From "Use Your Brain" - new poem series 2024 (English / Polish) 2

Into the firewater pit, secluded

tired of visions, high on music

still catching up with the hummingbird

there are voices on the highway

drifting with the rising spirit of error

excluded, tortured by the free morning dawn

out of the firewater pit

and into the scarab pan

Egypt must have been a hit

drawn

higher

the pyramid lord, the eye of Ra

such sculptures could not exist in your brain

dancing on LSD cubes, torrent, near the vibration

of pre-eternal sand

there are voices in the chamber

echo one, echo two

we press the record button

and try not to mess up

everything, us, the planet again

we are naked

stirred at dawn of excitement

***

Do studni z wodą ogniową, w odosobnieniu

zmęczony wizjami, naćpany muzyką

wciąż gonię kolibra

na autostradzie słychać głosy

dryfujące wraz z rosnącym duchem błędu

wykluczeni, torturowani wolnym porannym świtem

ze zbiornika wody ogniowej

i na patelnię ze skarabeuszem

Egipt musiał być hitem

pociągnięty

wyższy

władca piramidy, oko Ra

takie rzeźby nie mogłyby istnieć w twoim mózgu

taniec na kostkach LSD, torrent, blisko wibracji

z przedwiecznego piasku

w izbie słychać głosy

powtórz raz, powtórz dwa

wciskamy przycisk nagrywania

i staramy się nie zepsuć

wszystkiego, nas, planety ponownie

jesteśmy nadzy

poruszeni o świcie podniecenia

From "Use Your Brain" - new poem series 2024 (English / Polish)

Arrows of sun pinpoint the car

it drives on thru the desert

in the desert there are cacti

I will feed on them in the morning

sweetness of my favorite nectar

dense like meat

spoon head

military kiddo

Arrows of his gun pinpoint the wanderer
he is now shadows

the arrow, nuclear in essence, leaves

a mess of broken suburbs

behind

dense like meat

knife girl

dancing in the shallows of my brain.

***

Strzały słońca wskazują samochód

jedzie dalej przez pustynię

na pustyni są kaktusy

pożywię się nimi rano

słodycz mojego ulubionego nektaru

gęstego jak mięso

główka łyżki

wojskowy dzieciak

Strzały z jego pistoletu wskazują wędrowca

jest teraz cieniem

strzała, w istocie nuklearna, opuszcza

bałagan zrujnowanych przedmieść

gęsta jak mięso

dziewczyna z nożem

tańczy w płytkich obszarach mojego mózgu.

"Years as Gold Philosophy" complete chapbook. Originally published with Books on Blog, 2010.

YEARS AS GOLD PHILOSOPHY

Years as gold philosophy
sky sailing, restricted much
in sweet wallflowers known to be birds,
bonfires, charmingly cold
after-dinner stupidity
hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works
which handed you the sunset
a flake, sky sea-iris
some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,
spout lips dirt-grimed lady-shining
as most multiform scripts
seeds rise, there’s sunlight
familiar rocks, somber love and God
cathedral on press sheets
red at office flanks
glass image  wheels
suddenly without dusk
open you alone,
the way you ripple my eyes,
spread nothing on dead Roman wings
asking the trees for some music – fine jungle halls
to remember
slip poised, together, facing your wings,
conducting the starless sheaf, after all,
we’re finally together

ANIMAL HANDS

World servant on vacation… not my life at all
in reality, I have no body, this tiny veil of sanity
does not cover my bare, bloody bones… these bones
are there for you, to spit on their shade and move on
proceed to your notebooks and passions… it is no den
of comfort, no immortal item… no amulet
of the past or things continued… no miserable material
identifying my sovereign  chemistry… I smoke too much
my soul needs fuel, I drink too much, my blind environment
bleeds for any comfort, shrooms are never Christ
the Light King, merely transitory demands for fiction
ingoing streams of disintegration, windows of bricks, satisfaction
in eternal exercise…  in hearts and lines unknown, voids
and scents of electricity, poisoned crows stuffed with magic
she is clearly Death… broken breath link, faith substance
sighed, the principle view… she is Blake – circled, continual
sweeping of eyes, bourbon is never Christ, a carefully-arranged
dense reincarnation
in animal hands instead

RESTLESS CUBES

Rain falls on our impulses, forbidden formless waves
against sparkles of dancing flowers, shoreward
wet in gallop, hidden along strokes of moonlight
a hopeless song in the wings of dullness

Dead tears, powdered blue gods, furrows of sleep
on bright cruel breasts, beloved rock of sacrifice
never warm, manifold faces of heat, fresh mouths
of bitter rats, terrible children to this country

Dust apples, penetrating the breaking sun, healing mists
of indelicate shining, clamor time, shivering on beds
of frozen leaves, time rises, crying, wistful on fire
to lovers wings, sheets to wrinkled torches

Walking the railway, broke and bridal, unswerving
glades of bohemian roots, square sky fingers, tired
in you, becoming ripples of shell, calm lanterns
vapor of frosty corpses, restless cubes and earthquakes

NOBODY’S BROTHER

Nobody's brother, gray candle in cold sky, burning
dream horizon’s dew, dressed in symbolic birds
fever some more, sighing shriveled, dying
in colder groaning, a beautiful muscle
where roses slept of irrelevant patterns
naphthalene’s bitter vapor cast the day
into full soft deliverance, a mourning summit
I found and sang about, and seeking held into
its demise, waves of impotent walls
pain of roads in stone, healing a whore again
asking for asphalt, stamped departure
of soul, darling black glare, grief beautiful
men… street love, colors of galvanized eyelids
encasing my sand into books of leisure and lanterns
in pornographic pride, shining through my window
vibrating metallic death, stripping again, magma bulk
of ribbon starfish, the rain and spit pools
in playmate brittle collapse
hollowly wrapping humble souls in dreams
they’re not my brothers, I’m sorry

DANCER DRAMATICS’ WRITERS

Leaving the country in secrecy
in a cloak of twilight
two years in splendor
or death
the far appointment

two years in hiding
there, in caused perfect harmony
breeding songs
in fashionable verse
to please the vacuum audience

I searched my time
I spent it unaccompanied
I worked in stillness
sonorous pebble
my tables were of gold

why go with dangerous instrumentation
why scribble jazz
pornography
lack of food
angels
biographies
or dancer dramatics’ writers

POET TERRITORY

New walls rise every day, each man is left
shaking, next to the railroad line, Polish
winters are cruel, measuring trains, scraping off rust,
old paint, aluminum swollen eyes, high speed
dancers on linear glass, falling on every mirror:
the next rebirth is closer, a terrible giant
of bathroom wall graffiti, oppression of dogs
in her camera lens, leaning onto each other's
failure, parting ways with beloved folk, fighting
phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends,
delicate urban deaths, synthetic pastures of god,
time zone choking fingers, while cloths of flesh and dust
uncover the room, so suddenly stripped
off its pride, amazed like you, the woman I'll always lose
and learn to lose again... I'm sorry for the
inconvenience, but this here is cupboard wasteland,
uninhabited poet territory

