Ancient, like legends,
and your body the ocean so vast,
the mind gets a cold light and haze and blue.
Stumbling through. Lost. Mirrors.
There’s a desert in the backyard
And another far far away
Fenced, long ago, white with numbness
It snowed once. Blood. Snow-Man, smiles. Snowman. Pervert.
Roman and distant. Woman. Snow man, the pain pains
And I’ll stand tall. Lighthouses. Garbage cans.
I opened the door. I faced what was coming.
A storm. A dream. A little white boat.
I opened the door. Yes.
People watching us. Men of shadows.
And women from the chateaus
And those other silences too. Never mind.
And there I’ll stand for you.
Between the ridges and the life
Between the edges and the knife
Between your eyes and the voice
Between your sighs and the choice
Between everything that swims and everything that drowns
Between the dancing nymphs and the naked towns
Between you and me
Let’s plant a tree
Flowers. Blood. Flowers. Huh!
Half deserted and half baked through Angels and nights and moons
and nihilist fancies. To burn. And to burn. And to burn. Besides the lakes
and the northern breeze to circle us in the vast cage of epiphany and to
make-believe that it’s not a chain anymore but flowers with sex and eyes and
then again the killers and the healers and the preachers and the nightcrazy creatures
Fall. Rain, drums and drumsticks and thunder for those who seek alms
For the ocean knows many tales and the skeletons know a few
And yet they mone for the glory and the daze for everything to exist like caves and beware beware for caves are graves with exclamation marks and other annotations draw
Fresh prayers from severed lips which knew how to kiss once but are pale cold and dry now because the desert never forgives though the ocean does and both of them forget and are safe-keepers of promises for others to live with them and words and turbulent images
Of what we think and we are cold and arms and all and sleep and again the fire gets fanned and elves come out in moonlight and the carnival begins in Rome and here and in the gypsies whose tongues were slashed by the evil red-bloodshot drunk wine rhododendrons in mountain lost wilderness and yes and beware and beware for the theatres have trapdoors which open to rooms filled with blue smoke and choked men of stone and women of marble with frozen tears and chosen rears and a void devoid of their and our own empty reasons to cry and to live and to blank blankets of joyless sorrowless painless travesties and geometries which seem so beautiful and straight and yet are stillborn though dead infants dream in those tidal wombs as well of the wet dark damp rooms where they spend the rest of their non-existent deaths and harmonies, ah but who plays the harmony the tune so sweet in this midnight death fog? And who digs for treasures now?
Is it a dream. Is this truth?
Winter arrived once, riding on a pale green song.
We were reborn in the same waves. Rooms.
I was born in a green gallery. The slaves were clapping
The jokers were holding photographs. The stars were eating the moths.
Suddenly, the doors sprang open and fountains and light and darkness and circles
and round and holy grey droplets came in through the sands and everything became hollow. I remember a yellow nightshade. Was it you? I see a yellow nightshade.
Is it you?
The king sees everything. The king is old. The trees are old. The streets are mad. They celebrate. Let them.
Oaks in cloaks.
Dream and smoke…..
There are snakes in cemeteries
We think of sex in symmetries
Phantom, who are you?
Killer, I know you!
And then the hummingbirds became sad for they could hum no more
Crosses gather moss. Our saintly subways are breaking down.
Someone save their souls.
And you were born in a bullet hole
And I’m an actor playing my role
Snuff. Ghostcandles. Wax. Melt. Melt.
Incense in your temple, your temple is dark and I am the priest
A serpent sleeps inside.
And there are laws to abide
In two-s and three-s
The first shame
I missed my aim
And hatred came
And no one new how the dark scent had taken over and how the flags were still fluttering and how we died and were reborn everymoment and our thrones and our crowns were meant to drown in the tumult of this restless, restless life for the mad men and women had gathered round the lighthouse in awe and I woke up to see the curtains being drawn and being lifted through the smoke and the haze of several sacred centuries when we learned to love in the monasteries hidden behind the veil of some unknown gaze-dark for the midnight had taken over and the lights bore the very same fragrance of these burning flowers and those burning hours and the hidden sisters prayed when our lips and our hearts came closer to the oblivion where no one can ever hide and everything seems so perfect, eternal and pure…. Encircled by the dawn. With fifteen million shades of light glowing in the breast of this Milky Way, and that Milky Way, and fifteen million Milky Ways all along the highway, and those other shiny things which are too heavy to carry to the camps must be left behind but for those rain-soaked sermons by our doorsteps.
