see the beggar pass by
hear him plead for a cig
dissolves in the rain just like china
see the nun pass by
holdin' on to her red dress
not on duty right now
like china
see the meals bein' served
at the market's review
all hate on the plates like china
see the dead taxi driver
knife still in his back
roses still in his eyes like china
see the clerk sweep away
with a bunch of gillettes
and a smile for the lady like china
see the sun melt away
at the street's blue crescendo
gathered & broken like china
see the street plot its end
as it begs for asylum
where walls are as white as china
see the busker's hats off
to the rags on the ground
notice Buddha pass by like china
see the bus overcrowded
w/ the nun & the beggar
her hands scan for him just like china
as the knots get so tight
as the streets are alive
they'll soon be as dead as china
I've loved you under many different names
And I've loved you under many different names
at one point in time
you were Cynthia Ann Parker... Paolo Pasolini... lamplights of Paris... Blue Angel's woe... de Sade's revelation... the Lighthouse at Hel... poor Frances Farmer... vanilla black cigs... Sweet Little Sixteen... Fa-Fannie Porter... Parker's blue bummer... or Motorcycle Irene... or the Rose of the Wild Goddamn Bunch... Stan Getz's bluest note ever... Pamela or Jim... or Poker Alice... or Micky Mouse... or Queen of Spades... then Minnie the Moocher... Liza Minelli... Marlene's tight dress... Be-Bop-A-Lula... all Cracov's hookers... Sonya at theater's inviting doors... post-bourbon sleep... old Cohen records... Edith the Death Lark... Lili Laterne... snowflakes in May... lamplights of Poznan... Jambalaya... that famous black March... Jane or Brigitte... or Sharon in blood... or Venus the Black One... or Chuck's Maybelline...
so we've shared our places & smiles
& exchanged our ordeal
& payed no attention
& joined that restless blue cabaret...
became wives & husbands, masters & servants...
like cartoon characters, like cool cats a-yonder...
& now it's all over...
please tell me it's over
The true bohemian rose visionaire
let's start a religion - said the blind, one-legged boy to a bunch of pigeons...
let's make a start to something new...
let your wings bleed holy blood
let your eyes turn wine into water...
let the tongues be occupied w/ wisdom
brains w/ collapse
& disaster
let the brains walk on water you made...
& he said to a buch of mice... so tenderly, sweetly said...
let's start a new band... let's play on forever...
quit the poor band that goes
nowhere
w/ every next note
w/ every next rhythm...
let us be our street's oyster... let's cum on the new religion...
postpone it into millenia...
& he said to a bunch of hookers - you be damned forever
you be the snake on my tree...
you, in your latex and leather...
& let's do a cut-up of souls
said the blind, one-legged underage prophet
the true bohemian
rose
visionaire
to his true
blue
disciples
so we're One not right after death
but One right here
at the Feast of Earth's boulevards
no soloists included
White rainbow magick
I've seen a White Rainbow like raven's eye
crashin' out of her skin
like a mad priest
a succumb
a wall of fuckin' vision
or an Albion albino
at the eve of Light
she had Rivers in her hair
sunlight at her Bridges
as she bathed in all Glories of Goodbyes
the White Rainbow smiled
& the Morning ended
her Kingdom is not of this world
I sighed
and turned eternally down
to the spiral bindings
of a Sidewalk
No snakes in the room of the treason
No snakes in the room of the treason
just like no deaths in the room of the seasons
a child's kaleidoscope...
a tube test...
a sneak preview of sorts...
a ghost...
a blind old
owl
ghost
no snakes where the saints bein' hung
no hangmen standin' while the church bell rings
and covers my city all up w/ snow
a killer
snorts out
salvation
and damn, he's a true Pistol Pete
shootin' down ladies
at open mics
says:
true, we're all children - still children - die children
only the playgrounds got bigger
but the rules
they never
changed...
will to power:
obituary
& we still get a glimpse of leopard's eye in the evening
or a drop of our lover's blood if lucky
or something to change
for a scene
but still a part of the Buddha
still apart of the Buddha
& the church bells
are drivin' me crazy
Janitor sun
and the sun's now honey and flakes
orchid
tastebud
big bowl of possum
janitor
of night
drinkin' his tea
w/ the drunken actors
of twilight
a dandelion's
specific
angel
chat-chattin' 'bout life
let it pass them by..
