the beauty is only in being different part2

Lonelyache



Life went like film, film went to escalator,
On escalator life went like film went,
And they were notched by fatal he-lengator,
And from locator angles three were sent —

They stopped their motion, then began rotating,
Then stopped their motion, and the she-drill-tool
Between them out climbed from sorrow, hating,
And from the end a drop to glass fell full.

. . . And life just went, its curvicues a-lolling,
So drunken and so sober nonetheless —
All-simultaneous. And, of course, in falling
To tea she framed herself with all caress.

And she arrived just slightly out of season —
Not when was needed, but with wee lag off:
All satiate were, and her with stomach’s treason
She-dugout devoured, even, choking, scoffed.

. . . Life, so to speak, not savouring in slightest,
Yum-yum, and finish, while she slept on earth.

Well but locator wasn’t fooled by dugout-earthling,
One of . . . it doesn’t matter, Olgas, say,
Or Oxanas Olegovnas — by morse link
Through skin the vacuole he saw, in all assay:

Collapse of earth, where empty is, though loved was,
Where all the same is if by strawberry mouth shoved was,
Where somewhy life by devouring killdoved was,
Film was light-struck, they bled their come on pain . . .

And God angrily one! — turned back upon them,
And escalator two! — tore by itself,
And film three! — like life flipped over unthem,
And backwards went to hours’ clock to clef,

To get in time — once more! — to the tea-party,
Where though they’ll kill, at least they’ll smack before,
At least to make unvain both beat-face and fuck-hearty,
Both wondrous garden and antique landau . . .

. . . But one’d regret to say again we are untimely.
S;ance is over. Dugout sleeps anew,
And in her dark raw, like in blanket grimely,
The corpse of life’s film’s lying, bitten, nu.

God turned his back: how could she ever dare!
She swerved from way and swept along the way —
Though she was earthling, tender body gear! —
All that she managed to, and, well, all anyway . . .

. . . And he-locator’s she-drill-tool just killed her scare,
While she-dugout, having framed herself, slept day.










Requiem For Valeri Highson



That day arrived. With hand nasty and hollow
I’m lacing thinnish shoelace that declines,
Standing in vestibule on one knee, eye with sorrow
Having a-fixed on wallpaper, ‘twixt lines.

They are not there yet. With no frisson to follow
I write them now: ‘I’m lonely now, no fines’.

Unshaven after hangover, I’m fumbling
For sigarette in lining of new cloak.
I’m speaking. I’m at question stumbling.
It seems I’m heard by no-one, o coke.

In some room someone’s loosened tress, not grumbling,
I’ll wind around my fist, not stripping her, my bloke.

I lag-drag-walk along the darkened by-streets.
The light’s around — it’s grief of mine that’s dark.
With eyes of death noting the way in faucets
Spindles are spinning in the gloom that’s stark,

I hi the foes. Somewhere, echoing like casse-t;tes,
Voices are weeping that their life is funny park.

I walk the stairways, alone in universe.
A woman’s walking towards, all alone.
Akin to dirt, mankind, a comet’s curse,
The holey country lies around in stone.

And I would like, when talking to my heroes,
My tutors, to be vow, constanant and true,
But vowel by itself (it seems it’s ‘bI’, the 29th) in square zeroes,
Resembling fashionable houses, breaks through

My lips, having had crept in me long corridors —
Valeri, you must know it, I think so, knowing you —

Through what the sounds go — even this lone,
O yes, this ‘bI’. Yes, right, all through the night.
Here day arrived. Yet there was no dawn.
To follow you I’d suffer with delight.

I was the question. You, the answer, throned,
And for these walls you were no daughter, nicht.

I haste to finish. Singing you best second,
I into ‘bI’ will start turning for good —
On bottom of the sea suddenly swallowed, never reckoned,
Observing frozen years, notwithstood.

O if you all but known, out of what woe, beckoned,
The poems grow, not wising shame and rude.













Gesture Of A Sacrificial Love



Imagine that we two are no more there:
Our hair is by cold water being played,
The rain is flowing down some sunken faces fair,
The shoes are walking on some slushy pools in air,
While we are moving slow through twilit halls’ nightmare
And we are not to find the exit of this glade.

And so we walk — from one flat to another,
And so we walk — from one square to the next,
On drawings of lost world without a bother,
Past dust of things and crackling of the aether,
To the backyard of the deserted shooting tether,
Where our two lives hang in the vacuum’s text.