SAILOR’S BREAKFAST

Her relief appears
drums on a highway
in austere script
chew ultra-violet sun
growl
easy to help you
in last minute sea

of relic brass of trees
phased segments of grief
shine parabolic roofs
in oxygen’s diamond
blood ejected, mild
resembling smoke
dying
waiting

I’ll have some coffee, please
and a dreamlike breakfast
pretty
personal
far from the city
ionic calm

draw groups of flare
on the table
miles of the moon
hot-dogs
soothed afternoon eyes
decades left for further sailors

THE PRISONS ARE EMPTY

Sold my collection of old LPs
let the road shine forgotten
allowed the sands to take my name
packed the basics
allowed the pictures to take my face
improvised over the morning
laughed at the immaculate dawn
raced with the night
& won
found my ex in the same old quarter
her favorite corner
asked if she had the will
if the Tarot reads well
if spiders left apartment
found some ancient wine
took her for a walk
met river tribes
seen no policemen
later found my guitar as well
dusted, untouched
knives and candles
buried well in the veil of names
addresses
blood
case filled with lyrics, notes
& sand
staggered, coughed
picked a proper doorbell
rang twice
yawned to the end of night
I know that bitch too well
found an answer to sleep
curly hair approached
velvet breath
fingers of azure
winter coat in the middle of June
that's me, approach the lover
kisses from your brothers
both are now dead
good to be back
the city looks brave
younger
enthralling
perhaps that's because
the prisons are empty

LEGEND

Flame painted sky opens wide
shows nothing
but slow coke heaven
white walls in ruin
prostitute angels
sucking
the Red Flower
dry
shows ages of spirit's
roadblock
slaves' energy
fragmented hands
groping for earth
where they were thrown
immediately after
the Tree
was plucked
shows nothing
but close dementia
messiah madmen
prophesying a very close end
when it's already
done
& this culture
has nothing more
to offer
but stale repeat performance
feasting on swollen corpses
till it's forgotten
what it's like to
actually
create
how it's like
to be
absolutely
wrong
& sacred
in mistake

SIZES OF TIME, PICTURES OF BLACKBIRDS

Blackbirds framed heavy
full on your branch, familiar to you
dark budding pools of fingers
autumn chandeliers on fire.

We used your dead bridal cloth
feasted on wistful hermits.
stale high skies, kisses of flowers,
ripples of shells from rage to pain.

And thirteen overcast pines, prophesied
of return. Unswerving glade, so young
and cold, singing of deep calm space
mermaids and easy Indian time.

Pointed street, the root of our planet
hollow, laughing, sedated in little
quakes,  crushes the old chandeliers
rushes towards the square sad sky
and makes the blackbirds sing
out of frame.

BROKEN IS BEAUTIFUL FALLING

In unconscious fascination
while floods go planting the city
and girls hum themselves as hope
pulling in small street tails
west-end truths
intervals of the homeless
and damaged deals
take the cabman where
consternation creatures
wild on the road
involuntarily
attach agonized tears
of neglected, vanished
blocks
to illustrated
remains of eyes
taking the city
by hurt
where broken
is beautiful
falling

LAND YOUR MACHINE

Our houses become a prison…somehow paid
with odd requests – cheerful strings not in store
this is the dawn of true danger – mind games
on mushroom gear and drums, selling ourselves to Muzak
tailored governments…accepting foreign gods
and leaders…nickels on the motordrome…
slob beauty – bumblebee bubble
sun-energized workbench, ribs and powder
young clapping night

Our houses become a prison…god rope girl, floating
fork, the prize and questioned direction – desert out
on gaudy trains, fantastic nipples, frosty vitamins
of youth – alive orbital thing – solid fence airplane
in safe gyrations, American symbol – asteroids mixed
with books, funk prophet wad
obsolete minutes lost in heartbeat, exploring your
ocean… yeah, I could… kiss… you

Our houses become a prison…happening arms
blow jobs – examine recent years, your tingling shirt lifts
illusion, practical, then alone
possible spare parts
mildly protesting own mouths
grounded against the building
gravity slaves
it’s usually Earth, man…
land your machine

OUTSKIRTAL CHILD

Life called devils
the morning
sorrow and longing
fingers of native sun
thought only of themselves
blessed in exiled
colors of thunder
the ”who”, the “so”
of a stormy sunrise
strange vivifying
melancholy
warmth and power
in dead town eyes
filled with pain
where wait of strength
suicide streets
and years of frost
were islands
of I, who
was poor
wrong
and had age
to die like a dog
buried
nameless
unthinkingly
bleeding
on another
outskirtal
child

PROFESSION AND THE OCEAN

We had rum and pretty wishes
on island-ideas
of fault, restoration
and time… but you,
my constant surfing angel
slipping on dust, aquariums crashing
into the morning
you saw the details of sky
spoke of sex
Indian massacres
pirate’s fuel
reefs and shark skin… fishes
echoed your grin… then there was
yourself… lost in expedition
with balanced western minds
circling brave for identity
diving in death
of ancient stars, mermaid
horses, drinking cold
salt-water, fading with
a dying nebula – we existed
a thousand tongues and roofs
below… passer-byes to wreck
coast… a year or two ago
what’s the color of town now,
my cordial boat still sailing?

THE SCALPEL

What killed me
was not enough
the holy, clear visioned edge
of a scalpel
lover of god
consuming dreams

Fire or dew
the comfort of my tomb
is a long road
to habit
that grew incredibly young
and tired of thought

Now quiet even sighs
run the dark bright
remembering  lament

My youth has loved the wind
fire unburning

"SATORI IN BERLIN (X-BERG SONGS)" - complete poetry/lyrics chapbook, Kendra Steiner Editions, 2009.

