5 Surreal Poems, 2024/11/26.

***

try compromise with the dealer of time - cliche
captures of a camera
joint perspectives of the city
where is the youth of this vault
where is the vault
in this yawn
and yeah, have you tried religion?
there are endless possibilities of Christ
only he didn't exist
when Earth rotated its first turn
and the sun was the boiler of some pre-white demon
circling alcoholic pastures
perhaps you should quit verse
as the dawn rises into yawns of the girl in your chair
she used to fly for Saudia
you used to roam the endless moor of the moon
but stories of youth are done
the vault is empty
and her yawn is nowhere to be found
in the climax of an
anthill

***

hey, I still find some good stuff on vinyl
I search for stuff your regular customer
wouldn't touch - receive the gift
from an alternate Alpenreality
where zithers blow with the flowers of the mountains
and old men tanz der Polka
Polka is also a Polish girl, quite plainly
I search for her where your regular lover
wouldn't go - receive the gift
from an alternate Alpenreality
where she wears a wooly sweater in yellow, reads only
German poets, and sleeps with the sheep and cows
thinking to myself
she must be Goloka
there's nothing to sell, nothing to trade, and
nothing to lose
where the final highest planet calls
in the form of a Polka, in the old men's eyes
in barbarian leaps of lotus
this must be it
this is the door
now cross it eternally through dawn
and bleib alien with Roky

***

the last cigarette - the last sip of wine
the first kiss from your drooling pillow
the last to remain
the first in the quietude of art
there, splash the canvas with twilight, try something
nobody can copy
copy something
nobody can have
steal from Picasso, he was never an asshole
there's an endless watercolor waiting
for your lady's skirt
dip sun in moon
make sunlight your crayon
be a kid
kid no-one
no-one can measure your
spirit

***

is there a way to pose with death, but act cool
when chess is not the option,
where lights are omnipresent
where the viaduct ends with rusted trains
scattered like birds over the ocean
and the viaduct over the ocean
acts cool when approaching
what we consider death, so is there a way to pose
with the angels, but act cool
when symmetry is only Blake's invention,
where high rise is your only friend
grey fades blank into
mirrors of passing trucks
carrying milk to the Soviet Union
is there music in the cabin
is there void
after void
after word
and whose word was first
was it the blind bluesman's howl, or was it the lemon squeezing lady
of the full blown latin highway
nowhere near USSR
nowhere near Europe.

***

pawns send love
pawn cocktails and muzak
heart of the lemming
sing of something old - bathe in the reverb of your room
natural stink of the folklore
working class zero
there seems to be a road
there seems to be some wine left in the cellar
after the concert where tall guys spread LSD among the crowds
pawns send care
in whispers of the mourning
it used to be sunny
but now it's drench and stink, and strumming madman
high on the promise of a record deal
we'd do anything for acceptance
hey, don't frown
there are people who send love regardless
try them and boil the rest with the muzak

___________________________________________________________________________________

Words by A.J. Kaufmann, 2024.
Photo by Hugo Marcel, 2024.

"Solar Angel Kisses" - selected song lyrics 2019.

Hotel City

In here the days float on like wine
In Hotel City we've got the time
In different scenes the ages roam
On cosmic vibes we twist the foam

The sacred goal is out of reach
So on and on the children teach
The preachers preach and reachers reach
We're all the colors of the peach

There's chicks galore
On the cutting room floor
And tides and sparks on cores
There's chicks galore
On the cutting room floor
And tides and sparks on cores

I guess that time does pass inside
On Alexandra's U-bahn ride
And someone smokes a big cigar
So lazy...
The streets of dirt
Where thinkers think
And drifters drift and alleys blink
So hazy...

Hotel City queue
What else is there to do?

Trieste Chicks

In the open door she's standing
She's reading olden books
She knows all the sisters here
In the Brooklyn neighborhood
But all I really want today
Is a trace of Trieste chicks
The taste of green grass growing
Is the one thing I really dig

Time is of no meaning
In this cosmic realm
Streets are glowing lightly
Like Sandoz in the Rain
And dawn is never fading
Madness trips the dusk
Sun is acid eagles
Circling earthly dust

Darker moons are rising
Strings draw underwater
Sisters of pure joy
Cosmic kissing daughters

Storm clouds over snow moonlight
Melted like sunrise
Floating over fresh ice
Streets deny the 9th mile

Solar Angel Kisses

Twice I walked the London town
Once on fools to taxi rounds
Rock'n'roll the bitter cure
I never cared for pictures' fuel
Time was drifting on my strings
Vibing continental pings
For my lady bright and fair
Blow so sweet oh winter air

Blowing like the final horn
Waiting for the Mayan corn

Twice I bathed in the breeze
Of my woman's bronze lit lips
I never cared for earthly things
Look out what your aura brings
Someone put me on a cab
Said there's danger straight ahead
I was thinking upside down
Solar angel's growing crowns

Glowing like the final chord
Waiting for the final word

Tribal worlds collide within
Atmospheres so far from sin
There I feel a bird in time
Floating, glowing all around

Solar angel, here I come
Message reached your earthly throne

Alptraum

New eyes shine on the prophet highway
New arms hug the American freeway
Roses bloom when you move your lips, girl
Tires shriek when you drive your car, man

Talking to nobody cause nobody hears me
Loving only love cause only love can free me

New dawn rises on the heavenly body
New stars shine on the drifting horizon
Silent steps on the stairs to wisdom
God creates what we call pure freedom

Music is pure key, notes so young and free
Soaring clouds so steep
Sailing oceans deep