We come close quiet, careful, unnoticed,
And say to our own selves, unheard, ‘Look thrice,
Thus our life to interplanetary vorticed,
As easily as pack to sigarettary corticed,
Nothing terrestrial is secret anymore, hissed,
But all the rest is also merely lies’.

Imagine that we two are no more there.
Look what a tranquil look it really is.
To go from here — which is already debonair —
And this our life will end with start with no despair.
Imagine that we two are no more there,
And void will push us back to all of this.



Death’s Prayer



I don’t write the taky trifles-toads.
I don’t wring the throats of naked broads
In bed. And I don’t live in land of inequality and whoredom.
I just don’t live. I was killed off by boredom
Of the abaction: only half-dead steal the horses.
What’s horse about? For those who in vitality put forces
There’s no vocation beautier than controller,
And everything be paid for. On the lakes, where, droller
Than beasts from bore, the drones sing like bitches
And panically fear to work the serious stitches —
It means to use their head — there, rather,
If anything, we two won’t meet each other.

For if you are with me, or if I am with you,
And we are ready to cosign decrees which are not new,
About skies and tears and bitterness of loss
And usefulness of wool and uselessness of words,
About the fatherland the consciousness so hating,
About cult of that kind of the love which only squirts,
Then neither me nor you on those lakes’ grating
Here do have anything to do, their vacant looks so waiting.

And then again, if you don’t set apart
Where day is and where shade is, and like loud cat bart,
And don’t mew as should do any feline —
To cut it short, if really the canine
Carve-up and bickering are dearer to you, watch dox,
To you I won’t come out from behind the watch box,
Zipping my zip-fly — hinting like light starling:
Here’s what’s in store for two of us, my darling.

My darling, are you friend or just a wide bitch.
Here only furniture is made out of white beech.
Here only toad its beauty hides like rose,
For it knows:
Here beauty is, mon chere, to no-one close.

Sits, pouting and swelt, amidst swamp’s umbrum,
And past is led by hand a someone’s someone . . .

Well I am finishing the deed that was begun:
Soul is not seen. Well, so we’ll love the body’s fun —
But even then the throats of naked broads
We won’t wring in bed. For this handwriting fnords.
We’ll start to love the bare nature’s fetters
Without promises to bring her into letters
Or into family as/by our worthy member,
Or even into earthy heaven by our knee, remember . . .

No, we will fuck as equal to each other!
For nth year on I’m searching for peach mother
Who wouldn’t scribble taky trifle-toads —
Once there was one: she counted as free roads
All that she thought and deemed to be the main thing.
Those years ago I was too much of waywing
And failed to be her equal. All was too vast.
I didn’t love me then. All this is in the past.
Now I look round at nullity and see then
That that, that was, was really the Eden,
And I’m in hell and muse upon time’s tide.

They killed her, having squirted sperm inside.

Well chlorophormed. And with a gun. What care.
Blacker than blackness. No-one like Lera
Will ever be. Having recalled her lines’ insomnia
(Already difficult thing) — ‘Pour Beckett, omni-omni, et
Pour mois, all-all’. And I can be mistaken . . .
No checking out, no knocking at her door . . .

So, friends, don’t deceive your loves, your girls.
Don’t make pretenses with a whisper false.
In land of inequality don’t bend young maid to tunes.
Don’t promise her the castles on the dunes.
She doesn’t know the point well known to Lera:
‘I’m Valeri. And all the rest, cholera’.
Roughly like this. And Lera knew the price
And told: the searching from adultery’s caprice,
Constructivism from whore-out, the swarming
Of springtime bees from the cadaverous worming,
In which, you uncle, is your chosen sporting vice:
Well, here you came, electoral franchise.

Without making a bit closer acquaintance
You turned her out of Lera into mere stain stance . . .
You didn’t even think about the subtlety of skin,
Or else you’d strip her — which you didn’t do too,
you simply did her in . . .
The point is not her breasts, and not her thighs,
And know, you: it’s not the water that is carried in pails’ highs,
But the wild honey. But one has to peer good —
And you are cretin, so it seems, since childhood.

It was a head that Griffin didn’t dream of.
He was invisible — she sparked in dark, in rim of.
She did contain the electricity, fermenting,
Extensive waters, air’s fast momenting,
Four names, three bloods, and also Krakow, Poland . . .
And what to add, I don’t know yet, that’s no land . . .