the janitor shakes off
their
madness...
for the sun would never care
& the sun would never
write a
line
the sun has no time
for such
dim
offences
the sun remains where it's always been
five years ahead
or seven behind
the sun don't mind
we should all be alike
we should all be ALIVE
I'll start wearin' white
& I'll take off the mask:
let them rip my body apart
the sun is one & it breathes no fumes
no death
no mirrored
safety
the sun belongs here
& so do I
stop lookin' at my
reflex
April Thunder
soon there'll be no time for various indian summers
beads
spiders
& dragonflies a-plenty... soon we'll be much older
sane
completed
sadly
soon we'll dance to the tune of goodbye
& if somehow we'll manage to build an altar
it's not gonna be one
of our own
& our brothers will laugh
sisters too
makin' love in elated
obsidian
palaces of youth...
we'll sigh then
eternally sigh for the loss
& the loss will smile back
& proudly
march
away
cobbin' her webs of bop
sitar plushes
& dharmic
sonnets
our jewelry...
the japanese monk is never awake
neither is he
asleep
the threads of a soul are never his threads
& so the soul gets empty
in voids & gateless gates
of a mind
under god's eye
under
the
thunder
our jewelry...
Sara's Ceremony
& her body
Jewish
perfect
smells of death
in the river...
beads of dead tulips
larks in gore
or
satin like fire
workin' the magic
all nite
listenin' to Monk
as the wind dances by
& the fishes crawl out to the shore
like klezmer
go-go
bands
brawlin' out "Sara"
in longue fa-fa-fashion...
& chimneys
& soot on her winter
hoarfrosted
windows
comes to bejewel the
ceremony
(the stripper's awake in the corner...
one flake in her eye
the other caressin' what's left of her
skin...)
as ruby in the green
her skin-on-skin
begins
& to trace her trail or to be that trail
would finally make me
happy
in this or another
ceremony
praisin' every beautiful sundown
w/ knowledge
& mute
understanding
by Sara's
unwanting
side
dependent on the stars
only
& like these stars
eternal
Sketches
we're all sketches drawn upon her thighs...
all sketches drawn upon the soot...
sketches on plastic coffee cups... sketches of "sure", sketches of "not"
sketches on sun's etching wings... or moon's inviting cunts
sketches of panic on Paradise's door... sketches of lust
in dominions of fire... sketches of fire on ice melting sculptures..
we are all sketches of death... sketches of moths... of poker
of dim & incurable lies
sketches contain no essence... sketches need that final touch...
can't do this, can't offer a healing...
sketches we must remain... sketches of bedrooms, cafes, hotels...
sketches of streets, banks & slum... sketches of clothes...
sketches of beauty... sketches of sunset yellow
sketches of whores at the Mad Theater's doors... sketches of men
sketches of wolves... sketches of God sniffin' coke...
sketches of valium angels...
we're sketches of things we might be... poems we might become...
legends and myths we construct... sketches of kinos & concert halls
sketches of bars & madmen... sketches of whatever
sends them
Antonin Artaud
behind the pins of a face... rubbed... blurred
escapes... a million atoms crown the King
molecules dance on a million of graves
waitin' for several
ladies... the Court does not count... the Court begs of sin...
pain takes hold of my runnin' hands...
white as coke's parade - Nijinsky's finest
step
behind the nails of a face... a portrait of grayness
reigns
meat drops off... all atoms dance... dance in fifths
or fall for the waltz of death... that's obvious
we've chosen directions there, in the womb...
then tried to escape... run up her legs
like a cat in a fever, doomed...
offered up to the dancers... come and join the feast
like logic... a movie reel goes on forever...
doctor theater heals the wound
this fever always comes too soon...
the Court does not count... Audience's now on Stage
a thousand miles of hands - a thousand miles of snow
she chooses not to go
she, Antonin Artaud...
knowin' it's all over
knowin' we're all snow
he, Antonin Artaud...