Where are you brother sweet of Alptraum
Who am I, sailor strange of seasons

Kings and Queens of the Road

Life is better with a friend
If she has your soul and hands
If she has your eyes and lips
Heaven waits on seven trips
We have music, we have wine
We have everything sublime

We are kings and queens of the road
We don't care about the mold

Love is better when it's quiet
Time floats better with your talent
So we draw and so we write
We are angels, we are knights

We are kings and queens of the road
We don't care about the mold

Death is sweeter in a garden
Of Arabic female wardens
What's subconscious stays this way
This is all I've got to say

Pyramind

I walk the walk
I talk the talk
Inside I feel so happy
The city opens
Like a neon fist
I write it on my napkin

I don't know what's happening
To the streets I knew so well
Seems like all my friends
Are going through hell

Drone sounds erupting in the distance
King's clowns sweetening my existence
Good vibe carry the night away
Just when I thought it would stay

I don't know what's happening
To the streets I knew so well
Seems like all my friends
Are going through hell
Through hell

Echoes of a future past
Echoes of a past future
Feeling like a warrior
Outshined and so futile
Ain't no reason for me to just stay inside this dream
I'll be leaving soon to catch my favorite movie scene

Seven angels sigh
Crystals in the sky
Bowls of passing tears
In halcyon years
Future calls the man
Here among the damned
Death waves high its flag
Life reduced to red

Sometime World

Sometime world
Don't bother me
What realistic people see
Was something treated seriously

I thought of you in many dawns
And moods and colors
I spoke to you of many roads
And errors

Your constellation brought me down
On UFOs and crazy sounds
I often dreamed Atlantis tales
When green skies broke
And sound walls fell

We never spoke of why
Because or future
Perhaps the tracks we took
Will lead us further

I sometimes thought
Of olden times
And ashen lakes
On crystal pikes

Time and Miracle

When rushed I ran
And neutrons boiled
I stood barefoot on foreign soil
Canaan was far in sight and smell
But Gypsies told their stories well

Space the endless corridor
Love and life the only cycle
Soft eyes the only answer
Good will the only sparkle

And cards told hell
Some tales of gore
The queen sang tales
From mouths of sore
She whispered I am of no use
In houses yellow
Of living blues

There's nothing on Earth worth saving
Unless it's time and miracle
Until it's time and miracle

So if time remembers
An Autumn word
I would gladly trade it
For a Cup of Swords
I never win and I never lose
There's a trace of jazz inside my shoes

Golden Rendezvous

Lipstick on the pyramid
Shadows on the Louvre
Tires on the sidewalk track
Bitter fallen youth
Working for the other firm
Feeling insecure
Hope they're gonna cure my heart
With another you

Endless replays fall in love
Searching for the butterfly
Crazy games for crippled children
Take their lessons far

Energy enough for you
Super trooper star
Lebensraum was not enough
Something seems alright
But spiders always crawl
Amnesia is way healthier
Correction sucks in the door
Proves my heart is wealthier

Starslide shine day
Door day May day
Joyce choice starfall
Night breeze snow call

Evidence of breakdance
80s velocity
Dancers and romancers
Tell me what a pity

Pawns and Clowns

I guess I got lost in the streets today
And the pawns on the sidewalk had something to say
I tried to speak louder, I tried to be quiet
But silence was drowned and somebody said
Oh my god, what a clown
And tears kept on falling
From a cloud in the sky
While a pure solar lady
Whispered „never say die”

I think time forgot me
And so did the folks
But pale rural landscapes
Edited my words
And love was the weapon
And life was the bomb
For doers of good
And shadows of wrong

Atlantean

There's only one Atlantis
Pure oceanfall
And lovers meet there glowing
Where water meets the cold
I miss the tales of glory
Told by sages sweet
Who live beneath the waves
And call our heaven streets

Underwater love is true
And words are sweet
Underwater love is true
And words are sweet

Where beauty has no model
Except eyes icy green
That strike the silver fiddle
For Neptune's sunken dream
I miss your heart of wisdom
Weaved of pink sweets
That stream new songs of beauty
For old Atlantean streets

Kings of ashen times
Never will return
But tales of golden days
In poet's blood will burn

I sink beneath the waves
Reborn from earthly woe
I sing for mermaids young
Who grace my life with song

I am a stellar body
And so are you my child
You dive beneath the glaze
Of an orange deathless sky

Neptune

Practice what you preach
Colors of a peach
Simply driven lines
Sentences of crime
Supermen are dead
Souvenirs of bread
Hippie times long gone
Messages hit home

Vaults of father time
Isles of flesh sublime
There is nothing new
In the book of you
So rewrite your part
Try another start
Darling what's to do
Waves will swallow truth

The Day is On

Some people travel
Lightly on leaves
Greek sculptures draw their fire
As they sleep
And thank you for the sorrow and the pain
The satisfaction
Journeys will remain

Trash the door
Kick the camel floor
Light is fine and the devil screams for more
Will you believe when
I remain a man
You're hotter than a bullet in a tin can

Once I believed somebody took the drain
Until I met the story and the pain
We will remain

Book on book
Like tides have always flown
And I am blown
Like my shirt that's torn
Where people never die
And are never born
Seven circles around
Seven streets from home
Alright, the day is on

Walking Clouds

Clouds on the horizon
Tears slowly arising
Life passing you by
Love as wide as the sky
Walking clouds...

Storms circle the bright eye
Dawn repairs what was done by
Death and thorns on the altar
Stealing from gods
Walking clouds...