I do not blame you. You are poor in your lust.
You looked at woman and you saw her as fuck-fast,
And you must tell yourself, with vodka at the kitchen,
‘Half year more — and after year’s pause, new ditching’.

Yes you were right: all round is just cholera.
Doctors are sick. I haven’t finished, Lera:
At least your death you met without pain’s frisson,
And thus it came out that we are in prison,
While you are free to choose where to settle in,
And though no world’s hub nor even capital within
Some country, I, the blaster, the translator,
Booklover and, to God, no thug or hater,
A friend to people, and a misanthrope for environ,
Ask at your birthday that did not arrive on:

Please lend to me your now unhearing ears
From almost mythical for me dry land’s wee clearance,
From country that I didn’t see as native
Not judging by my friends, nor by the ads’ hot dative,
Nor by the fact that ‘Solaris’ was made there —
Here, kneeling so ineptly, with no played scare
I do confess to you that fear eats up the soul
When I have seeming of the possible ruin of whole —
So please don’t spurn your vow never given,
Don’t send to me no-one with hi-farewell forgiven —
We never promised to our own selves no nothing.
When everybody all around just wailed and peeped, mothing,
You died. Out of a little town square
Settle in me. I don’t say vale, Lera.








































From the book
Waiting For The Black Hole



WAITING FOR THE BLACK HOLE.
(Lethargic Dream)

1. overture
2. trio+quartet
3. scherzo
4. tutti+choir
5. interlude
6. code

+
postscriptum
the end of the life
industrial kamasutra
tedium vitae
open letter
another parting
say farewell to all that go







Waiting For The Black Hole.

(Lethargic Dream)



1.
OVERTURE



Well we were born to wrap the world in shawl.
We’ll give the drink of tartest ruth to all
Behind the stainless entrance steel of wall.

Well we were born to turn the stars to dust
For expostule to our own past force lost
Before the age that sing us song of needle grass

That’s better heard than roar of the big band,
Than din of hands at sight of happy end
And children’s laugh in torture halls of Disneyland . . .

don’t switch don’t spurn: good verses I can tell —
well just till when we’ll hear the same again —
good verses always are about the same again —
the more so — no-no-no don’t switch it off —
you work today? — abysmal hell of deals —
then take your keys — your cat is off now — ciao

Of cute small feet small hoofbeat on wood tiles
(Like on the food-trays),
Skirts’ loud rustling in turnstiles
(Like in the mincers),
And the houses-foxes
Just like match-boxes.
(And matches, people; and they have the legs —
To run from fingers, and they have the gods —
To whom run hearses . . . and also there are furnaces,
But to recall that is unhandy, oxes).

— hallo hallo the advertising agency
— hallo hallo security security
— hallo hallo the morgue of district hospital
— this is about the call of the last day
— exchange of currency oh really business english
— oh what o’clock oh call back in a month

. . . april . . .
. . . allo . . .

— DO TOU REALLY WANT
TO QUIT THIS WORLD?

Will not yet bed
Your surely sentenced city
When blood will curdle
And the darkness clot —
You’ll come out of the gate,
Your collar raised, to pity
Of the wind howling
And round-the-corner dirt
Of battle words, and white
And heavy raven will just land
On shoulder right
And caw into the night
That the Muse had died . . .

. . . as if Dante’s muglet
made of canine bacon
has fallen into your bed.



2.
TRIO+QUARTET



Under the old warm blanket, under the old warm blanket,
Under the yellow lampshade, under the black piano
She’s lying, sprawling, lazy, and thinks of little something,
Not taking off her white eyes from window screen’s guano.

She’s twenty eight by now. Some time ago was twenty.
Bit short to twelve let slip she was and overlooked in plenty.

Where has it gone by now — and this old wives’ summer,
And that first date in the abandoned desolate pack-house?
Where is the tender forehead, high with a beret’s mummer,
The awkward gait and the cartoon about a Mickey-Mouse?

That film it was erased out and those photographs burned down.
Now all that’s in mail box are poison letters from the clown.

And white winds go a-blowing, a-carrying the memories . . .
She rises and unwillingly puts her unironed jeans on.
Some doubts creep uneasily into unconscious’ treasuries,
And about nothing serious goes fiddling the King Crimson.

Her look it was so meaningful during all days as one.
Now words and music matter really nothing under sun.