ZEPPELIN BLOSSOM SKY

I can still hear the train at the station
Can still see the kite flyin’ by
Unable to differ directions, now
Utopias real, utopias smile
My deja-vu girl looks through
her kaleidoscope dress and her marmalade shoes
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
headed purity, sanctity, too

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
As some boy learns to play his guitar
The old ones begin to settle the scene
Let the boy, too, win some scars

I can still see the giants in flight
Can still hear the gas in their belly
The beast that one swallowed old Jonas
Spits him out 9 o’clock daily
My deja-vu girl sees the make-up
Considers it fake, considers her break-ups
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed adieu, then be it, it’s fine

And the sun never sets at Görlitzer Park
Well at night you can read by the stars
Suns of all worlds, of all ages to come
Like us must earn their scars

They can still see the beggars in time
Can still hear the whispered goodbyes
The words that echo all mornings
As the giants come over at 9
See, Jonas has fled from his cell
The prison his maker, his tester decreed
Headed zeppelin blossom sky
Headed one night, like a thief

LIEBLING

It’s not all about my diplomacy
Your judgment or given free will
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
See it
His wife, her dog or me
Darling,
I beg of you
Be

It’s not all about a change in character
A change in the weather or Spree
Liebling, you’ve gotta
Leave it
Go there
Swim the canal and see
Darling,
I beg to be free

It’s not all about the sleepin’ barge
The cross or the coma or test
Liebling, forget me, resist
Let be
Or let me
Forgive all your best
Darling,
Be secrets kept

Darling,
I’m not a hotel
And neither are you, you’re a lodge
Very few people check in
Liebling, I need to check out
Take the express right now
Swim the canal at once
And rest, rest tonight

GYPSY BOY BLUE

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
The light put on again
Ain’t it so, Marlene
The light you’ll let conquer again
The one that’s always there
For gypsy boy blue, his tired approach
The only true lover you had
The only addiction to date
Gypsy boy blue
Comes precious tonight
But late, way too late

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Your eyelids all heavy with rain
Ain’t it so, Marlene
That „finding the middle ground” rain
The one you liked best
For gypsy boy blue, his vague romance
The only true lover you met
The only addiction you had
Gypsy boy blue
Comes naked tonight
But trial becomes his fate

Gypsy boy blue
Hooked to your giant red window
Oppressed with your sense of surprise
Ain’t it so, Paradise
That “losing the middle ground” plight
The one you made your mind with
For gypsy boy blue, so clearly exclaimed
The only invisible gift
The only true lover you had
One and only outside the game

DERELICT DWELLERS

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all quite the same, go, look...
Tryin’ to dance like swans
We’re always some worm on a hook...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to time
Yuppie conquerors move out
Derelict dwellers come by
Filling the walls with their lives
The leaves with colors of Spring
Church with the glory of Sky
Empty, you’d say, but look...
Now there’s really a God inside

Derelict dwellers come by
We’re all like a prayer, go, look...
No matter the written word
No matter the holy books...
Pay no attention to this
And pay no attention to ghost
There’s something behind this scene
So lean to the highest cost
Scratching the walls with a heart
The leaves with letters of death
Church with the glory of Breath
See how it’s, too, on a hook...
While the House of the Spirit denies

Love drives by a new razor
Love squats the Unholy Divide
As yuppie conquerors move out
And derelict dwellers come by

Love drives by any roadmap
Love squats the highway by noon
As midnight shines over the City
Its lovers fall onto the New

THE ARK

And it’s Shakespeare with a strap-on
And it’s Gracie on a Wing
Lurkin’ in the backyard of a Dream
Longin’ to be sacred
Way beyond belief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The blissed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

And it’s Bourbon with Baudelaire
And it’s Michael on the phone
Lurkin’ in the background of a scream
Longin’ to be wasted
A way to keep things brief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The missed

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

Come, it’s penniless and bitter
Come, three pennies ain’t enough
Lurkin’ in the shadows of your cough
Longin’ to be lonely
A way to get relief
Ark becomes a theater for the blessed
The best
The quick

Get on board or stay ashore, never to be conceived

BRECHT’S PROUD OF SIN

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
In the stars
In femme-fatales stare
He’s guilty of all their affairs
All suicidal men
Brecht’s bound to be guilty of air

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of pistols
Shot into midnight’s shock
He’s guilty of all little Mackies
All jargon and all pain
And he’s soon to be guilty of pen

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

Brecht’s bound to be guilty,
Proud of sin and bare
Of Lady’s eastern fan
Blurred into distance,
A butterfly splits in vain
Open hearts and dirty deeds
And he’s soon to be guilty of men

Soon we’ll be, too, proud of sin
All of us, relaxed
Within

UNTRUE

You speak to me untrue, speak to me... like She once did
Or else you might only pass by
This house or any other
I’ve happened to occupy
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll leave you alone with your pride...

You speak to me untrue; you memorized your lifetime well
Learned to pick a proper truth, a right-on-target phrase
Speak to me untrue, your memories all fake, I can tell
Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you homeless and bare...

Don’t try to fit my world; you’ll never do with who you are
You’ll never get there with chameleon skin
Lips very thin
Fake-colored eyes
They all mean to me farewell,
Aufwiedersehen for good
Without a tear, without a sigh...

Speak to me untrue,
And I’ll bury you just with my eyes

You speak to me untrue, speak to me...  as rhythm fits
Or else the cradle turns
Your crafted trickery burns
And I’ll go last till you’re done
I’ve always been One with the Sun
Speak to me untrue,
I carry no gun...

You choose the proper facts only
Forever, untrue, on the run

TWICE BORN GIPSY
(for Roky Erickson)

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always been here before
You’ve been a hope unturned
A stone never covered with moss
Your demons were slaughtered at night
Your gremlins forever do play
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely on the way
I’m with you – not only today...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
You’ve always seen it before
You’ve been a coat outworn
A shield for the enemy, bone
Your gremlins have pictures of beauty
You’ve given away those eyes
Blue and green, forever seen
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Livin’ twice the Dream
I’m with you – the Gipsy comes in...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Your circle’s forever unbroken
You’ve been the Saint Electric
The bargain and the token
Your sorrows have colors of heaven
Your words the beauty of skin
Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
Twicely will it spin
I’m with you – that’s all there will be...

Twice born Gipsy, don’t think twice
And sing a Song for me

SMALL TALK AT BUKOWSKA AND LIBELTA: A poet in Poznan. - Poetry Chapbook, 2012.

“Krabo”

They say moon is the same for everyone
Streets are hostile or friendly
Nothing depends on your luck
You exist cause you’re taught to be handy

And in such rhymes and meaninglessnesses
I watch my friends perceive the world
their family, spirit, room – they make
photographs of joyous faces
while watching weather reports
from the bottom of a supermarket cart
they produce the trash
they later consume
and shit in the evening
their next morning’s bourgeois breakfasts

That’s why I scream to the same old moon, or sing, or write
on tenement walls
“krabo”
the only word ‘cept “samo”
I find powerful enough
to describe this toilet
called life
on Earth

“Poznan After Midnight”

I’m an actor turned hobo – deceitfully fat on the wealth of the city – sending poems to outer space on train’s smoke rings at midnight, walking to the engine’s high pressure rhythm – that sounds just like bop, if I were educated enough to know it, though now I am, only weaker – I grew tired, tired of river bank lovers, ancient chimneys and tenement stench, weakened by the load of death I witness every day while passing side streets, rural paths and railroad lines, looking for a place, a trace, a lover – but I’m tired of river lovers – as I said before, I’m a hobo, drunkard murderer and a million worse things than that – I’m older than the streets as you know them, and though someone put a stop sign in front of this body, useless heap of autumn-smelling flesh, I go on, dirty container of blood that could save lives if it weren’t contaminated with truth – venomous drops of fish jaw mornings on coughed out sidewalks force my phlegm to form poems, if you call them that, with bits of this blood, the juice I call my own, which will take me to knife fights in the docks, for a woman, a friend, whatever, and everyone will die on such morning, everything will end, there will be no tombstones, mourners or ceremonies – tenement lights go down – just the lonesome whistle of the first, welcoming brightening docks miles away, or last, train, bidding the city adieu – with its wealth and beggars and traveling hobos like me, me – who’ll be far away from death scene, riding the lucky train, laughing hungry with the heavens, cause I’m thin, thin as newspapers soaking in the slaughter of an oyster morning and last black and white cigarette in Poznan after midnight.