Seems like nobody is watching
Solar angels approaching
Vril ships of India, errors of time
Walking clouds...

Argonauts and astronauts
Ships confused and people lost
Art of skies and lullabies
I'm eleven again... crying shame

Walk beside me not with me
Try and set my spirit free
That's the door to fantasy
And doves... ancient love

Best Bargain in Town

The day won't stop, it's tired now
The sun is blinking upside down
He studies life and keeps his head
Above the level of her bed
Where posters of his beauty hang
And someone says, man, you're a drag
You know you need it upside down
The jargon thief, best bargain
In this town

Coffee costs a trip too much
And I hate stardust fake blue touch
I copy things and try my best
To put my fingers to the test
Where earthly creatures stay to rest
I tie my bones to Medusa's mast
How dare you call me a dirty clown
There's life of panic all around
And tears are falling from your gown
Still I'm the best bargain in town

I try my best to stay the same
And leave the life of tears and pain
But Dalai Lamas can't complain
He's wiser

50 million Buddhist monks
Praying in the rising sun
Can't help but turn around in frown
It's over

And someone cries a dragon's tear
A pretty lady that's so clear
And pure and wise and she's alright
My baby

She always has some work to do
Down on dirty avenues
She's never been somebody's fool
So pretty

Her tactic spoils the preacher's son
Best bargain in a miner's town
She's prettier than the rising sun
It's London

To Survive

This is not my kind of scene
Psychic warfare and Vaseline
Roaring tigers and rock machines
Drugs as fuel and men obscene

I just need your love to survive
I just need the smell of your eyes

These are not my kind of dreams
Nightmare shocks on terror screams
Lady dune on poet's wings
Women bards, electric schemes

I just need your love to survive
I just need the smell of your eyes

These are not my kind of pipes
Hashish smoke, jam session nights
Munich kisses in disguise
Poor Ursula selling lies

I just need your love to survive
I just need the smell of your eyes

No TVs

Yawning clown don't bring me down
With your talk of fallen gowns
Try to focus on your dream
With a big cigar of steam
This is living cabaret
Be yourself but place your bets
Wish I was a party beast
On a freight train headed east
Bringing thoughts of love's rebirth
Upon lands of war and filth

Don't you play your hand game, pawn
All I have for you is scorn
Brought me down so many times
In the hiss of Buddha chimes
I don't know what's sweet and free
In your TV fantasy
Camera eyes on me they stare
I don't know who's really there
Lyrics aren't my concern
Free them from the forms they spend

Rock'n'Roll Office

Everything served on time
Every note, every rhyme
Every lover in my bed
Anything those lovers ever said
Ants on pages full of dirty pants
Definition of a rock'n'roll romance

Rock'n'roll office
24 days
Working for a penny
Changing my ways
Thinking of a lady
Pure as daybreak
She's my golden rider
But I think I don't deserve her

Every car repaired at once
Every engine sent to the stars
Every star a light of its own
Every saint and sinner moans
Dolls on pages full of empty calls
Definition of a mountain rock'n'roll

Every stone cast twice to roll
Every door once opened to control
Those behind the hurried sleeping wall
Baby don't you try to spell the word
Everything you get are broken worlds
Baby, that's my swirling rock'n'roll

She Brings the Sun

In the rain when the day is done
She's my girl, she brings the sun
When the mushrooms disappear
She appears and has no fear
In the moonrays of the one
She's the clouds that brings the sun

She's a rainbow Gypsy ray
Without pain and without death
When she smiles around the void
She's the light the blind avoid
Poets old and poets young
Write of how she brings the sun

Dervishes describe her moves
She's the time and lips of truth
When she lives she makes me run
Walk her long, she brings the sun

Dawn Birds

Dawn decides for you, baby
Interests explode
Dusk denies the filter point
Reality corrodes
Someone sings of broken pens
Virtual and frail
Deviants of frozen pearls
Decorate the days
And if you say alright, baby
I won't ever deny
Cause you're as pure as sunlit snow
In the summer sky

There's something in the way you are
That makes the twilight shake
And someone in the neon flash
That turns the night to flakes
And if we're done with starting points
Beginnings drawn from scratch
Well we could fight the evening joint
With one more swollen match
Then we could sail the frozen sea
Across the brilliant waves
And try a bigger, softer touch
That could describe our fate

The beach is white and phosphorescent
And time is of no meaning
I can't hide I'm inspired by people
And there's no deep trick in it
So I love everybody like I love myself
And there's no love within me
At least that's what I said
When sails tried to receive me

Cosmic Belief

Storms can't hold me
Eyes are lonely
Birds are flying home
Tears are falling
Tears are failing
Streets of endless dawn

And I believe in you
And I believe you too
And you're my guiding light
Throughout the cosmic night

Seas contain me
Vision fails me
Drawing tracks on snow
I am cursed now
But am free now too
And that was my goal

I could offer you endless satin
Sapphire and velvet blue
If I were to choose Arabic foam
And heavy horses too
But in the streams of camel's eye
Prophets lose their trails
And then forget the taste of you
Behind the falling snails

Mystics think they lost their mind
Heart and spirit and soul
This is poem number 6 thousand 1
On blank asylum floors

Brightness guides me
Darkness fails me
Seasons try their best
To change my mind behind your love
But this is not a test

Swan Balloon

Life surprises me each day
While you sleep
Dawn denies the sleeping hand
While you weep
So I go into my room
And bang my drums real loud
Dawn surprises me each dusk
When the sun goes down

And when it goes up
I get on my dream machine
If you know what I mean
Take things slow
She told me, man
There never was a bigger plan
There never was a day too soon
So we could ride a swan balloon
And sleep...

