"Ghost of Dusk in a Pastel Shell" (for Lou Reed).

w/ a hint of melody, pinia, delicate torture: A
Am Am7 A7
descending; mirror ghost of kings
slits the green line
park; duke
of plastic airdrops.
tutors, lambs and highways
drift the saddest Sunday
on the way to school
oceans shambles
I’m sipping gin receiving news
tears stop on the shelf
filled w/ Lou’s records & French poetry
love’s face, crossed in a punk fashion
looks up
to the rain of tomorrow.
I bought you cheap, she thinks to herself
& w/ soap under her nails
she starts writing
the great american romance
w/o the dead narrator
piano shyly lays down
the chords & structure of twisted
moans and mourns of a twilight
once crossed on a NY reel
of villains, pale subjects
to salvation; not escaping this time, sifting
w/ the uptown stink
demands the town to curl
like a wounded cat
in the back seat of a Chrysler.

take one, puffing smoke into the mic; sprachgesang
of insects. hard heavy breath, eliminated
suturing milk and sunrise
into quality chrome
& ash – suddenly stripped like a graveyard –
of giant city skyline
inbred, brave – preset to life
inlay of skull & marching soldiers
on white/grey dots in print
comb bind w/ logic
death merely passing – streets – face – root beer
& junk nirvana for Joey
I guess I lost it
this Sunday, ghosts of empty dusks
crown my idiot self fish
morphing to heavenly hearth
one w/ the raven angel
& I can’t make love to you today
no, not in chains
of fury’s disciplined winter
death cold Germanic
away from forms of speech
over gut guitar of Jesus
strumming that heroin pattern
all through the desolate mourning
sleepless choirs of snowflakes.
which words were yours, heard in the backseat
alley, unspeakable hurt
humiliation – there is no succumb but your ego –
demon seed of subways
pushing junk on same corners
back to 1980s, crackheads, models, art scene
recalling the hum of blues
from every train passing
& every river flowing; dirty sunshine…
…now variable, pregnant, important
words which were mine
belong to her; the romance
she’s writing now, the child she wants to raise
the street she wants to walk
without sad songs & 3 euro breakfasts
with whom? without.
once the hero’s gone
once the plot loosens
in the bright light thick solid wall
you’ll crash your brains
on piercing whiteness
thinking it’s too late
receiving a call from your teenage mother
you’ll realize
you’ve reached the side of angels
time to join them, & her, in sickening warmth
lose the conscious dictator drill
w/ a bang enter the realm of fury breeding art
in a pastel relic shell

"Late Sketches of Arthur"

"the poet is truly a thief of fire."
isolate
scrutinize
introduce
bring out
over the years you’ll learn this & a few
other
most necessary things.
seated work is terrible
agony on hot days.
military figure sustains
the heavens.
expert says - good vintage, truly
delicious.
you need to meet him
in order not to perish
in this fickle industry.
circumcision’s bureaucracy.
the candidate sniper opens the window with a bang – no-good - bad, bad ...
people are the determinant of region, remember:
scrutinize.
thought is like milk
poured into coffee. & you're the coffee.
you won’t recognize yourself on the street, archer.
the tabloids won’t tell you:
"citizen R. was killed last night in a particularly brutal way. Well, the perpetrators... "
"Mrs. R. gave birth to her sixth child & is feeling well..."
have you burned the pictures?
give me the ashes, now - white plate & something to wash it down.
I missed the tram.

"French Wildcat"

She stands there waiting, skyscraper heels
A shot of glamor from her lips
She knows who she is

She smokes a bright and thick cigar
From the back of a rock’n’roll car
And it’s a single kiss
To end up drained and then deceased
Between the sheets

And in the rain she sings the tune
Of vacuum cities
Passing by on trains with lovers once so far to reach
Now laying at her feet
Just like the world
She never leaves her soul
Unreleased

I trip the dark room once again, proving time exists
In the caverns of her touch
And curtains of bliss

Psychedelic nocturne shots from brocade hips
Green and yellow perturbation
Lives beyond her lids
Singer of the unreleased
Lady of the Paris streets

Wildcat
French wildcat
Drooling cheap boys
On the market
Pin-up starlet
Dark eyed model
Lenient driver
Curly lover

Where’s the world of dreams
Where’s the teenage screams
Where’s the silk screen thrills
Where’s the golden films

Project Citadel: five visions of the structure.

