bass mechanic overload
cloud crossbones shaped pirate
news radio kosmic knob
turner
evening in Brixton
transmitting sound systems
through open British air
intercepted behind the eye lashes
of space
I dawn mayo beats punk
on freshly stained graffiti walls
washed off from yesterday's party
with puke streets echoing
distant jam sessions
backing bands and star brooms
I buy another record at Sister Ray
tramp on the folk life
easy used item
and, amazed, turn back to days
of receival
it's
Calvert Avenue
1985
revival of countryside fair speech
Che Guevara cheddar.
Taste the revolution!
Bird’N’Opiate
how British of
small nonsense
her sweets his///bird’n’opiate what’s up – I’ve heard the
sleeper drained the -peach, or what it was she
carried instead of purse speech of /rob the fashion
robbers stoop & red graffitis – yep, there
might be bop brick note to free jazz clouds repeating eating ting
things – bead/rain
clouds on brick spikes///bread
what was the image who was linguistics
was – have you decided for dogs swift the solid drift pass Baker
Street – babe, I’m not a tourist – my paths were there marked
1968 before through
cut screens I
cry
confuse it!
Carry
drunk eggnogs laced w/ acid
served in the hall downstairs
tickle the ego bombers
who’ve never seen the oceans
they only battled seas
& seas have won again
show us the strip-club drunk Annie
dock-borne vagabond mourners
to golden solitary antennas
on space communion soot-shielded rooftops
dog-headed angels of karma
dawn coyotes of the chimneys
silver-faced winos of the railways
twilight freight train tripsters
ragged echo-driven death-tramps
show us the membrane of earth
beaten roads of dust devils
show us the gutter
hook us up w/ the dukes of it
carry
Dedicated To You, But You Weren't Reading
Is the war / began or is it just
Jupiter / swept us over the head
the alleged bass god, or people finally heard the original, passing
on the street
plankton concrete
last summer weeds juices digest
clinics and office buildings - those who provide assistance, they need it most
they listen to the wrong wave
they climb the wrong mountain
once belonging to featherheaded pearls
sink into selfthought prescriptions
fortunately for panic paleskin
demon
chained to machines - tom-toms
beat.
I play as all
at the same time - I do not recognize borders / material
and the last time I was here, in June
I remember some flowers
galaxies
the cities there was nothing
but build new, not
unlike
the sun, as in the past - and the stars
hang over another head, but fish scales
hand remember continents
once broken up, now occupied
and wherever there is a war
squandered / the flick
fingers lives, we land here and now
developer wars look - you
eyes yesterday's savior - maybe
you have - those eyes - I will keep the soul
on antisocial patrol, and so
I scalp the tissue of your Nietzschean superman
crazy!
Dream Dealer
woke up toke wake up Brixton heat jewel
rain reel surf of London – cheap
plane dig pavement bloodshot soul – piss
desert; but then again I patted
masters of storm – the beasts of
sun death hymn & a billion dreams were
canceled w/ the flight – a
jungle; but then again I couldn’t find
a soft bench – run crowd drown I don’t care
cut scream dawn I offer -oh oh oh we’re on it!
song void hips a’berry – doomwise repeating
yawn hymn: wake up woke up Brixton
dream dealer was here
Slums of Berlin
I flipped the slums of Berlin
for a small countryside church
Metropolis for
Georg John's birthplace
Nibelungen
for Lana del Rey
& other names & slogans for love
that's not sawdust
grind
oh, and Eno
for
radio
I laughed in that church - cause the
priest didn't know
my tune, and now I have to learn
his
best trips
are
accidents - ask the famous
a-bomb
London's next
first flight sandpit paper
philosophy? redundant
in the great dawn
of sane
with joy
I flipped U-bahns
for a convertible
hot stripped streets for country roads
pale neons for
railroads
speed for adrenaline drive
taxi drivers
for a chauffeur star
driving me round
like a king
I don't regret
the slums of
Berlin
they showed me where I belong
not
in the courtesy
of
disasters - fake friendship
of tongues
speaking only of
failure
my star showed me music
as I expected it to
be
& fuck guitars
in the right place, safe
on a woman's lap
breathing the petrol
writing songs for later
to show the children
some tricks, & prove that rock stars were dead
long before
Elvis was born
to save new generations
from monstrosities
of art
& the parody of
ego
The Wall, yes, and everything
did you leave? “I'm burned out” - said the young man
arched in the Wall's keyhole
glimpses of his blues orgasm
grasshoppered yesterday
at the barber's
unless you know who churned his hair,
I'm sure he was riding the same U-Bahn
in the opposite direction
asking awkward questions
to nonexistent conductors
I “was” yesterday - grunted, stare-i-lizing in empty
eyes of the chick in a branded suit
listening to the producer
carefully choosing lyrics
revolutionary repertoire!
his time was running out - “was”
I felt sorry for the young - my time has not begun
I hooked myself shaving w/ a trickle of blood
still hung on the chin
musicians threw brands, I would like to be him
20y/o again
I was not much older, but the young man sighed again
- I'm a loser, wanted to be
praire poet - boy,
I thought sparks of life fled here
The Wall
& everything
in nature –
natural
it's not a matter of years, but
look at me, young communist carcass
which still smells
of guerilla perfume dawn
and never has enough
of deliberate, final
kicks from its older, obliging colleagues
onwards, westwards!