Love Was Deep

In the distant hum of being
Someone told me child
There is nothing I should fear
When the tide goes wild
Sin will always cover me
For the things I did
Peace will always guide my way
Back when love was deep

Years will never mend my soul
Heart or face or ass
But I can stay forever young
Living half full blast
Just remembering tired faces
Makes me wanna puke
Love's for living sandy vibes
Not orgasmic nukes

3 song lyrics 2004 / re-edited 2022.

Celestial Mirage

She was like the morning dew
A beauty of strange kind
A premium pastel woman
Simple men could never find
Stumbling through the clouds
In her cirrus minor world
Celestial little lady
She picked the accurate chord

She was just like blowing wind
Limitless and everywhere
As gentle as the striking sun breeze
Essence here and body there
Goddess on the beach
Looking straight at me
I’ve just got to be with her
She's just got to see

Echo in the Mirror

Steel mirrors in distorted sun
Arrhythmic applause in the haven
Faces drop and distantly liquefy
On my arms two corpulent ravens

Exodus into desert plains
Landscape calm and silent now
The notes are drifting really slowly
While you stare and ask me “How?”

I tell you why you should ask me “When?”
These are plains of mystery
Seven hundred people scan the land
In search of unexpected prodigy

Bird of Paradise

From red to green
All dies in yellow
When the paradise bird
Sings in the primary forest

If you have the time
You also have freedom
The tower in the window
The tower in the window
Gone

Call upon the bird of paradise
A beauty in violet, on her way to hell
Beautiful lady, hands of light
Her eyes run sad, how could you tell

 

"koshalin shanty" Complete poetry chapbook.

“wires”

seas write on sand
crushed rocks of
memory, shells –
compass of the dawn
new light
amber
splashing drifting
curious of the experiential
child
staggering by the beach
bound to pink deltas
of seagulls
caverns of stony flowers
circles drawn on its memory
compass of the dusk
old light shaking
drilling venting
off the curious traveler
father space
mistaken for a lady
giving birth to legend
in spacey hospital tombstones
mistaken for beds
on pines
mistaken
for wires

“giant”

comedy time
this evening
musical time
late night
marathon runner
ethos
soccer oldboy
precision
coked dancer
intuition
junky drunkard
superstition:

eyes failed me
this morning
hair combed not
this morning
girls came not
this morning
beer warm was
this morning
& there’s no coffee
in the cupboard
so much for the mythic
breakfast
of a mad/verse/spitting
giant

“model”

what if tears were yawning
vaults of echoes
crowding corridors
of experience – what if
dunes on which I rest
now, were portraits
of a weedy woman
thrown here
by the fisher
men; basking here
w/ the fauna
of pulsar beaches
crying rain of prisms
touching her body
I gasp
at the majesty of portrait
& wonder how the model
actually looked like
at the dawn of time
birth of poetry
death of the warrior; then
I see her
emerging from the seethe
of darkness
bubbling peace
over sterile
troubled bodies

“menageries”

not much choice
of alleys here
the ones that lead
to crumpled
tene
ments, ones that lead
to central station
ones that lead
to smoggy factories
or post-monarchic suburbs
but who would choose
alleys? photo
lens
dances shyly,
shooting mena
geries, times & “Lord of the Ages”
bought in this town
en route to the sea…

…here, they only have
postcards, real storms blow miles
ahead, fishing boats
are seen as rare palms
where my soft mind’s
smoking joints, while
my body kisses the sun
in a sleazy sailor’s bar

“fablemaker”

it’s not an everyday
child’s thing
to write fables & poems
on fauna
channeling its village
drifting w/ the cosmos
on a microwave
stream
not every child’s lucky
to have inspiring grandmas
pilot grandpas
& freewheeling parents
brothers & sisters
down to serious business
the child the only one
conscious
not buying the TV crap
can you imagine it’s six
or a bit older
weaving ruby hammocks
between most distant stars
resting on them
w/ space devouring squirrels
grinding the cosmic nut
such a funny thing
a true naïve birth
most of us wish they’d experienced

“dekadenz”

there’s nothing american
here; except fickle fashions
that sound
like bad poetry
good poetry
shifting
& things dull teens repeat
like mantra
confusing the hip w/ the hep
cats w/ craps
cools w/ dozies
though dozy convinces
the hell out of me
lonely, though together
phasing thru the showrooms
w/ my latest lover
who doesn’t get it
I bet it, spitting out cherry
flavored gum, teeth as
white as my hair
when did I get this old?
there’s nothing to do here
dekadenz sailing
gobbles half my heart
leaving the other to her
my vulture of the
panoramic icons

“hemisphere I & II”

the joke is on you
not clouds
point is in you
not words
but if you ceased to speak
world would save
this wonderful place
from flyers
containing nothing
but dots
moving on the whirlwind:
breath of wonder
would be landing on
pyramids
in a future-ancient city
where motorik
generators
run; the deeply curious yawn
on a spring lazy morning
clouds in streaks
of pastel, barely dabbed colors
tribes dancing
to cha cha electro
years passing slowly
eating fruits
from mutant trees
planted in the dark
eons ago, so
that no one remembers the seeds…
…utopian drifters do nothing
drinking orange
nectars
from brass goblets
that remember the ancients
who made all this art
but forgot to taste it

we’re all rewriting waves
a child saw on the shore
thru the first eyes
of daybreak
on balmy songs
of a giant lark; on a midnight fire
fall of words
that poisoned this civilization
before its time has come
but tribes keep dancing
on the ruins
of places the generals
called shelters –
moon split in half
sun a brown dwarf:
Atlantis
laying a different pulse
on the hemisphere
of drums