“When the Dawn Got Drunk”

Why were you sleeping
when the dawn got drunk
on freezing vines of night
pouring through tenement fingers
stardust women
placing bets
on drooling horses
drawing attention to dust
of pistol wings
shooting over the city
alit & bare
suddenly sure it’s leaking
nightmares into the void
of cruel electric namesakes
shining on bars
leaving the proof
of existence
on ghastly store windows
mirrors to hooker faces
loser matchsticks
bum & writer’s apathy
used to snails of midnight
creeping
over their work
why were you dreaming
when the dawn got stoned

“Last Words of a Famous Sailor”

Write faster than Dylan. Thomas, of course. How fast? How fast? The young poet intents to grab the cloud, moon, a solitary smoker in the shadow of the sun, whatever, whoever. He will never succeed. It’s not a matter of pace. It’s not a matter of talent. Who is it talking? Does my head hurt so bad, or was it just a suburban katzenjammer for a well-fed burgeoning scumbag. I intend to vomit. On your desk, headmaster, preacher, politician, pig. I intend to piss. It was never my, or the young poet’s, intent to write. Do it faster. You’re inefficient. I tried to draw an elephant in my cupboard, rhinos in a field of sunflowers, smiling, bathing in the yellow nimbus of whatever ambient music was playing around. Who put the tape in my recorder? I wanted to make, not listen, and act, not think, but schools changed that. I was lucky. The young poet grabs a cup of coffee from my latest mistress and chokes on blood. Pretending survival. I incorporate a manta into my pot mandala and float with it to kill the whale. In its belly a solitary smoker pretends he’s on the street, trying to grab the young poet observing him from 2nd floor window. Everything is hopeless, but the contestant on a TV show said amoeba is a defunct sailor. Guess he was right, or was it the acid I had for breakfast, including young poet’s urge to write. Faster! Faster! We can almost smell the streets you were raised in this time, if you continue at this pace and amount of detail we’ll publish your book in golden laurel leaves all across the pages, and we’re talking gold, as in golden archways of heaven’s dome, but you’ve gotta use these words. Heaven. Dome. At the edge of infinite quarrel, my mistress yawns and polishes her mirror. I am crazy. So is the intent I had when younger, so is the intent I’ll have in my death bed. Vomit. Piss. Or even shit. Who? What does it matter?

“Beatnicks w/ Parachutes”

Rust
gives rivers
brand new names
dust
shelves people
and their stain
rivers
flow
w/ brand new friends
women
love their
ramblin’ men

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

Landing zone
& who’d predict
wonders
that the fool depicts
angry
art
was heaven sent
angel
screams
his compliments

Drinkin’ w/ the dawn out of lady fortune’s shoe
waiting for beatnicks w/ parachutes

“Bone Yoke”

Seeds were already there. Fishes were swimming round, in sterile bowls of solitude, like plastic christs on judgment day, falling from the seller’s leper box. One for a penny! You remember dogs chewing on chink bones, music boxes swinging moog versions of rock’n’roll standards, flowers incubating in tar. Correct the wavelength. You are obviously sleeping on a rag of tiger eyes, sewn together they watch the sunset. I remember winter. Is it of importance, what you remember? Jobless motors of progress wish they were nothings and zeroes, but it is them to play the heroes when cameras come around on Sunday. Virus fingers type the void word. It is one word. What do you carry – the clever martyrs were levitating a long time ago, and plastic christs aren’t the first totems to fall – fuel that’ll ignite the fire, of what you call an apocalypse, revelation… who could predict the outcome of such a meeting? You were painting your women, I was writing mine, somebody told me our spirits might rhyme – of course, I never wrote this song, though this chorus remained for a long time tucked in one of my notebooks, with an accompanying note saying “slaughter”, and a phone number. I’m not sure who slaughtered who, or what slaughter was discussed, or who went to what slaughter, it only reminded me of Indians, people of the Maya, Inca, all the space-thrown tribes of earthdawn. And I recalled their words of bone yoke. Bone. Yoke. What do you carry? I am a tribal portrait. Complete with wristwatch chains.

“The Young and the Hip”

The young and the hip give thanks
to bungalow hosts
party pigs
lipstick leather belts
vomiting dawn on the world
reaching out
for another bottle of whisky
give thanks
to the wind that shakes fragile bodies
exposed to sun and moon
writing in tribal riddles
dressing in contours of sleep
furious, young
emblazoned
setting sails on sundown
drifting with sunrise, hooray!
screams of birds impale us
pirates execute us
sing us songs
written back when
the world was fourteen
give thanks
to the idol totem
thin on the TV screen
high on milk and vegetable shakes
when we were drunk on beer
cheap intents
& guardians
give thanks
cause we were there
for them

“Cotton Railway Blues”

I thought of a ride this morning, I was muttering through Pisces horoscope, she was naked on the bed beside me – we had good sex and talked nice, I thought of a church choir accompanying these words, if they would rhyme, they’d be perfect gospel, and I thought of the laughing priest who’s done my exercise today, over an empty page, or with an arthouse camera, stunned by the ripple in death bearing heaven – I thought it was going to rain – and if I were a bluesman, I’ll surely sing today, these words could work well with harmonicas jiving, or a bop song, with crazy weird pianos banging on a drumground of coke – I thought of that and a French maid I’d take with me to the railway, we’d work on the Pasadena rhythm, I thought of her lashes, then of the trees in the garden – what garden, asked the priest, and in doubts his debts were paid, no longer he needed supporting the skies, falling in flame anyway, on the day I was picking cotton – black gold picking for white trash, there in the orange container, drawn away from my thoughts. At last. Now here’s the big moment, whole world wants to listen – trouble is, I’ve got nothing to say but rubbish, rubbish I found while drunk or rubbish I wrote on a freight train.