& Cruelty's all we all know
300mg
forced my eyes to witness the ever passin'
processions
here at the point where concrete meets blood
& melts into 300mg
of Heaven
pumpin' still at the reservoir altar
dressed in flamingo feathers
& broken coffee cups
I sighed like a pussy...
she left the unfinished kiss
movin'
it hit the bus and passed on unnoticed
further into the vast radiant blankness
of stone
lower & tighter
persuasive...
how I envy her blindness...
the control she has is amazing...
it might come out of innocence
might come out of experience...
she always leaves me this way
with the 300mg of Heaven
still pumpin'
& the rider beheaded at twilight
forced to force his wild eyes again
and waste a single red
teardrop...
and "further" she whispers, "deeper"
insists
on my clinical need for wicked
altruist's last gasps...
well worth the effort
but not worth the passion...
she leaves me so limbless & prisoned
with the 300mg of Heaven
still pumpin'
& an old elephant story
& an empty goddamn
wallet...
& I wish I could wear her skin
yes, the right side of it
this time...
No setting sun endings...
No setting sun endings...
no better occasions
no rewind, no fuckin' fast
forward
no leap into deeper sands
or cactus on urban deserts
no smells of yours on
winter
dresses
no smells of yours in the bar
No setting sun endings...
no terror on left side of heaven
no heaven on right side of
reason
no tough men in sight
no changin' horses
no chokin' coyote's howl
no Americana true dawn
No setting sun endings...
no happy trails
no St.Vitus dancers
no Felina's cantina
no crossroads
no better time than this here
given...
No setting sun endings...
no parking breaks
no key cards
no Pollyannas
no Muzak
no prefix, no 580
no partnership in the firm
no literacy given...
No setting sun endings
no Eastwood still standing
Unsung
I'm afraid I'll leave most of my beer-sunken
smoke-tortured
womenly ravaged heartfailure soul
unsung...
I'm afraid the time's gonna run out faster
than expected...
I'm afraid I'm gonna wake up one day
on a long white table
before I have the chance
to write one decent song
one decent poem...
...and that someone's gonna say
"It's not him..."
and Death will fail as in Celine's case...
I'm afraid that most of my soul
remains unsung
when I sit at my table to write it all down
the words
evaporate
& rhymes are bein' butchered...
so I go for a walk & lose myself amid
ancient rocks
and I know that they're sung
just perfectly
out...
why am I not like these rocks
& why is the soul still screamin' for singin'
while its voice still remains the one of a mouse
not the one of a Rat
King
Street Swayin' Holy Bumness
well I guess it's better off unsung...
& I guess I'll leave it that way
& live one day among the rocks
& dance in my wind driven pieces
as one
w/ some Indian spirits
when there'll be no homes
and there'll be no coats...
Roses on the wire
let's try another lifeline...lifetime...hand pattern
skin fluxus
beard apostle
in the mountains of Russia
or roses on the wire...
choose another island...the island hopping's done...the inland
awaits...the island's wasted in your pretty hand...
your hand's wasted in the rising sun of high rise
unpretty
blankness
stuck out of a window like a broken wing
the unmatching key
Jehova's choir false note...
let's try another tuning...let's do some dissolving...evaluate
the sinners in us to make them work and smile
skin fluxus
again
and where are you really...where does your really lead to
is the hiway still crowded or the phantom cats
present...
there, in the mountains of Russia
lives a worthy old man - a man who's worthy to listen...
to shake hands w/ our makeshift eyes
fluid bone...
beard apostle...
or roses on the wire...
there's not enough water to fill in the park
& the ink's all gone in duck's danglin' throats
of tomorrows
like Stalin
or Nebraska...
so choose another island...pour me in...do me over...
stirr the shaken blunt imposter
the word-clown
the mojo
faker
drive me away...drive me away...oh, please
how I need a
savior...
Candidacy
skimmin' thru the blue town's hiways
or drinkin' myself to death at my lady's
poignant command
could I be the one...
I very often look into the mirror these days
but the bastard holds no answer
& it wears me & tears me & burns me up
& I know that the bottle's blue bottom is nearer
everytime I reach out
for my suicide's perfumed hand...
could I be the one...
& I've heard the death's trumpet too often
& I've been to hotels of rented heartrooms
& I played at the highest stake...
could I be the one...