“koshalin shanty”

static. miles of
it
errors. months of
id
a child’s rhyme
plain psychedelic journey
back to the day
when first shanty
was written
sailors were savage
surveyors
perched on sea breeze
radius
humming words the waves
brought on
to the deck
wooden emblems glowing
on a vineyard
totem
shore
times you can’t explain
to minds that
clean-cut truth
eyes that mount
vision
above the only line
of defense

"Actual" Full poetry chapbook.

    watchtowers:
                             night. in a fragile bed,
    invisible e-water quivers in gloat; language –
              sight-sheets rainbow trouts
                               steady w/ a description of a new signal,
                    Zorn’s greatest…
                                 in series of cards I faintly leave station
                   on glassite earthdiscs
                         ghost-shroud radiolites
                   partially free, betraying the force of a visitor;
                                           w/ bubbled, well muzzled
                                      humanity’s eternity.

fathom:
                                                   desert. in need of transport:
         mad choose instruments enclosed in golden glow
                        over millions bent wholly overhead;
                    men shouldn’t wait on word platforms
        spoken in coats their writers are trapped
                                           in – placing blessed machinery
                          above forevers of applause
                  face wounded mirrors in journals…
calculations move; shifting of night-breeze,
                                       beyond place
                                  above the buildings
                                                  resoundingly free
                                 far from any door.                                                                                   

privacies:
                 face. dead metal all the way, presently – a
                     while
                         from the miles across her eye-
   liner’s ray gaze, swiftly; broken
               matter, she, a local cheapo; he, admiral traveler
   of the east, both
               exterminating greed… w/ hysterical sighs
                                in still waters – moonlight by
                                                                                   sound
                      of crustaceans sizzling
                               posting wants on oscillating streets
   his finger pushed uninjured through the wire
                                            applying sky to visage.

                                                                                   mindsails:
                                                      Bettie. reads controls
                        wonders out loud: “perhaps agents
             archive burned objects”; reducing egos,
in heavily directed rooms, closed eyes, what
                        was to explain, her case seized my fiction,
                                and doubtlessly expressed violin fury:
                                      any particular suggestion? so… eyes
                         is characteristic
                         sun, sails, as a blur, I heardly ever know
                                          about
                                               what works for your thoughts
                                       give? more;
                                                             of you. time.

                                                                                            standards:
                                           player. make tears absurd
                        snap metronomes
                           remove equalizers; strke the icy
                                    yes – spill concrete on adjustments
          radium beer on what was exits, your picture is writhing
                                         so… just visible, artistic success, “two
                         come to no signal”; order is sinusoidal
             and miracle out-explains being time – range, not death
                on silver-moist steady-dressed engines, I, I am the
                  engine – beginning of scales in the wee-wee hours,
                         ejaculated piano movement
poor world, you say, poor the one who names it
            through days and centuries of with, which, wearing
                                                                a window
                                          on his wrist
who’s the one observed here?

unused:
                              circuit. from now on, it’s kisses for arms
                 leading the formless shepherds
marking demanded whiles; meanings, heartbeating stranger armies following the sea – accomplishments, the swing error-
                                -science impulsive fellow…
                                                               loop queer character
                           the shepherd’s source throat
                       evidence; spectro-analyzed plan
                                   Anette’s-love skylight, voyages
                            w/ sulphuric animals of the moon.

saltmilk:
             ocean. follows sane angels… vampires… arrangements
                                                      outer limits in them –
                                      cylinders on the horizon,
                                                   circular ring roar,
                                          erased amazing ships,
                                   “ah!” web-builders
                                                      members in sky caresses
                    guarding their apparatus in infra-red cages
                              packed in spectra of wind
                                           change… closer
                     instruments-thought-intruders:
                                cups of milk theory
                                        spiced w/ salt.

                                                                                            exchange:
                        luminescence. did passed.  was I wrong touching
                                    my phantasm creature's waves?
          other of authority. am. where the
                                      length of knowing
                                      meets the ships of chance; up to where
                         my skull’s
               enjoying that lay. it. afraid what would have
 been of me; forth fight tiny changes
                  lakes to light, of pale creature, lurking in the towers
                                      authors jagged of cages,  armed
sardonic sections challenged young asteroid's magnetic will
                                                      look into the dead hell
                                                                               parachute over.

                                                                                           pinwheels:
       shelters. nameless people; over my head, as in a grain
                              opened mechanism, paused shut
                                 directed to treatment; dark faces, the
                sex agonized opening to red of south
                             eyes that by & around
                          stared their gaze until they grew tired of
                 labors, but splashed the daring attempt
                            at thumping the starlit wayfarer
                                   lifting mad scenes anew
                                     governments pretending
                            proffering execute fire
                     w/ gloom given sun that equipped them;
                             turned skin ran brief at night
                                             but brought no goliath ashore
                                directions, headquarters
                                           paper barrels
                                                burning.

danette:
                 july. occasional room
                            time sleeps when she’s thinking
                 refreshed, interrupted, plummeting
                              into space-age trees & wanton planetary
             cats; she looks along lazily at the solarium disk
          responsible for life; at peace w/ blackness’ answers
                  forwarding details – invisible battle moves on, mind
                            of orders, but she’s down here unruled,
                                              pure & swaying like a wing.

hemisphereal:
                          bullet. who are ye, captain important?
                                        atmosphere of skin
     reptilian doctor of thud jungle, crumpled dark operative,
               grotesque pushing priest; purple lay – come in
                  w/ your dead, gods & totems, disregard me:
           the weaker world, game of doorways & voices
     racing bones, closed tons - visitor vacuum
  ventilating systems
            brave switch citizenry
                                sitting on stars
              sparks of metal monsters
                           calculating them, students learn of
the exploded men – sacrificed to astral nightmare.

