matchboxes leaves on breakwater seashelf death the rain, the sure hand gullcharmer counting on angels green; praying louder than the bombs & arrhythmic dogs Counsel of today counted on the weed nails in asymmetric rain & dust tiny hands broke the levee among dance ticked the heart of chaos Croesus; the music trigger where advisers play beginners among me; proud flesh twisting grains in iron water Melt, melt of right games dancing go you go yours Do in around are right not the grains among line go rain of the number old without; there sand thaw saw When good-byes orchestra mastered pure bop isotope doves shook off our ink their pain yelled ever my ultimate magic At over silent killer truth the the killer in truth same world in the unnecessary only time the rain in we rain dance orchestra the will is ink For I’m in love, going like twenty million policemen against the anarchistic morning

“Katie’s Makeup Mirror” Artaud taught me a lot including how to write among the lunatics cry among the jokers & laugh in the Nazi face of order new words enter system sunlight bravery honor – out of Eskimo poems; tuned to outsider sounds in my Walkman last rain of the summer treat the doctors of death w/ the lightest remedy - silence push the pushers of fame to the broad suicidal wake ups we teach & learn change roles, masks positions - shift, not realizing shifting listening not realizing going, going not realizing dying we slowly roll the pain into senseless, empty hearts rip humanity from a human face roll atoms in there & laugh like cruel obedient children on a death mass drawing orchids on swan sheets make blooming bugs co-exist; rotating w/ dying flesh of horror turmoils of passion empty the couch of spectacle cows fatter than the godhead make poison from woman’s scent make spears from men’s obedience make fences from child’s expectations change the audience to theater vaudeville Kalkwerk write among the lunatics: every morn, when you lift your heavy ass from the couch scratch your shrinking head and gaze into the mirror you think you’re writing yourself a god, a guru, mindsex city demon rolling w/ a thunder on bell towers proud & fleshless punishing love w/ hate of the morning after; lost little boy in my way, sleeping w/ my lady especially after shaving you crash humanity like Katie’s makeup mirror