Dumber and dumber brown leaves are tumbling
Into raw garages on empty vacant lots.
Behind her, who went out, the steel resounds loudly:
Capricious mouth, wearied-out eyes.

In such a days the popularity grows
Of parties, dim light, sparkling wine and love.
But someone alien to her watches her every gesture,
Flowing like blood from in-between-trunks leaves.

He notes: legs in black jeans, long and loping,
Lolittish blonde — not beautiful but cute.
He closes down the Eliot’s small volume
And moves his eyes to close window’s dark:

ABOVE THE EKATERINBURG THE LURID EVENING
THE ROTTEN NIGHT ABOVE THE EKATERINBURG
DEAD ACTRORS PLAY OUT SKETCHES INTENSIVNING
THOUGHT OUT BY THE DEADEST DRAMATURG

who dated us today under clock’s ash
who moves its hands like moves its own moustache
the ragged cockroach
pleased by newest lodgers of the sashe

‘who dated us today under clock’s ash?’

THE CONDOMS GO FLOWING ON ISET
EXACTLY WHERE FLOWS CONTRECULTURE
WE ARE ABOUT TO GET CAUGHT BY INET
ALL REST ALAS IS JUST LITTERATURE

we’ll sit together in the nearest bar
where in the backyards on the cognac’s tare tar
rustle the tails of the detestable beast star
resembling rats in the worst night’s cauchemar

‘tell me who waits us in the nearest bar?’

FOUR IN THE NIGHT ACTRESSES SLEEP AND SNORE
FOUR IN THE NIGHT SLEEP ALL THE DRAMATURGS
ALL FROM BEHIND THE WINGS THE RATS CREEP FORE
FOUR IN THE NIGHT IN EKATERINBURG

love me I have to rise it’s early for the work
here comes the sun it doesn’t hide the yawn
only to barf we manage to turn wine
(perhaps I’ll buy myself Toyota and beyond
to make things lively for my neighbour-jerk)

‘you know with what I’m being paid for work?’

ECLAIRS
MADE OF LERAS
MARMALADES
MADE OF LADAS
PILAW
OF HEADS
ASPIC
OF HEARTS

‘Do you really want to quit this world?’








3.
SCHERZO



What do you dream of, Great Pyramid, oh?
What does triceratops really live for?
Whatever tells us horizon’s zero?
Only the chance to see dodo-hero?

the way the world ends
the way the world ends —
is not a whimper
or lindens’ lisp:

it’s water fever —
never / for ever —
skull on the bottom
with polyp’s lips.



4.
TUTTI+CHOIR



you see les fleurs in the valley look
where it is darker their white is ripe
each one like shroud yes-yes like shroud
small little shroud and there are many
also white but not quite it is us
it is death’s valley it is deaths vale
it is small little death’s fleurs so white
with dead souls within and inside inside
each little fleur will tell the truth to us
how it was paper was born how grew
how it was paper and died so little small
how it is possibly growing still
you see the field des fleurs in the valley
life’s in death’s valley vale look
we are two also small fleurs so little white
yes but not quite we are greyer dark
life to live is this field to cross across
well oh really now we’ll go
measuredly winnows the paper wind it goes
deaded souls like dry rain flow
measuredly middlespeed wind wind winnows
middlespeed we are aforming window’s
fan or death’s paper butterfly widow’s
measuredly whom wind turns like minnows
hey you there who got the matches
in world of paper must be the matches
know that smoke is aforming water
we will burn but we’ll build the water
hey you further in two steps further
we’ve burned down transmit it you there
let be charred every small white shroud
it will rain tell you voices loud
higher rises the dusty storming
strange gunpowder is aforming
we’ll all burn but we’ll build the water
possibly we will build the water
for our world is in shawl awrapped trapped
we are rustling like dead voile scrapped
give us give us arms legs instead of logs
our lives they are like epilogues
hey you those who got the matches
where have you been
where have you been
thus les fleurs are rustling of papier-mache:
‘send with flick matchbox to dry souls that ache’.



5.
INTERLUDE



It is no wonder that the stars us rapture.
Of one who put the moves on them, hand didn’t shake.
We’re not like this — we need, our own flock having fractured,
To pour cold light from far, in their wake.

The joust goes on, and we just queen our pawns,
Ourselves reproving for the want of speed.
Have this, Grand Masters: don’t forget in hurried dawns,
End game is only way game ends, indeed.