They arrive in waves with the streets and oceans and blood
They are the paladins.
They have fire in their mouth,
Poison in their throat
And lilies in their hand. Children of Eternity. Oedipus of Time. There. Their
Hidden chambers down below
And shallow gallows
Spreading through. The primitive oak. Roots. Through the bones of time, heaven and dustbins, reaching out, reaching out to feel, to kneel, to falter before the altars and to break down into every single of the thousand drops from the sleepless guards made of broken pianos keys as they moan with the corpses of the abyss and the catacombs tired dreams and snakes from some misty wild haunted-sonnet-sad midnight land hunting for the flames the shames the names to tame the selfsame frames of fame and the game that aim at the lame and claim to maim those who came to blame all of them. There it lies. Down beneath the crosses. Defeat and absinthe. Our heroes. Bored minstrels. All.
Strange birds of dawn,
Lights. Turn them on
And tragedies become obscene in the final scene with some hidden screen in-between the actor, the acted, and the eternal sin. The caterpillar becomes a train in philosophies and silences and jeweled crowns and fuelled asses and the witch in the heath with her coldtits-coalpits-razorslits weaves her own little sky old and withered away through moments and epiphanies of those passionate fashions and fashionable passions towards the dusks and masks and sunsets and unrests and all things bright and beautiful all creatures great and small and stoned blue liquor-piss-smelling sunflowers in public lavatories after the painter became rain. And clouds pay their visit half-way down the road and feet freezes.
The army enters town. Marching sounds throughout the seraphim-night. And horses. A million horses. Tanks enter like those sudden gasps of the grasping trap that wraps our sleepless sleeps and listless lips to weep and creep and trip over the tulips that grow deep within us and them at night. The army enters town.
I feel you. Juxtaposed. Between images and me. Through radiances, audiences and raindances. Holy light. Holy. Fatal. Poetic.
Today is a beautiful day.
Today is a beautiful day.
Today is a beautiful day.
I’m on my way.
Today is a beautiful day
Tonight we shall sing
Tonight we shall sing
Tonight we shall sing
I will be your king
Tonight we shall sing
We’ve been gambling with our hollow wisdoms for the relics of factory-smoke for so long, long….. Smoke becomes the collar bone. Smoke. We’ve been yearning. I don’t remember for how long. How long? Was it the snow? Was I a cannibal? Where’s the ritual? Where’s the sacrifice? Seems like so many eras and ants and ladders and circus-song-broken-heart-w
For you who conquered every storm, my dreams. All for you. For the petalkissed venom wet drizzle rain rain all for the ones who never talked was it?oh! never ever to the sunrise to the moonsung whores and butterflies injected phantasms and Angelic eyes melting down to the whirlpools and the towers of decay and metal-plasic bohemian longevity. Amen!
Cheshire. Slow steps. Advance, stand before. Sands and dunes and mountains of gold. God resides there. Perhaps. Dream dribble dream. Dribble dream dribble dribble dream dribble dribble dream dream dribble dream dribble. I feel so senile and cold. Lights fade out at times. But at times, fresh blood! Gushing through! Fresh…..
The mind is a rain-forest.
There’s another rain-forest somewhere out there.
Hope is divine.
The band has passed through.
Cobwebs in my eyes.
Cold. Lips are blue.
Behold! Everything is true
And stoic statues.
Captive. Us. Them.
Illuminated, the Imaginary corners and circles.
hallucinate the Dead
So where’s the lamp?
The lion awaits. Fear the lion.
The lion awaits. Tear the lion
And at times I feel like this Samsa-giant-creature staring at my roof and not thinking of
anything beyond it, and you.