                                                                     harmlessly, eventually:
                        fingertips. within your body they were
          looking for help – comrade woman; sunray president
                        of the dead-white executive wine, cloudless
                 on the pretended error moonlight; was she my
                  first inexperience? now what the moon’s made of
                                looks different, it murmures reappearing
                                         while French planes circle quickly
                   w/ a message of dusk, what were her words?
                       cursed snap here & there, someway stern;
                    objectifying love. the temperature of casual
                     criticisms; perfect w/ my things, how have
                                     you been bit lately. dying?
                                no harm to sea. glass stories have fallen.

                                                                                          headspace:
                               echelon.pick exist, into and of the segment
                                           maneuverable, past the
                          mercy door
                                     down the may field beyond
                       known day of flesh; could have bathed
                                 in your finds all over again
                                            through them you’ll suffer deeply
                               for a soundless cage of reward
                               awakened later on a rail
                                        saying chance
                     when asked, answering “skylanes”
                                       habit of fraction
                       works on signals from zero to godhead.

phase rag:
                    atmosphere. leaf pictures mangling you – or
                               did you rise against that doomed
                              monstrosity of a turning wheel
                             on denser suit droned bits
         of soil,  installing shells of ego; w/o the technical
                                 knowledge. I mopped the diner floor slowly
                folding butterfly wings
           been cover to your thoughts long ago
                                          they never walked forth public
                                                             tracks of bone
                         here the earth is showing
            striving for great millions flung on a sea walk
                   in the chains of a dim & vertical beam.

mothercell:
                           destruction. one wave, as of senses; tense,
                         the little coloring soldier, who’s answered
                                      hundred thousand phonecalls, but wait
           speak of leisure & insects of the ocean
                                         summarize the
                       distant – grotesque formation of no
                                          besides & can’t
                                 panoramic phantoms
                                           talk sardonic
                  no vase for me, the spoke winds cry
                             & the soldier lost so much space
                   on precipitous valleys exploding out of
             downward heads
      crew of fools, not ship, the tool of discovery
                          once more reduced to
                    one electronic signal; broad frequency,
                                    narrow canals,
ever-increasing guards of ideas
                                     reducing space flyers
                        to jesters
                           quakes of earthlings – respective space mother
                          softening
                                  her touch
                planet whispering in relief, though not without
                                the weight of human factor
                      still drilling the skin
                                        of its tender
                                                             perpetual balloon.

"Eastern Bananas" Complete poetry chapbook.

Bullshit

I keep having that flashback
child on a viaduct cracked from sunflowers
under a red star, dreaming
of concrete landscapes shifting
factories caving in
smokestacks falling
proud blocks giving way
to the forest
the child erecting its eyes
to a new pedestal, one its parents
didn’t live to see – though they didn’t even
die – they simply vanished
but now the sun is shining
free radio’s playing music
through simple headphones
chants of freedom erase
equal slogans, make room
for love, replacing blades of unity
sole party, now dismembered, looks through the cracks
at sunflowers calling bees
to create simple food
out of nothing
for the masses to feast on
it invested in arms much too long
embracing too many people
let them finally
have a taste of freedom
before the new oppressor comes around
was this child even me?
I remember vanishing too, around 1989
with the last wave of protest
too loud to resist much longer
I was drinking bold juices
of West, back then
waving banana machine guns
I keep having that flashback
my drinking pals call the devil
I know it’s just a mirage
dead, misleading image
though from my father’s LPs
I learned of many fine people
creating in those sad cold ages, too bad
they didn’t have the context
their western contemporaries lived in
and taken out of our context
all they and we ever did
was bullshit

Last Candle

we’ll melt that last candle, I promise,
it’s a trip to the sun, no less,
amazing feature, silver screen creature
you’re the prettiest one, I took you with
me, everywhere I went, I’m sorry for the
people you had to meet, but time is golden
and gold is power, and I haven’t done
anything yet to acquire
whatever it takes for success, success
is an empty page, but folks
believed me, and now I’ve got
debts I once was free of, I promise, it’s a trip
to the south where we’ll watch African
moons rise over rootsy backdrops
and I’ll never rhyme again, unless it
makes me some dollar, unless it takes
me back home, when we both were
adorable children, favorites of our
families, but since then I’ve become
outcast poet, and you’ve been inspiration
to many, in many bedrooms, waking up
the monsoon that lies beside me
feels good, but I know it’s not mine
though time will come to cruise
that last stony night, from then on it will be
perfect golden daybreaks, clouds
serving grapefruit tea, white coffee
with freshly picked snowflakes,
we’ll reside in that last
free island, perhaps we’ll find that
lost particle, launch further expeditions
if only you decide to stay somewhere
the free spirit you are
I might finally join you, can’t you see
you’ve made my boots weary
and they won’t lead me naked
stoned and dazed forever
thru a palace of childhood you try hard
to envision
I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing
as a palace, it’s more of a park
but by loose definition
and most certainly not where we landed
I promised a trip to the sun
no cheap ersatz will do
though I’m sure you already
feel golden, always free
from connections