“Bukowska & Libelta (1)”

Negro rhythm? Indian rhythm?
what are they doing in Poznan?
Polish rhythm?
Dock the rhythm
with the barges
French? Spanish?
Mix the language
with the stone
trombones
of our forefathers
space mothers
chalk sisters
coal brothers
What frame? And which
genius painting
needs one?
it is spread around
a few quarters
here, on the door,
there, on the wall
it’s sprayed from Bukowska to Libelta
like small talk
in the pubs and bars
around
in everything we inhabit
we are lucky to have such artists
Art? Art brut? What art? Why
art – and question me no more
for I won’t paint again
until rebirth
maybe then I’ll dip the brush
in small talk, brave talk,
slave talk – iconic volumes
of cave talk
and I’ll try to conceive a new world
outside of the page
but now I’m younger
than mad talk
and I qualify for milkshakes
at Wanda’s – nothing really special about them
only sometimes old sailors come in
and let me drink whisky
in her, I hear the rhythms
and paper knows no limit, like sky or brain
it’s clear, except for cloudy voices
you best learn to ignore: this is small talk
tycoons of death
their hands already upon you
way back from the cradle

“Hep Chord”

First bass note, numb, falls above the landscape of cymbals, walls are erected at instant, of freshly painted faces in war colors – death colors – pain colors, fervently aware and improvised on the surface of moonlit stairs, circling down the theater, and the audience is ready to listen, poets are ready to write down the night, scent of burnt potatoes, Joe’s grandma cooks above, if they have any smell, that’s the smell of this ongoing black, the black on Michael’s lips, the untold tale he yet has to offer, on the altar of sleeplessness angel, vivid break in character, off goes the drum. Shy solos follow. Was it a trumpet? Was anything “sounding”, “pounding”, “pumping”, or “screaming” – are screams necessary now, when they’ve become weapons of the mainstream, once silent in ignorance, now shouting against the flowers – and I’m speaking of wildwood flowers, bare before the wolf’s teeth, and the wolf in Isabel’s song was a rapist, nothing more, for she needed to be fucked right away. We’re hanging, can’t you see that? Hanging from the cliff of compulsory shells, naked to the wonder of creation, waiting for sound, but the first bass note is hovering, hovering still, and nothing really happens except the shy presence of piano and gentle waves of a trumpet, fueled by the warmth of a Negro's hand – a rare sight to see here – I shook it backstage, later on, and asked “what the hell were you doing?” “Shit, man… was just waiting for the hep chord”.

"Love Lions of Paris" (Complete poetry chapbook, 2011).

LOVE LIONS OF PARIS (KSE #197) is the 13th poetry chapbook that Poznan, Poland-based poet/musician/songwriter A. J. Kaufmann  has done for Kendra Steiner Editions.
That is because Kaufmann perfectly exemplifies the KSE aesthetic: he is rooted in Beat poetry and psychedelia, he knows the important avant-garde traditions of the last 150 years, he reflects the particulars of his culture/region (and also such important areas for him such as Berlin and Paris), and he takes those elements and creates 100% original work from them, work that apes no one else’s work and that has a form and a feel all his own. Yes, his work can be surreal; it can have the post-Rimbaud rock’n'roll decadence of a Leonard Cohen or a Syd Barrett or a Jim Morrison; it can have a psychedelic spiritual exuberance in the tradition of Roky Erickson/Tommy Hall or of Sky Sunlight Saxon. But it’s always 100 % A. J. Kaufmann.  Having worked with the man on three collaborative chapbooks, and a fourth chapbook that was a joint work but one where we both worked from similar prompts,  I can testify to his amazing imagination, his devotion to craft, and his dedicated work ethic, even while living a lifestyle that would kill or sideline a lesser man.

A. J. has been working primarily on his music for the last 18 months, finishing one album and now working on a second, but we are fortunate that he took time out from his recording/songwriting work to produce the poems in LOVE LIONS OF PARIS. A. J. is a European Citizen of the World, and to such a man Paris and Berlin have a magical presence, perhaps the way cities such as New York or New Orleans or San Francisco or Memphis might to an American such as myself, and Kaufmann has spent extended periods in each city, living the poet’s life, with guitar and notebook in hand. Those cities continue to live on in him, even though he is back in his native Poland, and they animate and inhabit LOVE LIONS OF PARIS. Kaufmann himself explains the genesis of this work:

“Love Lions” was written in Paris especially for KSE and it’s got a strong music connection. One summer evening I was sitting and smoking in a cheap hotel room, thinking about glam rock, space-age poets and lost loves, listening to Marc Bolan and Tyrannosaurus Rex, sketching dragons in my notebook… an hour or two later I realized I’ve sketched something more reminiscent of a lion and I wrote down the line “I kiss / Drifting love lions / With a golden smile” which later, upon my return to Poznan, became the first line of the title poem. Most of the other poems were composed while humming imaginary words with a grungy guitar accompaniment, but the melodies have since been lost as we had no recording equipment, not even a laptop, in my room. Some of my friends think I used cut-up techniques to develop these poems or “lyrics”, but truth is I definitely stopped doing cut-ups last year. “Love Lions” is, in my opinion, a glam-rock version of “Siva in Rags”, with dusty beauty gone all shiny and chromed, with once dried blood now boiling to the sound of “All the Young Dudes”.

As always, it’s an exciting and fresh and dazzling poetic trip from one of the few 100% original voices on the scene today.

“Love Lions”

I kiss
Drifting love lions
With a golden smile

I blow
Ashen poppies
Crying clear and grown

I weave
A smoky song
Starving in the vacant night

I dusk
The crawling earth
Sing with the moon fools

I trip
Thru moorland stars
Immortal wild years

I watch
Blue darkness remain
Toying the fire hearted day

I sting
The noiseless clay sky
Love lions lay at my feet

“Vine and Starlight BAND”

My shell, my moon, my wonder
Gorgeous and white
Harsh torn fruit and time
You’re waves of bitter love
Waiting for the night
Letting me smile

You’re blind alone, my love is warm
I’m stepping down real slow
Hanging on your rocks
Clinking, darkening, gone
You’re full of stars and swans
You’re the bravest dawn

Glittering bodies squat my void
With night’s electric smoke
Fear and steps of a shapeless tramp
Sporting vine and starlight band
Discovering snow in his bed
My kisses on his hands

With the quiet tissues of wind
Statues of sand and the model sea
He owes it to the track, I guess
He’s never looking back
But he’s still an angry dove-child to me
I love him infinitely

“Dead Black Everything”

Where’s the night
The hollow crickets
Young thoughts wallow in the mist
Low souls still and weak
The free men
Monstrous flowers weep

Sudden knowing
Splashing glorious
On unchanging earth and foam
Master's milk that fills my cup
Nests the moon
And cloaks the sword

Broken chimed eternal one
You’re silver bees and opium years
You in ripened woods of chrome
You’re satin bells that weep the sea

Prince of hearts, the emerald warrior
Worth the mountain and the sky
Quiet moonlight, gone and trembling
Overtakes the evil dice

Gift to soft mad girls, a promise
Deep Arabian trumpet snake
Dead black everything, he cometh
Dusty heatwave cleanly served

“IRON SMOOTHED TRASH”

Your screaming heart’s just
Breaking glass in my room
There I dance, the screen and rope
Lamps and rain world view
Black I bay, I’m heavy birds
Captured in your tar
Silver slow, I rot and rot
Try a lonely star

