Sharing cigarettes with strange old men
Looking for jobs out in the sun
And consoling myself with facts of eventuality, inevitability etc.
Half of me pretends intellect and tells me that rejection is essential for the soul
The other half doesn’t care for the soul or for the sharks, it doesn’t care for the sun, the moon or the mother, or for anything at all.
At times I wish that the sky or the earth would eat me up, or I would eat them up
I close the panes, pull the shades down and draw up the curtains
Everything becomes static, time included
the dark matters of my Universe start kissing all velvet monstrosity
Sunflowers take lessons on truculence –
(I remember how my mother used to tend the Dahlias once.)
Fairies with fangs make love to one-horned shadows
Blizzards run through destitute neurons
Dead swans float on dead lakes
Symphonies march through this dreary nakedness
Angels bring in cold points of view
Arrowheads shimmer in starlight
Ghosts sit on my brain
Ghosts sit on your brain
Ghosts from my brain fight with the ones from yours
City streets are city streets
Nights are lavender, silk and kiss
Nights are television sets blurting out their own frozen and well-preserved ideas of the essence of communication and of communication of the essence
Frogs shake off Blue Shakespeare from the hurricane's wagging tail
And wolves leap up with the flames
And these are just pictures I am talking about.
And why the fuck am I talking about these pictures?
And who pisses at sincere sadness? What blasted sorcery is this, anyway?
Trudging through the grimy accounts of warfare, crime and dead children
tires the intellect out; -
The intellect wants a soft verse, a flat note,
a conception of beauty,
and some honey after the bitterness.
The intellect wants to remember Mother
The intellect wants to build a rainbow bridge to the flesh.
Hah! The Goldfish says – Hah! And once again,
trumpets roll out into the canvas
(another picture – Hah!)
Barricade the cows. Barricade the moss. Barricade the footsteps in light.
And why the hell am I writing these?
I think because I am tired of sharing cigarettes with strange old men,
looking for jobs out in the sun
And consoling myself with facts of eventuality, inevitability and all necessities.
I want to sleep and dream of gophers with saintly green eyes
I want to observe sparrows with white bellies and black beaks
I want to see stallions in moonlight
I want an erection that will tear open the darkness
I want to wonder whether god lives in the mountains
I want the windows to ask the flags why
I want the dogs to chase the clocks away
But I know that none of these will happen soon enough
Trains will never cry for Harold Hart Crane
And busses will never set cities ablaze by roaring out wildly for Flaubert
And pollens will never embarrass the demons
And people will never shed their dreadful skins
And love will never match up to hatred.
So, I am depressed.
The night is killing me,
The days are dragging me through dagger and dust;
I hope someday I'll be swallowed down by a huge Blue Whale
So that I can sit straight inside its stomach
and write my honest letters.