& I've asked the Frog King on many occasions
did my singin' please him well enough
does he still steer my pathetic
efforts...
could I be the one...
while at Poe's deranged dinner I asked him
if he really meant it this way & Curtis was present as well
& he said that the tear doesn't hurt here
& perhaps I should really now join them
could I be the one...
& all the barkeeps keep laughin'
plotting their rumours of my drunken presence
at wee-wee hours, at go-go enchantress' place...
could I be the one...
kilin' the horses of discipline... one by one by one
flamin' their nostrils
& screwin' all Death's pretty hookers
bein' their most humble dog
could I be the one...
For another damn lonely trumpeteer
I can hear you cry out, brother...
it's 3AM, I can hear you well...
the cars are a-hissin' no more...
torn is the concrete below & I can hear you perfectly clear...
there's a friendly ear
for your fear...
there' a spy in the opposite window...
& I know why you torture her...
it is why I torture my giveaway pen...
let the clouds rest, man... they need some sleep, too
& the chimneys w/ their deaf hungover...
they need some sleep as well...
& the cats, man - hear them fuck...
c'mon... stop hittin' the damn blue note
at least for tonight...
I can hear you perfectly right...
& look, the dogs started howlin'
there's the audience - completed...
shit, man... I wish I could help you...
but then - you wouldn't help me, now would you?
you wouldn't let me be
w/ her
as you love her too
& I've seen her in your bed...
& I've seen her legs wide apart...
you damn trumpet master...
there's a friendly ear...
and a picture of your wife...
man, stop it right now...
man, cut it at once...
the moon's all sore from you blowin' the thing...
& I might find a proper caliber
for a fucker of your kind...
the kind that shoots me down too
on sleepless Poznan radio nights
& a thousand Sundays deep mornings
gentle
as
Mira's
thighs
I'm already not here
there's a raincloud that bursts out my name
writes it all across the stations
writes it all across the lanterns
& looks at me from a not-so distorted angle
pampers the lunacy vicar
wines him & dines him
there's a police car passin' w/ me all across it
& a hooker w/ her lips all smeared w/ me
& the guitar string I'll hang myself on
puts the blinders down
corrodes in spades
& snores
while I'm already not here
already gazin' from the afterlife
at this here example of a quite vital corpse
doin' some street tasks
fillin' some forms
of a never chosen occupation -
the one of a writer...
or playin' guitar after midnite...
so I'm movin' a sittin' target
& I'm sure it's not me - not me in this worthless
collision...
not me in this car-crash
not me - golden shot girl
not me in this cobblestone shit
not me in the whorehouse of Joan of Arc
not me
in the ranks of her army...
as I'm movin' a sitting target
I'm already not here
observin' & laughin' out loud
at the
outcome
whatever
whoever
it be...
Rioed
in the skies of Rio there are summer songs-a-plenty
so the short-distance tourist says
as he passes the slum and the barrio fever
these roads they are never on family maps...
these ulcers are left
outwiped
and not the song one, too...
no yacht cruisin' this time
bikini bitchin' burnin' death...
fussed anxiety in Rio's skies
can't measure with fahrenheits...
call out St.Daniel and Gabriel (again!)
you urban guerilla, you, drawn to the flame...
to no avail, to no rescue...
draw the curtains on yer machine gun palace
and split! split! spit...
clean up your pink palm glasses
darken the palm of yer
hand
be a man, goddamn, a man...
in Rio's outlined sky
pencil touch
vodka we brought in from some "civilized western country"
(not Poland)
or Poland
or something quite dim...
for Rio's thin dukes of remorse...
one for the angels (so well deserved)
& one for Jao Batista
Frankie
Cortazar
Madalena
I've lost my panama again
got rid of my Fidel cigarillo...
& once again, you urban guerilla
you're forced to admit
your
white
knuckles
shine....
Lung cancer waiting room
oh nurse, you're so nice... so whitely innocent
lily
of the
syringe...
sterile Dietrich Hayworth
your hands breed sheep all across the
coolish
dirtfloor
I've been countin'em all nite long...
"yep, that's three packs a day..."
that's 'bout twenty sheep per second
who's with me in this lung cancer
waiting
room?
who' shakin' hands w/ the
doctor...