Meet me under streetlamps
Happy packed down face
Ache and hate, I’m a million years late
Failed, in failure great
Smelling something climbing
What my body gained
Lovely one, the saw of death
Roughly I remain

Free line forms the stars
Body blazing lights
Stop the watch, recognize your foes
Become a glassy whole
Thru cigarettes and bareness
Driftwood, powder, ash
Windblown in pain’s moment
Iron smoothed trash

“Hippie Dream”

My face is dead, it’s a wasted whore
An eyeless cloud of futile blood
I crushed my name and restrained my soul
Drowned the prophet in me in a coffee cup
Was so easy to grow, even easier to fall
With a terrible shriek of ecstasy
Now I cough out fear and agony
And I miss the days of a naive hippie dream

I watched satellites and I cried for sun
On a storm night long like Sonya’s drink
I was stripped and wild on a punk rock stage
Was a cage of ruthless apathy
I was prisoner to murder, servant to lie
Obsessed with possessions, tortured with dusk
Trashing my mind in the endless flow
Of comfortable chairs crushing hippie souls

Bloody fireflies of death and forsakenness
Ate my soul alive, fled the earth when it crashed
I guess a little bit of friendship will do for now
I try to be your lover but I’m your favorite cash cow
You’re a theater girl, I’ve your words recalled
You gotta be perverse, if you wanna make it work
Take a long deep breath, it’s your chance to scream
It won’t happen twice in the hippie dream

“SEPTEMBER”

Death is a friendly bridge
Leave, everything’s ceased
Mingled with wine and loveless
September page and lazy windowpanes

Seas are crowded with pain
Soft as flashing waves
There’s nowhere I need to walk
The firmament is red
Everything slips beside me
All the men I love
Withered feelings laugh
I’m making the final step

To awake so strange, so suddenly
On a funeral long ago
The sky moans what have you done
For those already gone
To be alone on sand, so low
Aimless, whispered thru
Quiet, deep and done
On an island, watching you

Idiotic ships and paper clips
Crumbs of pirate bread
Endless was the day that cut me
When I awoke all dead

“MADHOUSE VISION”

Sneer vision dark
Snow these phrases
It’s a cabaret
Lions roared against the straight
Whatever I meant by that

Drinking god’s wine
Why you’re shouting
Hopeless case, you must be blind
Veins of Greyhounds
Take you nowhere
The unspeakable surprise

Catalogued or left alone
There’s the gleam I long to see
Perfect white in my heart
Merchant crystals on my lips
Shoes walk coke
And body spits

I am vast immortal steam
Age long deserts in your head
I’m still thinking of the red lawn
Yellow globes that drive me mad
I’m still painting lonely airports
Dripping shark sparks, wounded gray
Killing diet swollen cushions
In the madhouse where I play

“PAIN ROAD”

I’m on the pain road again
We go to the point, you and I
Just jagged wheels full of mud
Shattering the sun

I’ll give you this new-made ring
Try love a poor, ragged clown
The liquid beauty of sticky city
Could now be yours, divine

My bed cries on and on
Catch the wink, cause that’s the strip
Across the slow felt disgust
Against our sky dragged wheels

Against the dim and the waiting
Cold sank sun, cruel light
We’re holding hands and licking wounds
Trembling, whispering good night

Sea, the night flesh
Iron dew
Rain – a thought
No more

Face, dress
Thigh, silk
Tide, moon – a word

“NOISE OF DRIFT”

I retire to the black, to the great out
To the seas
Clear me out and beautify my dreams
Sun me up, I’m kissing death
The epitaph of words
Black the wave and thundering
Pagan drums below

Back beside the poetry fire
Single candle flame
Dark glass veils the angry face
Heavens yawn again
Hours pass, I feed myself
Indigo agony
Pass the cup, I’m racing death
Vibrant infamy

Torture stretched your pretty soul
Smelling sky, the low, the bare
Heart drained word, it’s laughing cold
Leaving black sparks everywhere

We drift in noise
Young and ice
These are our favorite hours
Dream crowds breeze
The strange visage
Anonymous rooms and plastic flowers

“VIOLENT GARDENS (PARIS)”

Immortal shadow drops from a common floor
A certain sweet taste hovering
I’m before romance now, dry gardens glow
Spreading tentacles of minor purity
Over bearded cannons like you and me

That’s her blood, moonlight alive
Paganini undone, just a horror face
That’s her dream, little eloquent bitch
Getting her kicks where bearded cannons play
It burns my life, madam, but I’m willing to stay

The town clock cracked, it’s forever webbed
In the prison wind, with the diamond fools
Violent gardens, can you finally take me there
Far from confidential eastern quietude
Where a fat French dragon
Is devouring my solitude

My heart is formless bones now
Wax lights strangling pain
Let me fade to crystal years
Warped unlike my fate
Candles, friends and wings
Kisses, tears and larks
Warm ominous void
Of Parisian eerie thighs

"Via Alighieri" (complete chapbook / poem, 2009).

I was sitting on this European 1950s bed
composite
sick little girl
who wanted
everything, hurt
to occur
everyone, hurt
to be there
dancing with cormorants
seagulls
running with wild rabbits
listening to the stars…

I wanted a radar
for everything hurt
the hair, the eyes,
the throat, the ears
industrial silence
and star empty music
hurt, too


…I was sitting on this European 1950s bed
wondering if I should use blue for the walls
green for the ceiling
knowing nothing about
ceramics
needing those other people
people I’ve loved,
like a wall…
intended to go only down
running up for the difference
learning to love
readjusting to
civilization
a lucky machine
transparent fish
steam & silos
thinking about those ceramics
I knew nothing of
people I’ve loved
like a wall

collapsing factory grounds
judgment
cohesion

always tired
I hurt
selling the things
keeping nothing
but worn out shoes to run
hair to hurt at dawn
eyes to scratch out
wide open, at night
readjust to the desert, between
dance with the early stars
the cormorants, seagulls
hunt wild rabbits
learning to love… again?...
ships anonymous
the sea, the land
circles of plague
pandemic waves of fog
flags caveat
no one aboard
music of the all-white
majestically docking
ships
stared at through bedroom eyes
anonymous, hurting
with one prerogative only
wharf, helm, the sea,
the land

…I was sitting on this European 1950s bed
moving on quicksand
sinking
disturbed
in terrible shock
afraid of streets, factories
colors, people
afraid of sound,
of rocks like flesh
even of walls, anonymous
ships
sirens on shingle, now look –
that quicksand took me away
faster than cormorants did
flags weaved still on hurried fog
sheltering our modest cabin
vomiting
the little black egg of wisdom
we took by mistake
while she was the sea –
we, merely pale
curious
ornaments…

fragile to changes and return,
we all are alike, a wall
of friends
handicap family
of things and stars and beaches
an endless brick graffiti
returning, returning to changes
learning to love
to forget… to abandon