While Listening to African Fusion
there’s root
seed
& skin
a beat to follow
phase to exit
equator
dusty yes & go
heat to turn
off
electric kilometers
words
used
a million times ago
con artists’
sand
why stop
ecstatic music?
there’s country
all over the concert
its free flags waving
dust red
bass lines
there’s soul
to plant
in your brother’s
bohemian roof
garden
shoot at the
summer
moon
think of names
& wires
oh what do they mean
to free
flags?
what are isms
on drum
beats?
horn
lunches been-ins suggestions kisses
guests numbers sweet information
modern intelligent olive bowl shadow
unresponsive sky hissing tongues
shy luggage high noses nicknames
afternoon frankness strings dinner mixture
knowledge rites continued dreams
indian night radiant chimneys
new garage knees sun cold coffee
tame child kissing dawn red lips
frantic foreign script bathroom tiles
horn horn horn
three times
Vacilla
saturday boardwalk
pawn neon night
quirky buzzing place bells
in penetrating wilderness
I hear the beat
of every shadow
that slowly sticks
gums in
my neck
marlboro whiskey
women jinx darkness
sterile eyes sleep erratic step
in penetrating wilderness
I hear as I go
supporting umbrella
in rain sprinkles
needles
I hear breath of gates
sluggish pulse
corpse impulse
of the
damned souls
waiting for signal
to guess that this is the
this is the
today
after all
I should rise from my
broken knees
hands drawn up
but if
you
will you
give me your
4 A.M. 5th Cup of Coffee
slam the wing boy
break another seal
bongo jazz
rockets on
roof-tops of colony – just an image
walking by
the room and moldy labels
rotten veins
staring at the porn spread
thinking of descending markets
not wanting poems
anymore
slices of death
and teenage waistcoats
selling what poetry
doesn’t
smart ass wanna-be
philosophers
eat rich bread with honey
leaving me matchsticks
and Colorado
cigarettes
American in name
communist in taste
to them I’m an Indian
meal on their pan
thirsty for blood
to review
for their own
egocentric
purpose
play that jazz, pharaoh
I’m skill scene,
suckers.
From the Glass Hill Down
that summer, she said, each man received his award
that day
saints restored to nirvana
that hour
our bum bags were empty
though dust poured out of them
& that was fair payment:
the promised
anesthetic
gold
!finally
we scattered it
cross the death board, & the chariot speed
convinced me dust is heavier than iron
or chains of love – both
never let me down
w/ each kiss
she assumed
stars are of gold,
though to me they're steel ship filings
dropped from ports
of oceanic cavernousity
hung on
somewhere 'twin law & intrigue
your blue eyes don't catch –
there's power
& a green screen
of
high definition
meadows
they're all I see in your soul
spreading the plague of fame
washing sidewalks w/ subconscious mops
of
art dressed as
ignorance
breakfasts served
in a glasshouse
Stoned, with Oceans Separating
interest unwrinkled
cap came
wanted her – burned late (I answer only
for my friend
and nostrils)
you left and the well-cut
laughed
impassive, distant-coffee, quietly
black
big tree drop, accustomed to my almost singing;
hear the stop
you for he, about to play over happy
be her seen
cannot predict
my future
turning beautiful
was perfect; but the unspeakable
is least predictable
to interest you
came to this or his
who cares
we’re stoned
with oceans
separating
Patternless
old fat angels
flaming word statues
fish cut audience
rich and rolling
cave faced birds…
…need to tell you
one thing:
if street music
had the weight of playing on seeing
an opera ticket
theater would dawn upon
the ghetto - church-like cough or laughter
would settle pain
as I’m pulse
leading to
dessert discovery
no need to say whose noise’s been
the loudest
the old man in the back row
holding to his shoe
leaves without answer
re-enters ghetto
laughs with death gods, at
the bulk of us, preferably sane,
in the routine
of crazy futures
The Enemy
I’ve been to those workshops
free gigs
bookshops
dueled verse w/ best
American
pistols
had those pills
took the last
laugh
wrote two million
novels
centered round
death, one good poem
per six years of journey
festivals
beer pals
doctors & mystics
had them quartered
cotton blues
that bodhi earthquake feeling
gave blessings to strangers
miles far from edge room
rode elevators of improv
on blind necks of dusty
balalaikas
pulled into late
situations
wrecked
w a/ crazy curled
goddess
jumping from bridges
handholding
on every writer
a price tag
on every corner
a lesson:
the market is a weapon -
- the enemy in my bed
growing stronger
in numbers.
