Nine Little Angels in Chocolate Wrapper Rags

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,

profane tears

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.