The Amsterdam Palace of Wisdom

the Amsterdam Palace of Wisdom
consists of
9425 oneway windows
4242 madhatters
6321 doors smashed in
post-orgasmic
fury
one for the Lady of Sorrow
45253 tiny Venices
90 islands
1500 bridges
& counting

sailors move in for the liquor
sailor move out for the flood
while the young blue Pole
remains
to die here
to leave
it

6500 guests at De Wallen daily
one per square meter
pleasure
rally

3463 tired sex workers
10 for one tired guest

6443643 cigarettes smoked
35232 bottles drained

lips encountered
arms explored

751251 inhabitants
242522 souls
the rest are skulls of fishermen
married to
cannabis
resolute
sea

to get lost here is really a pleasure
to get lost here is
finding
true wisdom
the Kilometre
Zero

&
slip into
cores of
growth
without any further
statistics
of notice

No dawn for years

this whole patronage of saints
I've followed
tiresome
gruesome
& weary
left nothing for me at
journey's
brickwalled
end

'cept grey as a dirtbag
Sheraton
towel
thrown onto her body
for good
taste
measure

felt like one of those tired
handicapped
heroes
who made so much efforts
unnoticed
who'll pass unnoticed
leave nothing behind
& fade out
& never get paid

the rain's been so long so stripped now:
shed it's skin faintly
to turn out a snake
consumin' its own
stainless steel
tail
while pokin' at men
damn
rusted
below

& so I'm so hopelessly stuck here
at last
w/ other writers chainsmokers
the telephone hooker's
Chinese whispers
& chess
& vodka
& sketchbooks
w/ views at the blank
walls of city
only
them hospitals, markets, morgues & prisons
your daily saccharine
dose

there's no dawn
for years
no faint heart companion
no one or nothing
to freely
hold on to:

it all takes too much sacrifice:
in the end
it's really not worth it

Jew's harp

my bones form
a Jew's harp
& it oms
& it shanties
the drunken boat
shanty
so steerless
that it pierces the ocean
black

and it mmmmmmmmmmmmms
your pedestrian
folk song
dances through the sleeping
village
windmill
sings out
the yellow
magic
disharmony

it's
the one you can learn
from these 2-dollar
songbooks
in green
w/ pictures of flowers
& no ISBN

&
if you ask -
that's my body

available
now!

wish I had them Jagger's lips
or again -
I wish I hadn't

the Jew's harp's
the favorite plaything
for all
generous
one-man
syndicates
of
poems

The street always follows the streetlight

the darkening lights of St. Antoin's cemetery swirl
line up
& crack
their
fogwhip
pockets

as the street always follows
the streetlight
& the needle always follows
the vein:
the vein
that wasn't there

I ate lunch at the padre's grave
lit up
the cemetery lamp
lit up
the havana
followed the lover's
silhouette
groan

threw the bastard
a sonnet
on his tombstone
the letters were gold
as his soul
was just
crow's clipped wing's
single
handclap

sang some German
nocturnes
w/ the fool moon piano
shuffled Nico
almost saw
her

& continued to brawl
until I could clearly see
swift pale atmosphere's
horses
arriving
& smell
them
very
near

while the padre at poker
w/ the silver-eyed
vampire
paid no attention
& continued
to lose

the St. Antoin's so lonely at dawn
as the dew forms
its puzzles
& the rare visitors
stare
at the stone
deaf
sirens
in hope for
comforting
answers

& then they find me
sprayed all over
the stone
breeding
sanctuary
snorin'
post
alcoholic
reviews

The ward

when she tortures the vertebral
butterfly
& the clinic gleams
electroshocks
& rubber
to evaporate the meeting
of egos
& the pervert laughter continues
it seems like the loss of all
control
like sleet in the middle of July
fornicatory
hail
& Jesus' heart wide open
while
glow-tubes moan the KC
blues
wine into water
brain into salad
the KC
blues
drives in
jackhammered
& the windows cannot be
opened
today

she's now out of all
recognition
to the world's
professional
ethos
locked behind the nerve gas
door
the healing
procession
of fact
in death's barrio
basin

& the clinic gleams still:
them tube-glows
come like
ample
sparkles
return as the nurse's
cool confinements

& she might just come
like
revenge's sweet
fire
when the next Irish life
comes
around