…the rocks looked like flesh
the beach was completely deserted
but for one sick girl, who wanted everything
all of a sudden, a voice
near, far from the sea, then from the sea
circling around, no, not a voice - a coma of voices
plague galore
universe in a shell, beautiful…
…and everybody was singing
I carried no suitcase
no photographs
I was out there with the cannibals
just sink… sell the things
let the waves overwhelm you
I was there with the cannibals
I did not care for much besides
a pair of shoes
and cigarettes
also, the business

I wanted a machine
a moving bed, not on quicksand
all by itself, by the wall
taking me to prominent bedrooms
away from the vast hospital hall
by my will only,
not by quicksand
or cormorants’ wing
alone

industrial units close
poisonous vapors hit the winter sky
high chimneys, machine guns
to the little birds
awake in sludge of the freezing sea
aware and tortured
punctuated by chemical
arrows
transparent fishes die, cook
wild rabbits
white noise follows
those birds impaled on red pump sun
as cruel dawns crawl slowly by
to sleep by the sick girl’s side
on this European 1950s bed

I think I’ll paint the walls all green
the ceiling blue
so I’ve got an illusion of sky
every time you’re away
on business
an illusion of fields
while you’re walking
on the flesh of rocks
singing with everyone, aborted
above deserted sands

her worn out shoes marked
beauty
sliding down
always about to drown
a flag on fog, her moving bed
the quicksand dream
terrible shock of birth
people she loved, like a wall
ships anonymous
cormorants, seagulls, wild rabbits
silos, steam,
industrial units…

relax, the sea won’t reach you
with its anemic slum fingers
the city takes care of its prey
magic sleeps on deserted beaches
the girl’s still swimming
naked
irrelevant
free
orphan night in splendid isolation
finally sinks the bed
allows you
to copulate
with factory void
quarantine flags
all-white ships
gigantic
all in the skin
of a friend
pleasant radios
star music fantastic
deeper and deeper
in quicksand vortex
cannibals sing with the sea,
the land, wild rabbits
cormorants laugh
of sacred
return

and as far as I’m concerned,
I, the voice of the beach, everyone singing
we should all open a ceramics shop
at Via Alighieri
and learn to love:
abandon everything.

2009-06-22 - Antiquewhite Rain (Complete chapbook).

Now that he’s back in Poland, re-emerged from the underground, and returned from his travels in Germany, France, and Morocco,   A. J. Kaufmann has been on fire. We at KSE want to do our part to capture and document this poetic energy-burst, so we’re proud to present, outside the regular release schedule, the 45th entry in the Sound Library Series, ANTIQUEWHITE RAIN (KSE #139), inspired by German rocker Inga Rumpf’s 1975 album Second-Hand Mädchen (Inga Rumpf may be best-known to Americans as vocalist-guitarist with the early 70′s band Frumpy).
10 new poems. Nightmarish German Ages collide with primal rhythms while a sharp-toothed Antiquewhite second-hand Berlin mädchen plays with her Kiwi eyelids, summer passes, the jokers wait outside, and we all continue the search for Ray Charles’ America.
ANTIQUEWHITE RAIN by A. J. Kaufmann…it’s exactly what you think it is, except higher proof and higher velocity.
(Bill Shute, Kendra Steiner Editions, 2009)

Deepen the distance

storming culpable American bars & cafes
bride & curse of midnight boogie guitars
singing out life in whispered lo-fi spasms
highways of ready-made boys in her scarf
stage imminent angel-hawker
in silken runaround alphabet hands
waves of deafening staccato
loser/poet eulogies
sleeping long in the wintertime, under her hat
longer in the summer, even, in her umbrella
butterflies do this, she said – they also cry out, habitually
when they write my new set of lyrics
often when the burgundy lightbulbs dim
all unimportant lights exit stage
& songs projected on ego screens
manner & deepen the distance we shared
you lowdown poky apostle

German ages

phone booth hands calling the wolves at sunset
musician beggars stumbling melted
proud electric ghosts of their movement
puzzle boxes & honey angels stuffed inside together
breathing in the insane olden room
glass top coffin gold-flakes
cracked antique cuckoo clocks
tropical underground rivers covering champagne deserts
mints, Zippos, dehypnotized drag queens
U-bahn tickets & cardboard saviors
snakeskin jackets, crocodile shoes
invaluable relics of all German ages

Chicks left home

typewriter’s white meat
I’m black
chicks left home
boring death plateau
to watch some Fellini
wax-tax faces
Summer snow
banging cracked pianos
all nite long
in pure
vaginal
monopoly

Thingless (Antiquewhite rain)

mirror of moon
who are you when thingless...
a poor sharp-teethed Berlin girl
stark red whisky
hole-in-the-sky bone cold motel
some kind of von Stuck
anorectic Dietrich incarnation
le "Milord"
four bare walls of redemption
blunt ventilated horizon
carousel madness unveiled
Hashishin's journey come-true
G-d’s secret bookstore
footsteps on fog
coats on invisible hooks
warm Americana sound
or antiquewhite rain

Mallorca

still hanging round those one-minute beatniks
making love for an hour or so
blowing their out of tune saxes
feeding you random lines on affection
dreaming of perfect confusion
where skins & woods birds dive
sketching your ideal graffiti on water
expensive hot Spaniards
serving rare breakfasts
in the last year’s 50 mark sun
African paintings sleep
baby oceans breathe
swarming china poems
in white beach sands
under the second hand surface

Longest cigarette ever

smog black tangerine ghosts
fashion her European breast
play with kiwi eyelids
redhead moons
corridor voices smooth talk
entered moonshine apartment
jokers waited outside
creeping up gelatin cobwebs
audience broke all the ice
accustomed to rotten blues
bored artistically speaking
spitting out pieces of lungs
waiting the longest
cigarette
ever

Every heart a house in your city

one-way burning windows
trapped in laces of gold
time flying secretly by
bopping up and down
Cage wake fingers play
outlaw numbers shown
drunken above as below
fate in curtains
thieves of fortune
liberty natures
silent pianos
nightingales caliber
lyre fools
worms
kraut wine
& divas:
every heart a house in your city

Second hand girl

kneeling my latest human beauty
they sketch the Wherein
from pencil  soul
resurrection’s light
blessing her
where lilies wander
prayer kiss stands
ancient vision
jasmine virgin
Madonna face in a bar-sale mirror
where the breaking meets divine
my lovely
second  hand girl

Draw palms

remembering SF scene
John Wayne films
Johnny Cash songs
X-Ray cowboys
American postcards
rock’n’roll drummers
gather in the murky green toilet
of Hotel California
a hotel which quietly
stereo-types life
draws palms in your younger eyes
paints dusk in your younger hair
& then we can dance to Ray Charles’
America
wonderful
hurt