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

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

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

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

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

"Riot Spray"

Ruins of my teeth – I'm no whale
Deserts of my blood
Sick and pale
And far from safe
Get off, punk and clean the grave
Of time
Cause now you're feasting
On eternal shitty life

Product of your excrement
Excitement of tomorrow
Excrement of decent lives
Dirge of entertainment
Plays of love and horror
Same old billboards showing
Same pearly whites
Trash I say, is this
Trash I say, that's I
And who's that I that speaks or writes
Products like this song
Excrement of petrified
Whale blood painted gold

You eat trash then trash it
Trash becomes your food again
You shoot junk and then release it
Junk's this planet's second name
And ain't it a shame – I'm no whale
Who's got the time for a mammal gone fresh
Off the market's table or press
Read your newspaper today
Forget the news
That's written on your white facade
In riot spray

"This is Danger"

Take a shot at Eddie
He's armless
Take a shot at fiction
It's harmless

Myths under the carpet
Myths under the carpet

Stain yourself with life
Stain yourself with life

Careful with these words
Don't promise me too much
Careful with these words
Don't promise me too much

Take a look inside
Theater's painless
Cut your wrists again
I am stainless

Scalpel, dirt and bone
Sounds approaching home
Scalpel, dirt and bone
Sounds approaching home

This is danger
This is danger
This is danger
This is danger

"Annie from the Block Across the Street"

Annie from the block across the street
Heard my songs and read my poems first
Stuck one to the wall on a stairway where me met
Kissed me quick and said my pa just left

There’ll be sex and music all night through
Wine and beer will flow, there’ll be joints for me and you
There’ll be nakedness and magic in our windows pale and gray
And tomorrow morning laughter and the things our folks will say
When we finally get to school both late and torn
With the logic of the moment when our teenage love was born

Annie was the portal into stars
I was dreaming of a lean black car
So I could drive her round to a rock’n’rolling sound
Freely on the highway, out of districts, out of town

We’d disappear forever on the scent of gasoline
Annie had the power to fuel the meanest dreams
Wicked arms and lips the taste of mellow tangerine
She was all the local boys' favorite loving machine
But mine to keep and clean
And part of the catholic scene

Annie, magic girl soon to lady of the town
Everybody wants her, and nobody wants to frown
So her words combined with acid work pure magic on lost boys
And unwilling they become famous actors in a Royce
When the new narcotic vision dawns on early morning docks
We remember and we worship little Annie from the block

Angels are rare, hearts are young
Songs are short and life's a song
Dawn is bright until she smiles
Then we're off to holy night
Nightmares of illusion drop
From the roof of Annie's block
Pterodactyl wings are spread
In my teenage bombing head
Night begins and sacred sex
Laughter, love petitions death

"Extracts from a Drunkard's Twilight"

My mouth, open
breath stinks of the whole
ugly day
that day stinks of
man's whole history
stinking of
chance, unnecessary births
to the bog clouds
of exhaustion, warehouse
blitz & humorous
obituaries
once the music stops
playing

Remnants of matches
stick out like crosses
from my pockets
twirling the highway roaming...
cars - the birds of the handicapped crescent
feeding sky w/ remnants
of someone else's
dream
making that someone happy
bookstoring out of the rust
in my burger
toothpicking ash from the heart

Ugly the word on the block
death in the schoolyard, uninvited
teacher; kids the glorious leaders
of rebellion, now grown up & married
to sex-shop telecoms
transmitting orgasms like candles
sometimes transmit
the bareness; nakedness of priests
tied to perfumed chairs
of lottery; honesty of night,
drawing straws; the lucky ones
are on fire
drink that hard, I dare you
live that quick, you're doubled

My fist, open
used to contain the plot
tables of planes & footprints, left
cautiously stabbing the sky
my only friend I witness, my only
silver girl; companion through the summer
downer, drag corridor, base cake growing
in the oven, someone made dinner
for drunkards, someone took care of my
crosses; & ugliness pales
in the small unhealthy visage
of a sailor
who first brought dope to town.

Fool on a Morn

Pure as banging on spoons
vacant stream of city dump
mind trash floats around me
occupying the fragile antenna
of being; shelving crap for later
waves of noise, exhibitions of sand
metaphoric cavemen
march, while I,
stoned,
cannot force myself
to exhale a simple line of greeting
to the morn – I believe such words
are lost, in Irish folk songs, morn... what is it, morn?
These pancake eyes have seen one at birth
though the memory of an old man
can't pick up the word
an infant screamed, anonymous, into the ugly
vape of drawers, clanking in the kitchen
where his wife made Polish
breakfast for sons of this land
soon battling forwards
against the uniform of sitcom
whatever happens showing
I ought to make some coffee, forget the deal
move on w/ the straight life
go back to women, kids & careers, a path I left
hanging such a long time ago
words, like me, were simple-minded specks
wooden sleep proceeding
bells in churches silent
as I roamed the daybroad sin
pure as shitting on goldcoins
draft me soon, or craft me a butcher
error blood proceeds
whipping the culture remains
gutting down the buttons of a broken down shirt
of a prophet, so I say, morn... what is it, morn?
Should I be sleeping or awake already
planning one more failure
should I be dead or alive
stalking freebie mountains

"Love Sun" - complete poetry chapbook.