Handshake

live again...
cut out all indecent past lines
word forms
made into flesh
cut out all infected flesh
bleed all the black
blood
throw out the lungs
& the liver
retrace the unfortunate quotes
rewrite the very first scene
move back
to the soulless scenery
of birth
delete
all incongruous
hurt
conspire w/ the bright ghosts
of dawn
retire into the
dream night

live again...
in the wilderness' memory only
as one of the lucky
bastards
one of the fortunate
changelings

continue to grow
drop lines
make money
spend it on kasbah blue harlots
buy'em scarves & boots
dress'em for the proper
occasion
they pour so much sugar
into your eyes
that the salt in the stomach
don't hurt
anymore
& your heartache
becomes a spider

live again...
decide yourself & be again
whole

whole in the moments
when eyes meet

whole in the fragments
of a handshake

A bunch of floating anarchists

the Molotov brigade
has entered
my apartment
threshold burners
immobile
sleepless kids of inertia
sordid units
of black
restlessly packed
together
comin' to see their
favorite
writer

tried to perforate my couch
slay my cat
cram my trumpet
w/ shit
& feed the birdy
some acetone
write some
bright slogans
all across my bathroom
wall
shout their poems
out of my windows
piss on the streets
from balcony high
throw buckets of
rotten food
at passing policemen
sniff some glue
& fuck my newest
best
friend

vomit balloons
explore
the twilight:
magic pills start workin'

our boys sure need some sleep:
been up for 72 hours
smashing system
controls
burnin' some old Buddhist
writings

how can I convince them
that the system
sleeps only in their heads
while they're wide awake
on meth
hallucinating
self-induced
paranoias
coming to visit
their favorite
writer

so tired of these
so-called
visits...

(I'll never make it) to the Mardi Gras

"One loses many laughs by not laughing at oneself."
S.J. Duncan

I'll never make it to my Mardi Gras
just like Captain America...
some rednecks will shoot me
down
sooner
for the rednecks inherit the Earth...

then they'll bury me nameless
by the side of the road
& then perhaps erect
a temple
of the Indestructible
Spirit
above

but who'll start the pilgrimage?
who'll be the
one-eyed leader
of the three-eyed masses...
the yo-yo man of mystery...
the sunpierced
stoned jester...
who's gonna make it to their Mardi Gras...

who'll dance to the tune
he, a legend, declares...
& which silent flutes exactly will play...
which faces, which places,
which tunes
& which orchestras

you'll never make it to your Mardi Gras
too
you're a fine young gal, but
you're holdin' on to the ground
too tight
& you're never reach the L
S
of
D
orchards
in marbles
of Summer...

you're bound for the Autumn
revelation time:
you'll never hear
the true
Our Father, Who art in Heaven...
you'll never...
ah, that don't matter...

whoever made it to the Mardi Gras...
I'd like to shake your hand
buy you a shot of
booze
get drunk till the death bell
tolls
smoke the very last
joint
and bury myself beside you
so that we both can
remember
the journey

for on the roadside oak it is written:
silence is the key to every
goddamn
door
(signed "Buddha was here
before...")

A conversation w/ Jacques Brel's ghost

had a conversation w/ Brel's ghost last night
strangely
sun still up
& tripled
blurred as a warning
obsolete
shimmering
while the moon placed firmly
in Brel's fur coat
pocket

his long hair resounding
reverberating the cloudshield
exploring all there is
to explore
speakin' only in wind's
haunting
deep
vowels

He lit a cigarette. Came closer.
Flew by & sat right next to the chimney
relaxed on the
armchair

put one of Piaf's plates on
trapped in vinyl
death lark

he told me:
"boy, you quit these sentiments...
lullabyes & ballads are over
quit them black keys
quit all notation
listen to me & you're
settled..."
said I should visit
the "Blue Butterfly"
where ladies in black
leather
await the next
Dean
& pour out their mantras
all nite
all dirty

"I'll lend you my voice You sing them the stars
out w/ cancerous throat. You make
them all wet. They'll love the challenge.
They'll take it... they have no
choice but to give birth
to things...they have no choice but to
bear our sons..."

almost sucked the cigarette
dry
took hold of my verse
strangled it
whipped my eyes w/ it
life-juices spilled over
blood followed
shortly
"now this here you cannot sing'em...
now this here ain't metal&velvet...
this here ain't even a
real
song..."
licked'em off the floor...
cold concrete left
shinin'
I cold & amazed
& he howled

howled...
howled...
howled...

stopped abruptly
yet the music
continued
the room still
resonating &
hallowed

I realized he's signing
the Endless Death Hymn
in 23
tableaus

he smiled - he could tell by my eyes...

"Start up the bike, boy"
he gasped out w/ his
operational
lung
"You bring me my son back...
I will wait for you
in bar's filthy
fuckin'
mirror..."

Jug painters

vibrant angelic jug band blisters
succumbus raga immediately
commencing their
banjo
volares
epiphanies of meat bag
composants

licks my eyesocket
blind
plays insanity games w/
the painters next door
posing them
nude
in their armpit
boudoir
art deco
extraordinaire
cunts

& suddenly a slaughterhouse
evolves out of
every slightest
brush touch
exposedly hooked on
to
Dali

while in cafes outside
we sit barefooted
writing lines
on the bartendress'
Singapore-shaped
exalted
legs
sighin' how life is so
urgent...