Poultice for those Damned Carbuncles of Love

Beware the ghosts of love

They are everywhere

They can take any form

And leap on you on least expected moments

And then you stop believing in the rain

And you do all sorts of funny things

Such as jumping on railway tracks without

Any particular reason

Or winding up in prisons, prisms and asylums

Or discussing dualism with tabby cats

Or hacking the skies of love

And digging the graves of love

And loads of other shit.

Shit you definitely don’t want for yourself

And shit others mostly want for you so

As to discuss, dissect, analyze.

So beware those ghosts of love

lurking in the dark alleys of allure

which are all around us.

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So here i am observing beerfizz oozing out

Of the third beercan for tonight (two down four to go)

And thinking of Sartre. Why the fuck am I thinking of Sartre?

You see, there was this girl

(Well hell, there’s always one, right?)

And she was crazy in her own ways
but not in my ways
And i was crazy in my own ways
but not in her ways

And she was there
And i was there too
And now she isn’t
And neither am i
And she is there
And i am here
and that’s about it.

So I was fighting hangover all morning
And sleeping all afternoon
And reading Sartre (Altona, a fine one) all evening
And i’m drinking now
And i’ll be drinking for the next two hours of so.
And that’s about it.

P.S. This city, where i am living now, is a rather peculiar one
It kicks your butt and kisses you at the same time)
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So this is a picture of love painted by a mad lover in insane heat

Too many adjectives. I don’t like adjectives. But i like this picture

It’s so

real.

Could there be a picture of me just like this?

And don’t forget the dogs who die young

And the poets and harlots who die old

And these million sweaty silent nights smelling of beer and solitude

And me here,

naked, cock in hand

thinking of the soul and ejaculating at the moon.

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Bohemian bananas, they’re not like actual bananas

They can walk and talk and sing

I don’t know whether they really exist or not

But they seem pretty much okay when they visit me

Every second night.

They tell me stories of soldiers on horsebacks and of tramcars with souls

And of princesses with warts and etcetera and i talk with them for a while

We share cigarettes, opinions, love, whiskey, blackbirds, bluebirds and some laughter.

I’ve told about them to anyone yet.

People, you see, are a pretty lousy bunch who look similar, walk similarly

And even talk about and think of similar things.

That makes the world a prison of sorts and me a prisoner

If i tell of the splendid bananas with whom i have a good time every second night

Listening to stories and sharing stuff i like to the people, they’ll send a doctor in

And the doctor will take out a big syringe and ah fuck, you know the rest.

Anyways, i like those bananas. They make the raving beast within me fall silent

for some time and they make me feel calm peaceful and easy.

I hope that unlike most things that are good in a big way

this one lasts for a long time if not forever.   

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To Ziba, head twisted, blogging of cynic affinity

Where’s the essence of triviality?

Do you like horses in moonlight or do you like horses in sunlight?

And where’s you in this clusterfuck of broken asses and broken waltzes?

This barren land has taken much and given little

It’s like blowing your nose on blottingpapers

Do you blow your nose on blottingpapers?

Can you touch your nosetip with your tongue?

There’s fun in that, almost as much fun as killing your enemies

Fun is all life asks of you and all you ask of life

and you is all life asks of fun and all fun asks of life.

It’s good this way. Trust me, it really is

And there’s this mad old storm raging outside.

....................................................................................................

Creation requires nonchalant living

And I have said this many times before

And I love tigers, wolves and rabbits

And I am sad now

Because wonderland is getting polluted

And unspoken thoughts are being persecuted

Everywhere

But yes, an expression of sorrow

is like lying on your back

and throwing up

the puke falls right on your face

Splat!

That’s one hell of a lousy affair if you ask me.

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The world’s wearing a shade of haze now

And i heard some cheesy music outside

It’s the declaration of death for this night.

And horrible poetry is born out of descriptions like these.

The weariness of this dull being

is the greatest tragedy ever

It makes us spew out shit like this

And i am being preachy again.

You see, the jokers have died out

Inside the caves of lunacy and indictment

And beside the large hadron colliders of life.

We can fight this insentience with big fat love

All for love and love for all

Love is a sharp sword. The sharpest ever.

But to what end?

To love’s end?

I, thrown out of mother

Batting on midnights

Howling storms

Semper idem

Hoop in a loop

Aloof lullaby.  Buzzing. I we us weewee dawn death reckoning whatnot wha!

Please Mama,

May i don a king’s robe for this act?  

I can make you happy.

O splendid flowers bloom in May and it’s all because of love.

Strangely, all the women i have had are different

in their own ways:

they all have limitations but so have i.

The virtues of tenderness are many

And it’s thrill-time now

Debunking solitude and solicitous permanence

In wanton abundance

Gives me a strange power

And makes me godly

And makes the mountains weep

for the tender tendrils

coiling around blank spaces.

 for my sombre magnificence

Because i am here to stay and be indifferent

and for singsong allegories that refrigerate our hearts.

You don’t need to comprehend poetry

Or Kierkegaard or Jodorowsky for this.

All you need is to be close enough for me to see every pore of your skin.

It’ll be easier for me to hump you then.

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Temerity be damned, i have a new house now

And makebelieve rain makes me want to drink more

Only cowards make a big fuss about original courage

And priests piss me off, the irony being my ancestors were priests too.

O the nectar of pure love.

How i wish to drink you up tonight!

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if i die right now

i won’t see tomorrow

o whatthefuck!

i want to see tomorrow

tomorrows are nice conceptions

like joints on this chain

i love them

they make me live

now, i’ve never fucked anyone under the shower

and i really want to do that on one of these tomorrows.

So i don’t want tomorrow to stop coming

i want to look at it as it comes

Just like i want to look at death as that inevitable bastard approaches.

My wants are many

Wants of love, wants of the heart and penis

Wants of that snaky yellow intellect that

haunts the city evenings.

And i want these wants like a lovepoem etched on

wild rocks and on busy pavements.

Flowers die when there’s no rain

That’s a bad thing.

That’s something i do not want.

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Everytime the phone rings

Or the sparrows wink

Or the mugs get a refill

It’s a serenade to me, for being alive

And this is how all clichéd poetry begins

The world of poems is like an orgy in a madhouse

Words jostling for equidistant prominence

Words fighting words, words fighting spaces, spaces fighting spaces

It’s all bloody much confusing

And there’s much blood and puke on the floor

Every expression and every gap finger and fence the others around them

It’s a world of boisterous anarchy

Where tarantulas bite Rasputin’s ass

And Falstaff jumps into Othello’s kingdom to seduce Desdemona

Before Othello, the motherfucking sonofabitchwithbigredboils

strangles the truest beauty that ever was

(Mister Falstaff, i want you to succeed.)

Anyway, not to digress,

The world of verses is one of nauseating confusion

where only the truly best can dare to venture in.

And this is how all clichéd poetry ends.

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