The gibbous phase. The silver face is driving
To think of death that stopped the SOS.
Anti-utopia in visu is a-striving!

How can one love not this cool paradox of dress?
The symbol’s given right above us of what’s coming,
While we just call Lilith and drown in our cumming.








6.
CODE



. . . ‘Twas twilight. And the slimy doves
Did mire and fumble in the bread,
All flimsy were the moron moths,
And the gnome trunks outbled.

I died in Jan., in the beginning of the year,
And found myself in vast and darkened wood,
Where nematode and poulpe were ruling fear.

Sliding, I made a crawling out to sandspit good,
Where gloom seeped through, and goldilocks of seaweed
Above abyss did twirl, aweigh, misunderstood;

Between them gloom seeped through. On bottom’s wee seat
The pair of ragged claws were rolling, not in haste,
And one’s feet stuck in, like in lipstick on a tea set.

And silently my soul a-followed me, so chaste.
Apart from worms, hardly a soul was there:
Only the silt did smoke, so meaningless, like waste.

And suddenly I stepped up to the swamp I cared
So much to find. It rotted. Branches, brown,
Of rotten trees hid grotto’s cave, and scared,

I saw there blackness of unspeakable horror crown.
I was to find there the bottle, heavy, white-green,
That spent millenia in seas without a frown.

I didn’t try to hide my gladdened wide grin.
I walked a long way, and I was very well paid,
Though now I resembled piteous pied spin.

Here anyone who was the woman-made,
Would stop avast; but my flesh decomposed,
I was unbodied . . . having reached this date,

I felt only the dead fatigue of prose.
I entered grotto and took bottle from the sill.
A note, like butterfly, did flutter in its hose.

With hits of hand I shook the dust until
It stopped to hide the insect. She turned over.
I peered well and then I read: ‘KOVYLL’.

hello
hello
how good it is that you came here
and you still watch this poor trash
well I almost don’t watch
of ‘deals’ I did it hear
i took time-off
what for
insomnia again
yes? well go watch — me, shower, bed, zen

SHE WENT TO SLEEP
HE WENT TO SLEEP
THEY WENT TO SLEEP

don’t forget to turn off your tv set
don’t forget to turn off your tv set
don’t forget to turn off your tv set


Postscriptum



How hibernally autumn out window looks!
But your smile, come to think of it, stranges and gooks —
Those who were your guests, left their traces, that’s all.
And you were left alone in the winter’s square’s nooks.

Universe’s shape’s circle. On corner you live —
In the loneliness traces on floor wash and heave —
And it is as if snowmen’s thick corpses as guests
Left their traces in form of white horseshoes, believe.

Having left total naught in the sky’s ursa’s scoop,
Stirring day after day in the lewd noodle soup,
Nothing’s left but to stare at the MTV’s screen,
Thighs caressing with palm while dreaming of soul,

Never trying to hide the sad fact that it died.
How disgusting and sweet are the bodies when eyed!
For each one has a corpse inside, weak-willed and yours
(So in winter you dream under grass behind doors).

Every day grow stronger high tides of that dream.
Don’t feel sorrow, relax — for attractive you seem.
Keep on waiting for me: only weather’s at fault
With the fact that we still haven’t met the sky’s vault.

Were it but a bit darker, were brighter the lights,
Were the snow a bit thicker — we’d stay alone late,
And we’d watch life as if it is MTV’s clip,
Making love in delight in deep blood on the floor.

The End Of The Life



And still not everything is being lost. And still
Not everyone is being mad. It is true, but
The day’s not far away. You shoulder put
Against the empty door. The absence is black chill.

Stop if you ever really walked at all.
Nothing will crown these verses versus pain.
And after them you’ll move in vain to fall.
What for, in vain? Don’t ask what for, again.

To nadir your cold eyes affix, keep mum.
While you are moving, keep look down on your way.
For in return when to the frontier you’ll come,
For everything their deceptive May will pay.

If in the end dare ask for love we do . . .
. . . But we don’t know what is at our end.
You shoulder put against the window’s blood
And have firm memories of lost face of a friend.

What are we like? Like this? Oh it may be.
Or maybe not, and of the other thing.
Go understand. I want to howl like bee.
Already don’t. My voice in foe now, sting.

Foe and that’s all. Let’s faster go to sleep.
How will all end? In went its way, it seemed?
On yellow thoughts with the black razor sweep?
But bodkin’s better, if the evil’s deemed.