Wearing the weary smile and this series of masks and pictures and lights and rhapsodies and halos and harmonies that lead us to the death-pale of the silent oceans and turpentine-alleys of the tired streets once the celebration is over and the quaint kind night rolls like a fatal wordless worldless wheel of worship that sinks in the dark and floats in the other dark of our unknown hearts it hurts and lady midnight with flowing robes and rivers of silver and peace-nightlight by the fading lanterns of the fogkissed inn bloated out by the ink of the moon no mother no Sylvia silver gowns garnish days and beaten down till the dawn with drumbeats of they who wish to come and dear Santa Claus saints from roses and passions in the timber eros thanatos timber tinder dragon and there’s yet another dragon locked up in here and out there to weave and sing with the serpent-frog-dance-dance-c
Beethoven Beethoven caged in sounds
Found his voice from the rain-damp grounds
The little boy who heard him moan
Became the flower atop a stone
The broken man who heard him sigh
Became the clouds in a midnight sky
The boy, the man and the senile moon
They will fall asleep soon
But Beethoven remains awake
Beethoven is a snake
And lizards are but wizards
Who lost their way in blizzards
And Santa Claus lives in moss
In the world of profit and loss
And the little girl in a chocolate-dress
Fell in love with he who was rambling
But he was holding an Ace
As he was shot while gambling.
Cinderella stares down the lobby. Her feet are cold.
Being sad is her hobby. This story is old
And fairy godmother, she crosses the river
She tells you that she’ll live forever
Well, I think it’s easy to live
All you need is to make believe
The music gets louder
As the white powder
Chants through the mind
Leaving traces behind
By the water from the gates
The Tiger awaits….
Voices become noises when free.
Everything strange and blue in the land and forgetfulness; beggars lying down, gold and dust and life and angelic hymns are always meant to fool to illusions and to play along the tides and double-life for the mirages and miracles of the green green goblin-world to play. Strange lights. Befall. Hues. I see you. Touch. Dead fingertips. Weary tulips.
Release the lilies from the river. Set them free. Forever.
We speak of love and freedom from our turtle-turns
Staring. Hard. Long. Deep. Into the scars from the purple-burns
Music. Infinite. Slow. Streets swarming through with melancholic prophets and puppets and snippets of what-was-once and what will-be and then again, the what-is has her show tonight and she’ll dance and she’ll sing to the seagulls and the make-believe specters of the scepters and the figurines and statues with jewels to shine, shine shine bright in the light from our minds one whole and once, once guilt-washing rains to shower down from the other grey planets as portraits hung down the walls including Dorian Gray stare and admire the loop of our nooses and tomorrow, I go up the flames. Up the chimney. The chimney leads to the desert, and so does the sewer-pipe with bubbles shimmering in moonlight and this longing through postcards with pictures of warriors with roses…
Wild wild child!
Worms. Decay. Organs and orgasms by the oceans. Phantasms.
As skulls leave the void open rust in years in truth in tears and decadent verses striving for memories in the sweet incense of the faraway bridges arching, brooding, twining stresses through the dusk and those storms for a million-year-agonies and offsprings and wild pagan carnivals raging raging throughout. Molten eyes. Molten skin. Senses ablaze. Dead and numb. Speechless holograms. Sexless saxophones. Incarnations in loops. Ascending the altars to rewind the tide. And to remind the pride ....
Will you not sing for those in the dark?
Will you not come back into the calm black of our minds?
Will you not come seeking for me in the stars?
Will you not free me from this unvoiced curse?
Will you not take off your robe of silk?
Will you not drink with me the moonlight milk?
Will you not walk with me in solitude?
Will you not drown with me in the holy nude?
Will you not wake up by the distant shore?
Will you not lose yourself in this jungle-lore?
Will you? Won’t you?
Windows. Clouds. Pavements.
Anoint the dead.
Stars and scars
The rest shall fade
Like lonely cars….
And the sky is red
But I dread the thread
Some people march in file
Others just stare and smile
By the electric-smoked-glasses of half-vision
Some people await the dawn.
Others tread away into oblivion
Winding through our placenta-symphonies…..
Legions and legions of parables, fable, photographs, heartbeats, soldiers, bayonets, crowns, thorns, kingdoms, statues, pavements and their ballads meander across our cottage door.
Flames leap up.
Dragons and stone
And thus, these lost fables from this lost city seep their way into the soul of thirsty dead dreams and thirstless dead epics coiled up in the sacrament of eternal sleep…..Eternity.
Pure, Divine and Angelic…..