Ra?
instant continents drive on
looped food
studied papers are everywhere: acceptance,
the discussed mind; age
and thought as scraps
walls cloud motor
idealized, poeticized –
climbing aboard
hair buses, expecting cage wishes
to end
where highways develop
clustered tasks and metal Ra – out
there collapsing
extra traffic
being weights nothingness
mere bagfuls of happy
where far eyes have desertion
on the rocks
in a beautiful uphill house
in vacant gardens
watering a took seen afternoon
pathetic money
on rotten eggs
laughed born belonging
All That Electrical Stuff I Can’t Be Bothered With
pale tobacco speak/
pattern, had ghostly out follow
and clarity left – not warranty
upon laugh copies descent
many small terrific scampering
like magazine boy
friend – who punishes those at standstill
no whole of their hands – the
within
stone flat under
your bloodless shirt
science – police access waters
all you kill
beg for
is work drug action
cloud segments drown the shimmering idol
of death
won't eyes, the gate, rip robot thought
instant at open, be careful with that machine
cooked body
make no motion
he who whites your exertions
now eats Alan’s breakfast
Cliffs of Victoria
cliff-like slow man – Dante creature
across the western terror
crawls, endless supply
of loneliness
in unclean tubes
of words
forming snow bird
grotesque
oblivion was the tangent
expression
circumstances
trial
“we are the end” – imbecile
voice, boiling
lifeless hemispheres
whine
some were eyes of the city
living
expression
patience was the call girl
interesting
discontented
bitterness
“she is the way” – buried
height Victoria
Unbreakable Spirit
He who lives in Getz’s solo
broken colored glass
half-broken windowpanes
tangled sorely in a ball of
surgical threads
he who sleeps w/ Verlaine
breathing underwater
nourished by the sun’s afterglow
he who speaks w/ mice
singing pavement cantatas
w/ a tail
he who walks
the city tops
trawling under its puddles
of resignation
as in the daily breeze
he who confronts the shadow
dancing
in smoky cabaret
partitions
in the red light
of cancan
he who never sleeps
& never changes rags
looking everywhere
where refusal can lurk
radical
call & response
he who copulates w/ angels
to trade them later
w/ demons
for a handful of
budget
cigs
he who never dies
& never really lived
he who calculates maneuvers
of self-destruction
he who knows
& feeds supreme
pigeons of rhythm
burping loudly
smiling
he who lost everything
he to whom Buddha
looks up to
Ride the Flower U-Bahn
Berlin, four seconds to midnight
happy routes took beastly
course, straight to
modern heaven, dismissing the post-
wise pill droppers apply
to their suits, honey months
passing with the show girls
young ears cheeks in circle
modern heaven
is there “plan two”, in case
the big smoking arm of law
ray guns wiser fingers
beginning station again, beginning
boy and line – hurrying not to miss
the flower u-bahn
kiss the flower u-bahn
by common blood
we’re dead civilization
impelled by facile knowledge
grey down silhouettes
smoking from the all-knowing
stand skull
drilled into locks
on menagerie cells –
young skulls learning
inside
invincible tombs
watch busy bare years
an agony
No Fun
it was fun being part of
the local punk scene
when I sniffed glue with others
playing bass
copying Ramones
idolizing Vicious
it was fun being part of
the folk scene
where punk background
provided interesting solutions
to whatever was the tradition
it was fun being part of the
small press scene
where cliché words and beats
were hot, and the words I copied
from folk songs
made money
but not for me, clearly
it was fun being a poet, songwriter,
musician, in front of categorizing
eyes, it was fun pretending
well-read, when all I ever used
as sources were either “Finnegan’s Wake”
or “Junky”
it was fun being hooked on Swans
and other mock gods
while all they ever did was
phlegming along the shit trail
thinking inner demons matter
I thought that too – but then I encountered
real ones
and now, after some short time on the side road
of being post-this, post-that, this –ism, that –ism
understanding more but encompassing less
I rarely care or argue anymore
I find myself in the same spot
poor and uneducated
listening to Stooges’ first
meditating on apple seeds
thinking how it was all
no fucking fun
Peace
Victoria Park, Berlin 2008
I value peace… spitting out pieces of teeth
scraps of broken vinyl
I deal with the beast
on a kitchen chair
tuning my banjo, smiling to the photograph
of an American Poetess
I make coffee – it smells of gasoline, the city
crawls up my veins, the spider-pump
flashes cold electric light
laying shades on faces behind the window
a gigantic eye collects
the evidence of madness – searching through files
isolated wards
heaps of yellowed scrapbooks
I value peace… counting blood drops
on my room divider
You Are Today
I raise my eyes
The street is empty
Free of
Complicated people
No one talks loud
Nothing troubles the wind
Beyond time
Doesn’t mean timeless
But maybe
We still have a chance
I open my hands
Let go of the summer
Watch trees
Stage
Voiceless heroes
Leaves are traces of spirits
Left out to dream behind
The laser-beam spectacle of corpses
There, beyond the silver
Incrusted clouds
Of awareness
Easy music
Drifts around the antenna
There’s nothing
I wish I could change
But sunlight wakes me up
I have to fix my face
Leave this room
Close my eyes
And glide
With the sidewalk
To the only open house
In this district
There I’ll drink coffee
With you
Whoever you are today
Warmer, Obituary
warmer?