"yep, I'm twenty-three
can't wait to be thirty-two..."
so the next year can be
Jesus
all year
nurse, I'm growin' a beard for you...
them pills are
finally
workin'...
nurse feeds me chaos
through her all-day-round
tv
like a pose is a pose is a pose
who's with me in this lung cancer
waiting
room?
I didn't laugh at all...
The promise of heart attack at dawn
The promise of heart attack at dawn
could in fact become my religion
my private
Amida
my hot line to
nirvana
the hope I'm in for
life
in the end
or a ganges for washin' me
down...
I love the cuckoos at dawn
guess it'd be nice to die in their
presence...
& the leaves look so pretty chasms
at sunlight's first caresses...
I pray for a heart attack
at dawn
& maybe a girl present, too
dark-haired perhaps
ashtrayed in sleep...
"I've slept more than you lived..."
says the old man - and when I turn around
he's nothing but me...
don't want to finish like that
heart attack at dawn's
nicer...
I guess I've been here in the 70s
& decided to quit all these
putrid
redemptions
or the dandelion
weaknesses
of heart
"I've taken more than you'd ever give" -
goes the old man again
and again I turn around
& again he's nothing but me...
don't want to finish this way
heart attack at dawn's so
iconic...
Amida, do save me...
Amida,
please do...
Limo death
Limo death's better than a
bare death
raw death
corkscrew death
still holdin' on to the bottle
pale on the backseat
on the way to the next gig...
the dumb chauffer thinks
you're still sleepin'...
limo death's classy & full of
redemption...
can drive it straight into the churchyard
let'em bells ring out all hell
for the retro style singer...
limo death's better than stealin'
roses from your grave
or virtue from your
tasteless
residents
limo death nearly resembles the sun
limo death's peaceful
& good for the lonesome
can drive them straight into their coffins
while no-one is left there
to moan...
limo death's full of speed
platinum
&
chrome...
while the phone from the manager's still ringin'...
and four mighty thousands
await the next show
at Tupelo
maybe
The valley that never makes it
I breathe in
can trace some blood
exhale it...
my skull is a whole different kingdom
the one where worms
have no access...
rise up to your brother
or drown...
young is the river & tempting the waters...
there are lines in these breaths
that will never
be read...
choices are never ours at these here
sunburnt
deserted shores
choices are never
hours...
hope is a danglin' blue razor,
brother...
& as the hermit passes by
the hermit looks back
sees scorched earth only
& nothin' to follow
sees his friends feasting on sand
sees biblical pillars
of Salt
and poor old Gomorrha
wasted...
passes by
to witness no more...
one day he'll end up in a valley
the valley that never
makes it
then'll come the time
to breathe it all out
Tastes best improvised yet still served cold
stand up
"Rusted Overalls"
the magician starts tellin' those dirty French jokes:
"April in Paris"
& such
& we all can't help but cry
& notice there's death in those
yellow rednetted eyes...
sweat on a black
beautiful
face
(that still can't cope w/ the
laughter)
forms curtains for fire
& sucks in the tempo
that's bop
but that's also
heroin(e)
for our Man of Birdlike Trumpets...
the bottom's bluer bottom...
the da-ba-di logic
of first note
arrival...
& we know he explores unutterized worlds
& serves them cold
while bleedin' out "Ife"
like readin' from a bad book
on shrooms...
so well-improvised
but not yet
improved
on...
"Ornette, Ornette where are you..."
one female singer
chants...
the chorus joins later on
in hallowed call-an-response
& that's bop at
"Rusted Overalls"
& we're all in
reading out loud
from our fathers books
& our own small collections
of poems...
I'm lonelier than a red, red traffic light
I'm lonelier than a red, red traffic light
nestled in the palm of my hand
like a birthmark
or a bar code
sentenced to the hummin' pallor
of pure accidental
warm
women...
& I'll only dance with the true one
not the red, red traffic light
stander
whatever blouses she's wearin'...
won't waste my time on carvin' my name
'twin the bloodsoaked
gore lip
unhonest as
beauty...
and lord, how many names
did I just
happen to have...
won't say the same thing twice...
will wrap myself up in your golden hair
strange
asylum
& rest for a while
as I'm lonelier than the dog's broken
leg
or the hair of the very same
dog...
