Hymn to Her

the reality!
vegan bar, 2 teas
endive salad
meditation of her January morning
better than millions of unnecessary lines
this particular mix of minimalist
melodies & sex that can only exist here
& now, in incarnation of time
in milliseconds given to her
by all the Bodhisattvas, somewhere
between one bounce of her skirt & cold steamcloud of her mouth
toying the pastel purple
of moonrise
she, the night current
go(i)ng

oh, ring finger of night
left handed green openwork
Katherine
open the door!, sprinkled with rust
& loneliness – so, boldly, as befits a lady,
shaking her hips, she enters the „Little Zoo”,
passing through vintage shops, hash ‚Dam cafés,
Seventh-day Adventist church,
leather tiled drugstores, torn ragged warehouses,
cut canvas ateliers,
vegetarian restaurants, dig katzenjammer patios
paving slabs in billions, snobs & drunks
& pigeons & rats
meaningless storm cats
busking/screwing on the piss-covered stairs
cut back to the first scene
was midnight

she only tastes a tease
of a fourth element, now pushing bravely up
already close to absolute
over which she can only
elevate
to void bliss
or a universe, or saint madgirl
feasting on
toxic districts, petrifying herself
to toothpicks
it is no longer, however, relevant
neither this nor that road
because here, in „Little Zoo”, in a silly silver cage,
a wintry sedated, tufted
cockatoo, cries
out a Coleman
solo
& Katherine laughs sweetly, un
certain

„oh, nirvana!” – a billion pa
wing slabs cry,
cry back softly at her
&
she remembers the past life:
7 years of love, free, but never in
Nepal, or sweet, though
loved
as only a wise man can love,
the loves that he loved
& thing – the things he called things
& now
at the end of my flesh line
I give up to
nonsense
where everything belongs:
her hand
& parks of childhood
enlightened by laughter
of cruel reviewary
ships – passing us slowly,
carelessly
anonymously

nakedly emerging
in full bloom gaze
behind the dawn clouds, wild crescent
burst into loud, cheap winechicken laughter, „Bridges!
Show me some!”
there are no, Buddha babies,
„forms finite”, „ideas”, or „make senses”
& „bridges”?
you scream „Show me!”
I jokingly record
a song:
best of all – there is no Buddha, no lotus
flowers, which sprang from under his
proverbial feet
so Buddha babies, what have you pursued?

ain’t the trick
to wake up,
buy a cockatoo,
eat your salad & pay the right price?
perhaps there’s more, as in sea
or space songs… but one satori’s enough
so sell it back
to your hunter
he paid the twice price
already

we cut now back to the scene
years later

yes, all love creatures seemed to say „hello”
to her hungry spirit vagabonding
the lightless
hour
only I said „goodbye”, &, easy to tell, it worked out
in the end
that’s only now, I’m guessing, beginning

"Before I was an Angel"

I remember jungles in the morn mist
giant stars on exodus
angels, butterflies in armor
shooting red squares
of patience, wait…
beaten to death by police
somehow I passed through
saw black&white scenes
in the courtroom – judges yelling
this&that, policemen&doctors marching in line
bringing the zone to life
giving out straitjackets of fog
glasses of official vision
inhabitants seem happy, deafened w/ triangular
alien leeches in food & beverages,
consumed daily w/ pride, saluting
the homeland, pierced on spikes
of amusement, drowned in puke of entertainment
fooled by the steel-colored sky, who controls the
opiate controls the future
what was it anyway? birth on this planet
is punishment, man, such punishment is satori:
when you’ve seen the absolute reality
trivial monsters of power won’t rule you
they’re nothing, cowards of shade
toying the id their doctors prescribed me
images? I’ve got’em, lots enough to punish
the punishing cogs, small rat-faced
Goebbels-shaped pricks of inertia
late for the 3rd world war
plotting revolutions in introverted windowless
cabinets, crawling on
words? lots enough to disarm the police states
of the world, with one spit of poison
per 20 million dead pigs
drugs? I am the walking drug – causing death
in the 3rd world druglands
to see children reborn in civilized countries
I should’ve seen the masters, masters of
control, but all I’ve seen were madmen switching
roles with leaders, leaders chained to liberty’s
ankle, raising from the carpet some scumbag dirthole
shat on, happy in a locale
of absence – what was it anyway? do I wanna see this
world, after I was an angel? do I wanna see this, before
I was an angel? it’s a madhouse! deathcamp! funfair!
escape! escape! you will be angels too
but not if you won’t notice