Collage #3

white beach, touch of breath
mermaids circling sunbeams
sunrise wakes
the plot of sand
it’s your land, it’s my land
we’ll walk it not talk it
and praise it forever
in hand
red dawn, fireflies
touch your face, a butterfly
consciously aflame
secretly afraid
of the sun

Love Sun

Caught afloat, solar boat
lunar flare of the brave who dared
to blare against the shared
horizon mare

Love sun glows in no time
time void blooms in dark night
love sun wipes the frown off
faces that will know love

Brows of father space gloom inside your brain
taste the spear of venom
purify the veins
brows of mother void circle with the words
carelessly thrown
like useless trash
to drain

Love sun glows in no time
time void blooms in dark night
love sun wipes the frown off
faces that will know love

Circles and cycles
All there is
Circles and cycles
Solar boat years

Stick Your Love

Stick it to whatever has two legs
soon you’ll lose it fast
without a bow
stick it to whatever runs on grass
soon you’ll need new fuel
and ships of gold

Stick
stick your love
whip
whip the cream

Stick it to whatever recommends
itself as value this or value that
you’ll lose it like a fool can lose his grip
on this trebly mess called
reality

Stick
stick your love
whip
whip the cream

You’ll need new rockets, new astronauts
new pioneers on western skies
new engine roars above this globe
you’ll need all this to save the love

Last Gasp

oh why does it taste like this
traces of cheap wine
traces of piss
on the carpet crawlers hiss
lovers share their midnite kiss
while outside the city sleeps
weak and leaning on strange wings
echo children nail their knees
to a piece of wooden bliss
where archangels hit and miss
runners of apocalypse
tortured animals conceive
visions of a foreign deep
deeper than the canyon whip
boomerang and angel pest
giving out the last dead gasp
giving out the last dead gasp

How Good To Be A Child

You wake up like a melody
like a wild horse in the middle
of a stream
you wander through this melody
it’s a forest and a sunrise
rising over wings

that grow upon your back
like a curse that’s going wild
how good, how good to be a child

You aren’t occupied with any big ideas
and thoughts
you aren’t filled with demons
and with ghosts
and all you do is watch the morning
curling while you play
rising like a bright majestic spray

that paints inside your head
like a curse that’s going wild
how good, how good to be a child

Tune Your Guitars Down

too loud in here, boys tune it
half-step down
too loud in here, you can’t
hear the words
people don’t get noise anymore
music don’t need volume
anymore
tune your guitars down
make some room for rainbows
make some room for the sun and the moon
make some space for flyers
that will carry on the news
we no longer need
the loudness in this youth
and in this dream
we don’t need no noise
in this scene
we don’t want no noise

Origin Of Species

dawn on cello planet
brains of wool soak like a sponge
with rays of new becoming
and everything is simple
in the womb of the first one
in the steps of the last one
in origin of species

dawn on a volcano
dance of ash and earthquake
everything’s a snowflake
pressed towards a bright face
of a lover that first sees
what cold stupor eyes miss
the origin of species

Ask For Permission

you shouldn’t be fighting
with your intuition
though some bosses force you
to ask for permission
every time you stretch out touching pink white skies
bosses have you thinking your fate is just to die

Brahma

sky is my shadow
sun is my shelf
wind is my passing
sea is my breath

fear not life in life
fear not death of death
pass me gently by
by me gently pass

stars are my children
moon is my marble
love is the name
encompassing my men

fear not life of truth
fear not death of lie
with me gently walk
walk me gently by

Years Of Lost Culture

Yes, in fact the devils made their job
stand out in the field of weaving what
stuck in golden throats of pigs and priests
new militia demons learned old tricks

and we, we’re stuck, my friend
in seaweeds, in driftwood and sand
watching years of lost culture
passing by
like a sad graveyard-painted
leaden sky

Yes, indeed they’ve butchered all “new worlds”
featured primal myths in herald words
talking proud of land discovery
cutting down the natives just like trees

and we, we’re stuck, my friend
in bloodbaths and orgasms that don’t end
watching years of lost culture
passing by
like a sad graveyard-painted
leaden sky

I Am Destroyer, Light is My Boat

I am destroyer, light is my boat
I am conqueror, my name will be blood
I am creator, my space is afloat
I am the conquered, a creature of mud

who are you to confront me
like you do
life form of this planet
son of blue
daughter of my heavens
now abandoned
children of the cornfield
ghosts of shadow

I am destroyer, light is my boat
I am your mentor, giver of maps
I am creator, my wisdom is gold
you will lay down in a pyramid shape

Collage #12

love idiots you say
ride away
in a pink car
faith lenders you think
move away
with the red light
highways are cautious these days
sun is sterile bulb
income serves the first paid man
silence is the tomb
noise is the solution
of the new institution
of a bright revolution
of consumption repulsion
and everyone is happy with the way things are
served and sold and bought and traded
for that old pink car