& I'm lonelier as you'd ever imagine
when I punch my way up
w/ a ten year long
nostalgia...
like you're missin' but you don't know
quite
what...
and the red, red traffic light's so happy
like candles on
boredom
& the wax on your nippled
eyes
let's feed the night cats some love
they're the only ones lonelier
than I am
Yes, she's aware but still not beautiful yet
Yes, she's aware but still not beautiful yet
in the way that beauty can smash herself
up...
no matter how hard she meditates
levitates
or punishes
madly
herself...
all the pain she perceives makes her
hardly
sincere...
funny - she don't wear them black black
glasses...
or she don't wear them black black
punishment's dresses...
she's still a virgin in terms
of
belief...
and she's still a spring Halloween...
tried to breathe me in today
or coin me a phrase
or call it a day...
yes, she's aware
but still not beautiful
yet...
there still are some borders
her practice
can't cross...
Autosuggestion means autodestruction
when you can't quite convince yourself
to a value or two
worth tryin'
you stop imagining truth
and so fluently
strangely
become it...
one of the strangest at days
one at the day for the races...
and the truth's mice and men if you ask me...
the former ones at their chosen
places
while graves make a nice yellow shelter
for men's golden teeth
watches
&
wooden
flamingo
legs
& blonde shinin' wigs
of premature
burial...
or can askin' too much questions
to the beast's underbelly
make it go furious
all
about it?
that beast's your lord at his very best...
that beast
manipulates
being
so well
lives in the back of your still infant
head...
and you can't quite hold on to yourself
or a picture of your old travelin' shoes
or the family party
shock
value...
still the truth's mice and men
& no poets are really
present
just clowns for the ladies
quotin' their sources
& bums at the bar
sinkin' under the counter
or published pimps
of word servitude...
everyone's able to write, man
everyone's Abel
to
be
IT
File under fragile
my very first jeans:
what's written on papers still stuck
in the pocket
unchosen roads:
the panic that often preceeds them
destined points of
crossing:
the mistake that often defines them
stations of desolate trains:
why choose them for the meeting of fact
a kiss or a two:
and as close as you can rely on
her wide open legs:
and is there another kingdom?
what Buddha wrote on the Bodhi Tree:
never actually written
why the burnin' monk chose fire:
what about this one that died standin' pat
standin' right there
on his head...
how was poor Ti Jean's heaven:
never really experienced
why are we still searchin':
the answer's right there,
in front of your eyes...
filed under fragile
kept in fragile
boxes
of air
Upholstery
the wet chair in a warm room
perhaps enjoys her touch:
I don't
the rusted lamp's skeleton above
perhaps enjoys her shark gaze:
I don't
the wind in the dustpipes
rolls perhaps for entire infinities:
I don't
I can only hope not to slip too soon
& let Buddha's pupil
enjoy the view
I like the wind on a hot summer day
it soothes
like a needle
too much dust on this chair to sit on
& the wall's bare with faded already
neon
perhaps she needs just a warm room
I need a fuckin'
tsunami
to pinch black
the world
that's the only color that fits
right now
w/ Buddha's worried
little pupil
the chair I still sit on
invisible...
& my current remained
w/ the
faded
upholstery
Proud of what I'm not
for Klaus Kinski
proud I'm not a slave
proud I'm not a mediocre bar singer
proud I'm not divine intervention
proud I'm not Paganini
or proud I'm not Aguirre...
proud though I'm Wrath of God
proud of building
the wilderness
oper...
proud I'm not dictum for Oscars
proud I'm not jelly
like most men are
proud I'm not a pretender
proud I'm not a black
puppet
proud I'm not marching
in line
proud I'm not one of those
young lousy actors
w/ young lousy wives
& young lousy roles
in mansions of stuntmen...
proud I'm not learning my parts
by heart
proud I'm a poet
by heart
blessed be the days when I've written
my part
in the heart's filthy play
so wisely directed...
proud I'm not takin' the easy way down
proud I'm not hangin' round
imbecils
idiots
analphabets
proud I'm not acting out Jesus Christ
proud I'm one
every evening...
proud I'm not interviewed anymore
proud I'm not part of the dim
celluloid
mausoleum
so good to watch the butterfly
rest on my hand
the hand that broke all the mirrors here
tortured all life
& butchered
the love
to make it survive
in a form
that never
ends
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