Industrial Kamasutra



In tender, piteous, sick, obscene
Northern city had met the two.
The sun like faceless emblem shone.
Here sun returned, and it is light blue.

In Lethe drowned the terror’s time.
And now time only for poker’s left.
‘Aurora’ cruiser to sky, swift crime,
Carries pleased broker and his sweet theft.

Bang went the doors, and the hungry morn
Tenderly down on blanket falls.
It was Industrial Kamasutra porn
That shone above them its black gold balls.

They are indifferent to shitty news,
They are indifferent to Greenland’s fights.
Enough is the local stark nature’s dews,
Temperature drop, malnutrition, sights —

Caress and tenderness are so ripe in sun.
Clusters of lilac on streets, in water.
Hug each other, dear — you’re in Web, as one.
Time stands, humping its lonely back, shorter.

No putting clogs into wheels of hugging,
No toilet seat to become the first beauty.
Life cannot lose its anchors or bugging,
Beat how you may on the copper bowl, sooty.

In an exhaustion smoke the lovers,
Something green hovers. Stereo’s right.
Smoke gets to eyes inflamed and covers.
Here sun returned, and it is blue light.































Tedium Vitae



It’s hard to think for us. It’s long since we are tired.
We’re undeveloped and in love with cocaine.
What if we ask the steel for pain acquired?
Blow, time, blow. Unstably we stand in.
So many times we burned our swollen sfire,
That even others’ thing our own now seems.

Fare well then, Russia, Lethe, Lorelei.
Shine on, you dishes, clearer and more strong.
Runs riot madly groceries on shoreline,
But life will go. And people will be gone.
Into Aquarius age will enter just two liars —
Walt Whitman and Walt Disney, only ones.

We keep on smiling on the roofs of the new buildings.
Blow, time, blow. It’s long since our home’s void.
The smilings drown in the Pacific, so unwieldy.
We go to sleep with the brain cyst annoyed.
‘Sleep, sleep, the planet of the myths and partings killdy’,
With stress is writing the gold Parker humanoid.










Open Letter



Once the Man was window’s friend I say —
Lovingly he eyed it eve and day.
From inside, outside, in night and morning
The impressions left on him their whey.

But the time has come; and here it is:
That the Man on window lorn eyes fixed.
Something devilish in him began its speaking,
It was awesome and not funny in the least.

Satan keeps on twinkling: go prove.
Well, go prove, and knives go flash and move.
Truth is just the sum of demonstrations,
And, as such, lie’s sister, once removed.

What exists is only the God’s grace —
Never own anything. That’s ace.
For the God is top unmercenary, children.
Only Devil is souls’ buyer, cruel face.

And some superman flew over in a chase,
Strangled Carmen in his powerful embrace,
Humankind invented the weighbeam
To esteem the weight of the I Ching,

What came next were times of paper waste,
Countercultures, progress, faiths unchaste,
Altruism, theosophy and problems,
Blackest holes and horrifying emblems,

And the Man on window lorn eyes fixed,
Suddenly deciding: it him twixed.
He was frightened and he drew the curtains.
It was when the truly darkness mixed.

I don’t call for anything to do.
What I said was: riots aren’t to do.
What I said was: hatred is unable
And is fruitless — why, it’s clear for you.

Oh look back, the creature of the Earth.
All you ‘see’, you don’t know what it’s worth.
In the lonely cells do perish loners —
The minority who’s right, I put it forth.

Oh look back, God-equal, at your home,
Not in anger — in your heart’s light, make an oath.


















Another Parting



With many ones have parted you with me.
The coat of felting on the horns of hall —
The leisured fiction only for word’s sake.
O who would tell what can’t be beat in principle
In love — nohow?
So it comes out, heart is also vincible
And just turns face’s cleanness into fake?
All rest was simply chattering, so wee,
Of the wild wind in passerby’s hair’s fall.





















Say Farewell To All That Go



If it’s bitter in mouth —
Wash your mouth, don’t rot.
If the toothpaste is lacking,
The soap will do.
If no-one already
Dances fox-trot —
Go throw it to pit
With a sign reading ‘through’.

What is all this?
You didn’t board tramway,
And it passed you by,
For you didn’t go.
Don’t make a long face:
Here comes the May . . .
SAY FAREWELL TO ALL THAT GO.