Side Streets

without trips, drunk alone
the next line should be something
that ends with cobblestone
routine kicks in, or it’s only
the sound of silence,
anyway I don’t believe I’m special
same feelings as you
same flesh and spirit
perhaps mine is easily locked
in a bottle, that’s why I’m
drinking alone, after another
idiot’s day, the next line should end
with something that says “stay”, preceded
with please, but I knew she wouldn’t, so here
I am with my guitar, trying to write
a song, but the chords are messed up
and I’m a funny guy with no job
who pretends he’s really
acting, maybe that’s why the last
line should say distracted
haven’t felt that low since I landed
here, here is Paris, 2 A.M.
looking outside my window
I see couples sharing the street
but there’s no one I know outside
so there’s no need to move
and as I find another needle, I guess
the chorus might need a fiddler
or the intro, some sad East European
notes, did you know that every country
has a blue note of its own? ours is played by the
war drum, awakening our women
frightening last survivors, it beats
across the border, every time a child
is born in enemy’s city
we weep, without tears
but you better stick to songs, this last
dialogue should end with “wrong”
or “war is wrong”, but I’m shooting
junk in a dirty hotel room that remembers
both wars, then Korea, Vietnam and everything,
not even knowing who I am
except that this girl came to teach me
how it’s like to be alone
in a city of a million friends
that’ll forget your grave
once you slip over its
side streets

Reputation

you’ve got to earn your reputation
write everywhere
live the day with inkaust roses
blooming in the rearview mirror
fall asleep with death by your side
in the same dirty bed
where you screwed her first, midnight jazz
pumping wild, limitless, into the
coma of sunrise, where your first
words were written, screamed
against the hospital confinement
later nursery, school and prison
still you scream, to earn your reputation
poems are bread, life is the coffee
take a bite, sip the enlightenment
cup by cup, slice after slice
don’t feed it to birds, they’d die
from the exhaustion, unlike you
they still need the power to fly
they’re not confined, unless you count
the bright blue dome, cliché turning
wheel, advertising sign
whose reputation were you living?
does it really matter?
the only question is open books
in the chimney, pistols in the bathtub
shooting sterile tiles, in another
hospital, old, either going mad, or expecting
another child – you’re no one
until you prove your infection
once you do that, you’re healed
back to society
living on prescriptions, shooting sure
shadows at sundown, talking to the
omnipresent priest, arranging
your wedding, once you’re sure
you made it, the world will make you happy
whether you like it or not
you’ll become the fragment
everybody wanted
canned supermarket sun
baby in the cart
whether sold or stolen
it doesn’t really matter
when the graveyard shift
yawns back
at the awakening city

Kid with a Radio

I sat by the radio at night
never was conscious in school
the next day, dreaming of an
autumn Sunday, writing
lyrics, recording
music I then called obscure
from times I can’t remember
times I’ll never live in
filling up the dark, dimming
lights for love, I never had
a friend, but transistor lights
and oceans, though all we really had
was sea, fishermen telling legends
of a frozen passage
I listened to them, vacationing along
wishing I was back in school
so I could write in chemistry notebooks
sketches of a future song
I wrote down riffs, made notes
on song structures, was humming
imaginary refrains, I never thought
I’ll make it, but I kept streaming
phasing through the ether
clouding with the night wind
morphing with the currents
and so they took me – to far off
lands I never thought existed
with hungry girls that never
really knew me, anyway, the pearls
kept falling from their stylish neckties
jewelry, necklaces, all they ever wanted
I bought them, risking my breakfast
but hey, I don’t regret getting thin
especially in Berlin, where I’ve heard
they’ve got the best scene – bullshit,
they’ve got fat fingers
purging through the madness
urging with the rubble
same thing every town
wrapped in wallpapers
damned boys
who wish they were as young as me
still willing to change
especially myself
still willing to run
not from, but against the system

British of Me

sadly
I lost track
of some memories, I no longer
blaze them
with a chewing gum torch
and carry them through the
main square
things became simpler, I no
longer need them, so I let
them pass
people will love me, those
who always did, no need
to smile back again
encountering loss
grief, despair, I’m flying now
where no eye flares
no fire ever rages
it’s oddly calm, on this cloud
I’ve packed my sorrows
in thunders, let’s let them roll
all night, until they’re full
feasting on trees
I climbed as a child
looking at forests
that once proudly grew here
back into tears of the spider
weaving his clear-cut sunweb
who am I to see this
let alone do it – I mean gazing
at eternity, which is not the
dark void
some sad monks want it
to be, rather a flash of steam
from the first train rolling
down American shores
the undiscovered continent
waits to shed the green skin
succumb to steel brave sunrise
forged by ugly children
who thought they’d found their
paradise – things are not what they seem,
and I am on a war path
years have taught them nothing
but pillage and murder
addictions and diseases
let me drink my tea
so British of me, darling

It Must Be Spain

I think I’ll try write down
anything different
from what I usually read
in so-called rebels’ books
private editions, limited print runs
obituaries in flesh – their words, as mine so far,
were ordinary, we used
same dictionaries, obviously
speaking different tongues
all sadly flat,
they probably thought we’re
the same, midnight beatnik daredevils
haunting suicide bridges
documenting the road
but then something struck me
and I moved away, no longer
insane, I exited stage
realizing we all write equal
as musicians we’ve scales
to stick to, we’ve got the margins
of sky, we can bend the rules
but never change them
we write the same,
no matter our history
so why we feel the need
to memorize our lives
as if they were essential
reading, no worries,
someone does that for us
not in earthly books
but on bronze literal columns, in
heaven, in invisible ink
and virgin kisses
where no words are laughable
imitable, combustible
and no publisher decides
what slogan should he stick
to your forehead
no writer writes you, no reader
reads you, no one is really
famous, but all the lines
are there, photographed
right down where we left them
you say it must be asylum
wings of failure bought you
I think it must be Spain
cause everything smells
so nice