footprints
on the
wasteland
comfort beads
of sunlight
blues for the kiddo
flashing
tears for the old man
under
ground
enjoying sleep
warmer?
will you question everything
'till words become
irrelevant
questions
absent
there you go!
another wasteland
conquered
life wiped out
that was there
existed before
your entry
what tears to cry
old dog
mantra of the slum city
what cities to inhabit
star face
of the quasar column
writing obituaries
for space
on freshly born weeds
of a planet
That the, the it me
me at fifteen
me at hundred again
heaps of has
did
gone mad, steady
city voice wiped free
new flat
new car
television face
her holy
initials
bagful of no
words
non-feathered cowards
left out
both persons mistaken
for drifting
me at birth
me at death
just words
breathing fleshless
feet up
coating years
in difference rippled
between
I died in Berlin
September 2008.
Sky, Oh Sky…
sky, oh sky
old swaying sky
on bamboo flags
fixed vermilion green
am I struck
crystalline
in black wintertime
am I you
silent from craggy jars
making flashes
that star-hang hummingbirds
them and the river
law will shadow the stream
petals, lost
moods & pines
in curry wash of rain
flute love shade burning
vibrating long away, burning...
your body beneath the path
bowing to the grasses
ugliness & laughter
love the glimmer you walk
another one won’t come
Cherry Tree or Rainbows
cherry tree, oh cherry blossom
scene pine iris red
when winter rainbows
blow you
flapping scattered
while
harlequin vines wind
& toss
scarlet resting desires
dreams falling cloud long
patient huddle listening
to dead songs
love lit night masks
dusty paper & waves
in city silhouette
Picnic Bubbles
forgetting autumn
grow your thoughts
beyond autumn
frowns on the willow
wine twittering in skirts – the scarlet pilgrims
love parasol? fierce roofs
harmonies on a leaf
drum-tones written & played by
whoever first said
waves are wind
fugitive rose, what it’s like in autumn
I forget: mists,
pilgrims,
buds tinkling broken
they’ll spend a deathless spring
in troubled ages that read
“violet weariness of love”
but lovers continue earth picnic
smoking bodies leave fear
a breeze only blows through
great marsh trees
broad fields
brown-blue may moods
silent canes haunt
their long masks
hanging on the rocks
bubbles
Seed: “Japanese Prints” by John Gould Fletcher
Ambience: “In die Nacht” by Asmus Tietchens
O Panama!
O weather forecasts
on sharks' wit
sweet nature reserves
vs
parades of sequins
O Panama
about marvelous refuge
I sing
O Panama
the great equalizer
transmit my thoughts
to far visage
O display windows
time will brew
journeys, tripmen
O Panama!
your churches of plastic
from night to morning
transmissions
freeriding
O landscapes, spaces
lights & turnpikes
O fuels, adhesives
profitable puzzles!
Naked Bar-Do
Sitting in the sand, wrapped in
wind unwinding
brain branches pine brainy
beach crazy
who would like a wife
in addition to singing moles
who wouldn't want to hide from the world
in coastal trees
& acid laced 7up
sitting in auroras entangled
before the morning light
sitting clothed in airiness
over the fresh bonfires glow
where are the Slavic girls
fun Sunday nudists
whom even anarchists
chase away from the beach
hear the sirens already,
war
article of clothing commando
-disappears- the corpse from the beach
there, in the naked Bar-Do.
Jantar
Rainbow reflected in Jantar
polarized drops -
their faces luxuriate
a love soaks in the sun
love, what is the word -
you have to be replaced
love, what was the hero -
you have to knock him
unconscious
amber in white sand
memory of childhood
Jantar in plastic bag
taken from sea to city
people, what cupping
you have to let the air
people in the flesh
you have to stop there
before ghosts amount
their
pebbles into the sea
pulverize yesterday's boulders
to plant them like
walnuts:
fences & skies
beaches & dyes
Iodine & ion & terror
of chain landlordian
snares
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