You thrashed so long time —
On window, wind,
You thrashed like heart to
The hard stones flies.
You thrashed so long time,
That dark took wing . . .
Your sorry surface,
It drills my eyes,

Hey you, reflection!
Listen, I!
Our love was just —
Made by tramway go.
What’s consolation?
O pain mine . . .
SAY FAREWELL TO ALL THAT GO.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Standing near house with loud curse that
Ready like cry is from lips spring act,
Go round the house and you’ll see that
House is not box but the tesseract.

What is all this? Only house has light.
Into the dark it from it takes flight.
Go out the house and enter the house:
Midnight will blossom in bosom’s blouse.

All that you ‘love’, with your hand make blow.
SAY FAREWELL TO ALL THAT GO.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dictum-factum: you made all blown.
See how little damage has grown?
Seems that you loved only nothing, clown:
All has contained its own status quo.

Don’t make a long face. Here comes the May.
Our love will with tramway be brought to stay.
All will get quiet, you know, I know.
SAY FAREWELL TO ALL THAT GO.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *































From the book
The Beauty Is Only In Being Different



THE BEAUTY IS ONLY IN BEING DIFFERENT.
Po;me

1. отрезок /отрез/
2. the triangle <the angel>
3. квадрат [ад]
4. the pentangle {the tangle}
5. точка (.)

+
asya sokolova
zoya kireyeva
marylin monroe
алиса лидделл
гертруда стайн











THE BEAUTY IS ONLY
IN BEING DIFFERENT



ОТРЕЗОК Ибо Гертруда Стайн
/ОТРЕЗ/

THE TRIANGLE For Agnes Wilkinson
<THE ANGEL>

КВАДРАТ Ибо Валери Хайсон
[АД]

THE PENTANGLE For Magnolia Santibanez
{THE TANGLE}

ТОЧКА Ибо Ася Соколова
(.)











ОТРЕЗОК
/ОТРЕЗ/
Ибо Гертруда Стайн



1a.


Гертруда трудно потанцуем танго
Ева ужасно погибаем манго
Резок отрезок и обрез разрезок
Труда / труба /
Руда / раба /
Удар / ударь /
Дар / подари верни мне /
Ад и рай / и те цветы любви что цвета крови /.



1б.


С невыразимой с такой с тоской
Тащу я тебя с собой домой
А ты — А МЫ — мертва — МЕРТВЫ
Йатсадуртрегн тсадуртрегн йа, Адам —
Нам те цветы любви, что цвета крови.





THE TRIANGLE
<THE ANGEL>
For Agnes Wilkinson



1a.


She’s the cold girl
In the cold world
And the cold war
On the cold water.
No after —
And no before —
For the cold daughter
In the last quarter
Of the last laughter
Of the last world.



1b.


THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE THE NEXT MORNING
WHEN THE NIGHT LOOKS LIKE THE TEXT BURNING
AND YOU LOOK SAD AT THE FACTS WARNING
THERE IS NO TIME FOR THE BACK’S TURNING.




2.


Angels are
Gaping at
Naught at all
Eve is all
So very much
Waiting for Touch
In Empire of Feel,
Looking for Beauty to
Kill-chill-drill-fill —
Isn’t it
Nonsuch,
Sucking the
Oval
Nothings?



3a.


From a long distance no one’s phoning
Thru a long distance you can’t phone in
‘Tis a prong distance you stand proning

For you fall for in the Wrong-Girled
At your free fall in the Gnorw-Whirld

All is phoney phoney phoney phoney PHONEY.




3b.


Do never mind the future of the cutey —
When all are gone where everything is blind,
Economics will take another bite:

“DISINTEGRATE THOSE PEOPLE IN THE TUBES:
THERE IS NO LIFE IN THAWING SUGARCUBES” . . .

. . . I dream of Tango with a Corpse of Beauty.
























КВАДРАТ
[АД]
Ибо Валери Хайсон



1.


Валит ветер ответ на взгляд
Ангел ты ли мой светлый друг
Ласка хищно вцепилась в мясо
Егерь голову клонит в кровь
Руки нежные где опора
Иностранцевия у светофора
Холод сердца и запах фтора
Ангел ты ли мой светлый друг
Йеху йеху кругом лишь йеху
Снова каменным станет круг
О обнажи обними отпусти меня
Ночь ночь ночь ночь.



2а.


Don’t — it snows / o how o wow
I’m just like you / scared — scared
Yes o yes my yes / o my frau
Woods of mine are — beared,
beared.