Comprehended

at times I think
there’s a Buddha speaking
thru me, but thankfully
I put me back to ground
with casual smoke rings
irresistible neons
sleazy bars
proving there’s nothing
inside me, not even winds
howling thru abandoned
districts, in the town
where I was born, in cities
I lived thru, trams
going nowhere, shades
of people thumping
the sun, at times I think
it shines, like the moon,
in reflected light, but
speedily, stars cut me to size
I’m not like those people
and there’s not even nothingness
inside me, just biology
reproducing, endlessly searching
for meaning where there’s only
a road sign on a half-finished highway
saying “this” or “that” way, to my
half-finished journey
I haven’t even begun
who was I before coming down
on this world
on a pitiful drunken Sunday
my first Satori train
stopped at the wrong station
slicing thru sky
that dawns on my brain
like a twinkling bird of rebirth
flashing with the summer
on wings no human bought
no Buddha
comprehended

"Stanomino Blues"

No tight pussy
Cheap coffee flowin’ floatin’ down her breast
Mexican breakfasts, American dinners
Maya horizons of spit & semen

Antimone – clothed perfection
Her ass is of heaven – so they say
Al-Ghoul for Dionysus
Memories of dark women

Sculpted breasts of their genus
Curls of their hair in the forests
Pines of death, telegraph poles of feathers
Selling their myths to the Gypsies

No friendly hand
Hers is already burnt with compassion
Paradox lover
Red haired lady of the dunes exploding

Seaside so close
Everything’s perfectly still
Negros dancing to wooden and iron rhythms
Drunkard painters of trees

Torn apart, forbidden canvas
21st century terror of trains
Children skinned alive on the rails
Poets incrusted in vomit

Bubblegum suite
No 13th floor, no nothing
Toothless howlers of blues
Pearls of her reach, growing and young

Endless moons of touch
Her hips revealed
She is more than this village
The lonely church

The useless grieving monk
All her lovers end in this circle
Bitter sages of love
Their sex unrecognized

Bums in full-fledged aristocracy of motion
Pearly silenced oceans
Fast forward into their doom
A child’s hand, a ragged toy

What kind of a drunkard are you
The graduates must wait
Chronicles of tears
Hit the ocean, park your car

No rear-view mirror, no endings
Girls of your blueberry summer
A run for love, for permanence
Secret waves of return

Unwashed jeans
A red shirt a million years old
The plasticity of religion
Here only the primal wood

Citadels of orchids
Partisans of heaven hidden in the attic
Their guns still proud & ready
All is fine, relax

Here comes another portion
Of your secret drugs of death
Lay down by the stony bridge
The grave of a headless horse

Fuel his nostrils with panic
Her very last shivers
The lady regresses
She is now but a suggestion

No willing lip, no body
Shake the concealed tambourine
Cut off your hand
Here all you need’s a description of one

Pretty pink collocations
240 kilometers of lust
Unfinished highways of soul
Rooms of cobras & nameless voices

Calling the dove in the fog
Shrieking velvet tires
Epitome of blues
The epigones of my misfortunes

Too small in my cowboy boots
Blood, snake leather, Hard Rock Café t-shirt
Take that after-shave lotion away
Girl, I’m your favorite bum

Snow, dead paradise, whiplash
Deadlights
Phantom cars of salvation
Exit the Georgia night

Mohawk cigarettes
The journey of fingers
Take me on that bumper, she said, this bench
Smoke another one

Return to your safe little boxes
Needles, sentiments of fury
Cavalcades of drums
She enters his modest apartment

The Raja dead on the floor
Fumes of opiates
Her fear resurrected & swollen
Aeroplane Blues

That’s all she ever thinks of
Acid under her eyelids
Alighieri’s visions are nursery
Compared with the depth of her fears

Spanish lullabies
White Indian jumps
The failed actor
His sunken reluctant mistress

Artifacts of her sudden revelations
Mantras, angels, manticoras
A journey through her perfumed twilights
Frail & bedazzled, vacant

Wind territories
Sketches of a lifetime rejected
The applause of sudden seahorses
Chain a-swingin’

The feeding gets done
Dogs of haloed consumption
Cans of beans & bacon
Caviar & oysters

She wishes it could be Paris
Dead mosquito, a handclap
What kind of a drunkard are you
Measure your footsteps in gold

Blow thy silver pipes
Ears in shock of their silence
No calls, no responses
No choo-choo trains headed West

Crumbs of manana
Belly dancers
Skin as white as cocaine
Stoned German musicians

Followers of Hendrix
Vulnerable, perfect, imprisoned
Dissolving carpets, collapsing hangings
Bedouin caravans sifting through the room

Exotic melodies cascading
Flowers of a devilish taste
Let me die aware
Let me die of deception of senses

Mists of her railroads
Sweet sixteen on the run to me
Through seedy gore panoramas
I still remember her pussy trained

Sleeping on my beer-soaked body
So sweet I almost cried
Her innocent lips pressed to mine
Her hair twirling round my shoulders

Eyes as deep as her pools of soul
Forever unexplored
Insufficient wanting
Legs vibrating with the room

Chairs splattered against her walls
Victory, understanding
I wish I could see her again
Prolonged suggestion of senses

I wish I could be her wooden tower
The cornerstone of her death
Pilate, a child’s tale