One rhythm

the way of rock’n’roll
is such a boring one
decadent tones crashing used cars
rust proceeds to form rainbows
incessant eyes never close
we’re watching over
cold zones of world
hot zones of world
there ain’t no choice
we’re golden
notes transposed from G-d
in self-made tools
of chaotic
despair

Signs

speaking of signs
she found a warm room
dug in
made dinner
moved her rusted arm
kissed the crystal
sugar cube
floor
took off my hat
filmed the humor
of outside worlds
phoned mother
sketched Alexander the Great
found a smoke signal
highway
repainted her VW pink
made green tea
opened up all windows
let in
the American
cool
spoke to her favorite rivers
played cut-up
with night
over a simple 4/4
rhythm
thought of inertia
sadness of leaves
Summer passing
unborn children
while I walked around the room
tempted
by the sun

Forbidden games

a nameless little girl selling roses “Under the Angel”
drunk on Cassandra
reminds of Berlin
streets of no importance
slum city jungles
fields of death
prostitute fingers
vacant airports
secret airplanes
winding lanterns
cannibal dogs
Mayan hearses

she moves on into corroding weathers
letting her roses
dance with the candles of dawn
leaving me at my table
writing a song for Betty
the one I can’t finish
for seven years now

waiter brings ’54
Californian
wine

I wait for my favorite whore
while dawn naked travelers
proceed to burn their belongings
sing anthems of freedom
lynch G-d
playing
forbidden
games

Forget the whole

It’s not your time
not your alley
not the night
made of ice
it’s not the husband
not the chair
not the day
out of plastic
melting faces increase
take your pills
not your confusion
forget the whole

Peripheral children

children wake up too
it’s unbelievably hot
city cracks open
we’re singing songs
lulling us back to sleep
airy weeds
creep up little noses
can’t breathe
burning squares & steppes
children wake up
to the peripheral trauma
of birth
old man sits on my stairs
every day
is born out of
his
perfect
desolation

"SYMBOLISME PSYCHEDELIQUE" originally published by KSE, 2009/08/16.

One of two paired chapbooks for August 2009, both dedicated to the late SKY SUNLIGHT SAXON, this eight-poem, eight-page suite of poems is Volume 47 in KSE’s “Sound Library Series,” inspired by the incredible “symbolisme psychedelique” sound library album from early 70s France by Gerardo Iacoucci, a combination psychedelic-lounge-electronic series of film-score cues that is legendary among library music collectors/beatheads. I sent AJ a copy of this album in the spring of 2009, during a period when we were both also listening a lot to the further-out 70s/80s music of Sky Sunlight Saxon and Ya Ho Wha, so with Sky’s visions of “Universal Stars” in his mind, and fueled by the SYMBOLISME album, A. J. produced a work that, like an abstract painting made up of recognizable pieces, is both familiar and disquieting, and which can be re-constructed by the reader in a number of different ways. Using a shorter line than in his previous KSE chapbooks, and using lines that can be connected with their neighboring lines in multiple ways, all of which make “sense,” A. J. is taking his poetry to a new and more profound level…the only comparisons I can make are to the poetry of Piero Heliczer, some of Jack Spicer, or the visionary private writings of John Wieners that have come out after JW’s death, but of course AJK has created his own poetic aesthetic independent of any outside influences. Each poem contains a series of whirlpools and spirals of poetic lines/phrases that reminds me of taking the back off a pocket watch and studying the different wheels and springs and balances spinning and connecting and stopping and starting. Imagine being inside that watch, lurching forward and pulling back, through a series of funhouse mirrors containing alternating blurry and overly-sharp images of hairy hands, muddy sheets, echoes of rust, London stones, intimate sails, and side-table whispers. Shoot a monkey, grab a place to stand at the Taint Funeral, and score a copy of SYMBOLISME PSYCHEDELIQUE as soon as you can.
(Bill Shute, Kendra Steiner Editions).

TAINT  FUNERAL

Taint funeral
long passengers tasting their smoke
other hand birds
follow September districts
commentators
gaze
at panic stuffed rooms
shoot the monkey
the breath and crown
relative answers
fog blaze stairs
coconut church-bells
port of slunk days
bullets in bargain
turn attention to cottage reporters
sat to music
time tools past
up loudly
taint funeral
undiscovered eyelids
innocent-minded
pistols

UNTIL  THE  BLACK  SEAS

We heard murder
whispering wig roads
soliloquy
chill curiosity
another dead man
numbers swell
village hell
to be found in the crowds
stepping up to the empty
garden jeweler
sitting my stream
speaks in fire
guttering candles
roar
weeping glass
bleak business
the open town
a dozen loose-heels nights
back to the first voyage
holiday
tobacco
until the black seas

RARE  LUNCH

A story beyond rehearsal
outshone the blood-stains
thoughts blowing
slices of fact
caught broken

a heavy kick
pushing and pulling the world
foreign faces
jury of scarecrows
passed defense

heathens laughing
ragged hole in moments
grab your flutes
lifted dreams
sound of restaurants

the rare lunch awake
makes the night laugh

A  MATTER

Performers wore black
quietly turned clerks
side-table whispers
shook
drawing
people of broken light
Latin women – the opposite
army
singing for soldiers
in verse

hairy hands return to the morning
avert
crash dawn
drinking-bars
hollow, much passed

the sky whistled of a garden
murderer serpent
Saturday night
live longer, empty
just what is enough
memories screamed:
a matter!

BOOK  CITY

my first given time
hurried
stolen
try comfort
scared
considering against
book city
in love w/
book city
assent terrible soil
down step
alone
back to your shelf
the curious
moorland
of mind
sit beyond hope
book city
coupons
processions
a different angle
sit on your shelf
book city

NIGHT  MINUTES

Sentimental turned undecided
lodging sharply places
we path emotion
flower of chance
whitewashed hurry
far morning pallor

wear your cuts
sip money
thought and a bottle
round to the swollen god
question speaks for itself

leant behind
the kitchenette
wild sun
invalid ground
out of taken windows

puffing the token, crying
illness sinking him
living, knocked to her depths
lying night minutes
aware

ECHOES  OF  RUST  &  OF  ASH

red color hanging
rust & ash
calling their screams
learn in the street
loom on their smile
like a leaf
dread awake
crash face
instant
sky flute pass cold
hated minutes
come
in desperate doors
search silent
carnations
coughing roads
pavements
crazy
muddy sheets
night-tale cathedrals
echoes of rust
echoes of ash
taste into their cold
red color hanging
again

STALE

Damn your hearse
hear the chimneys
branches awake
sour tears of night

a funeral,
drum comfort
soundtrack for murderer’s
path

repeating after the devil
dropped beyond
the working class conscience
fallen chances
burn ears

London stones
intimate sails
sheets living
burning towards the flag
weaving at memory

known empty
shivered, rising
known stale

The "lost" untitled manuscript, circa July-August 2008.

Like china

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