"The Museum Countenance"

dog leash hydrant sunshine
beam of asphalt wisdom
seeing Christ face in this great cloud there
whatever winters your face
whatever opiates me
note after note, night after
night daybreak sleepwalk
I couldn’t care less
and call these corners “honey”
language without time
symbols without backgrounds
ghosts dancing
on valium
filmed from soapy windows
unconscious poor angel beings
on platforms, expecting horizons
twixt stations, emperor
whimsical beginnings
smiling mellow smiles
a sum of simple-minded lifetimes
focused on the perfect
shot erected scene steel
makes my evenings interesting
diplomatic curators of vision
slowly lose the journey
in sympathetic clouds of
forbidden districts
roaming with
beasts of museum countenance

"Unbreakable Spirit"

He who lives in Getz’s solo
broken colored glass
half-broken windowpanes
tangled sorely in a ball of
surgical threads

he who sleeps w/ Verlaine
breathing underwater
nourished by the sun’s afterglow

he who speaks w/ mice
singing pavement cantatas
w/ a tail

he who walks
the city tops
trawling under its puddles
of resignation
as in the daily breeze

he who confronts the shadow
dancing
in smoky cabaret
partitions
in the red light
of cancan

he who never sleeps
& never changes rags
looking everywhere
where refusal can lurk
radical
call & response
 
he who copulates w/ angels
to trade them later
w/ demons
for a handful of
budget
cigs

he who never dies
& never really lived
he who calculates maneuvers
of self-destruction

he who knows
& feeds supreme
pigeons of rhythm
burping loudly
smiling

he who lost everything
he to whom Buddha
looks up to

"Cliffs of Victoria"

cliff-like slow man – Dante creature
across the western terror
crawls, endless supply
of loneliness
in unclean tubes
of words
forming snow bird
grotesque

oblivion was the tangent
expression
circumstances
trial
“we are the end” – imbecile
voice, boiling

lifeless hemispheres
whine
some were eyes of the city
living
expression

patience was the call girl
interesting
discontented
bitterness
“she is the way” – buried
height Victoria

Ride the Flower U-Bahn

Berlin, four seconds to midnight
happy routes took beastly
course, straight to
modern heaven, dismissing the post-
wise pill droppers apply
to their suits, honey months
passing with the show girls
young ears cheeks in circle
modern heaven

is there “plan two”, in case
the big smoking arm of law
ray guns wiser fingers
beginning station again, beginning
boy and line – hurrying not to miss
the flower u-bahn
kiss the flower u-bahn

by common blood
we’re dead civilization
impelled by facileknowledge
grey down silhouettes
smoking from the all-knowing
stand skull
drilled into locks
on menagerie cells –
young skulls learning
inside

invincible tombs
watch busy bare years
an agony

"Ra?"

instant continents drive on
looped food
studied papers are everywhere: acceptance,
the discussed mind; age
and thought as scraps
walls cloud motor
idealized, poeticized –
climbing aboard
hair buses, expecting cage wishes
to end
where highways develop
clustered tasks and metal Ra – out
there collapsing
extra traffic
being weights nothingness
mere bagfuls of happy
where far eyes have desertion
on the rocks
in a beautiful uphill house
in vacant gardens
watering a took seen afternoon
pathetic money
on rotten eggs
laughed born belonging

4 A.M. 5th Cup of Coffee

slam the wing boy
break another seal

bongo jazz
rockets on
roof-tops of colony – just an image
walking by
the room and moldy labels

rotten veins
staring at the porn spread
thinking of descending markets
not wanting poems
anymore

slices of death
and teenage waistcoats
selling what poetry
doesn’t

smart ass wanna-be
philosophers
eat rich bread with honey
leaving me matchsticks
and Colorado
cigarettes
American in name
communist in taste

to them I’m an Indian
meal on their pan
thirsty for blood
to review
for their own
egocentric
purpose

play that jazz, pharaoh
I’m skill scene,
suckers.

"Stoned, with Oceans Separating"

interest unwrinkled
cap came
wanted her – burned late (I answer only
for my friend
and nostrils)
you left and the well-cut
laughed
impassive, distant-coffee, quietly
black
big tree drop, accustomed to my almost singing;
hear the stop
you for he, about to play over happy
be her seen
cannot predict
my future
turning beautiful
was perfect; but the unspeakable
is least predictable
to interest you
came to this or his
who cares
we’re stoned
with oceans
separating

"Patternless"

old fat angels
flaming word statues
fish cut audience
rich and rolling
cave faced birds…

…need to tell you
one thing:

if street music
had the weight of playing on seeing
an opera ticket
theater would dawn upon
the ghetto - church-like cough or laughter
would settle pain
as I’m pulse
leading to
dessert discovery

no need to say whose noise’s been
the loudest
the old man in the back row
holding to his shoe
leaves without answer
re-enters ghetto
laughs with death gods, at
the bulk of us, preferably sane,
in the routine
of crazy futures…