2b.


The boy and the girl
in the big room
Are eating the shit
with the big spoon
The girl and the boy
happy together
happy together
happy together вместе —
вновосибирке ночью.



3.


Ворвань пахнет концом любви
Алиби алиби или смерть
Ласка ласково просит мяса
Егерь молча лежит в крови
Руки нежные просят смертное
Иностранцевия любит смерть
Хоботом смертное круть верть
Алиби алиби у светофора
Йеху мёртвые просят фтора
Снова смерть и бетонный дым
О обнажи отпусти любовь
Ночь ночь кровь кровь.





4a.


THIS WASN’T WRITTEN TO EXPLAIN SMTHNG
WASN’T WRITTEN ALSO TO EXCHANGE SMTHNG
WRITTEN ONLY WAS TO EXTRACT SMTHNG —

Something that | Well
You can taste | You can taste
Well | That something

happened

?Don’t know for sure
No pain mama
All is indifferent?



4b.


omy . . . . . . . . littlefriend
othou . . . . . . . . pony











THE PENTANGLE
{THE TANGLE}
For Magnolia Santibanez



1a.


to begin with i’ll mark
all the points on the map
of this text-universe

(we all hunt for the Snark
my design is the trap
that i’ve built in this verse)

to proceed with i’ll name
things you shouldn’t forget
when this tangle is done

(world is never the same
if you guess the cassette
where the tune is finespun).



1b.


don’t learn this by heart
(i don’t mind if you do)
this is NOT a love song

(i just quote: DON’T LET’S START —
Our sum won’t be two —
And the last line is wrong).



2.


Make myths not love
And you’re never alone
Gasp or be free and laugh
Nemo he said so
Oomph is a funny hook
Lamprey’s a tender monster
If you could kill the looks
Aliens would be funsters
So if you wanna be had in a taxi
Astraddle is almost always sexi
Nobody knows who wrote MEIN KAMPF
Though many know that JONES was SPIKE
I brag it’s banal like a bundle of bumf
But don’t belong to the one you like
And never stare at the barking tyke
Never try to buy
Ebony ivory even mahogany
Zombie’s only the lonely guy.







3a.


those consumed by the stream of events
think that they think
though they just
thaw

thirsty they swim though dead-&-dry
think that they think
they are wet-alive

thwack thwack
they go out of sight —

thank you!



3b.


thick as a brick but thin as a sin
they are just penez
through-&-through

they never try to get it why
this wall is pink especially for me:

thank you!





4.


Maybe we’ll never know the purpose of THIS
And the wheel that we cling to
Gorgeous wheels of the destiny
Never stopping will turn us weevils
Over and over until we die
Lustily we send out our feeble
Imaginary imagination
As we grope in the total dark
Stumbling over each other
And we don’t want to apologise
Nights roll by freely
Touching your distant skin i say
I tried to reach you
But the light deceived me
Actors we are but there’s no theatre
Nothing we really want to do
Empty cages invite us to visit the
Zoo where no-one ever goes.


5a.


this tangle is done
my heart it’s the angle
who wants to be tender
that angle says:

my wanted one
i’m just some bangle
returned to sender
who likes your ways



5b.


when i saw the foam of days was only the lather
i bemoaned the former and applied the latter
and i washed my hands and i climbed the ladder
and i wrote this letter:
THERE WAS A LOVER,
AND I FELT BETTER.























ТОЧКА
(.)
Ибо Ася Соколова



Гудбай моя Мэрилин
с рыжими волосами
Ты не моя ты не Мэрилин
ты моя Мэрилин
С рыжими волосами
ФЕВРАЛЬ
налетает на нас уже летом
на нас наметает
на нас БЕЗРАЗЛИЧИЕ
с гаснущими глазами
ГУДБАЙ
моя мертвая старая Мэрилин
с рыжими волосами
Я запомню тебя
в твоей юности
с тонкими пальцами
с черными кольцами
в тени
ПОД ЧАСАМИ
ГУДБАЙ
моя Мэрилин с рыжими волосами
Я запомню тебя
абсолютно раскованной
женщиной в черном
с рыжими волосами
с гаснущими глазами
в тени под часами
ГУДБАЙ,
ГУДБАЙ.















































ASYA SOKOLOVA



As long as you really can
See what your future is:
Yes, I’m just another —
Another nought in the street — but
So are you, my oldest friend.
OK: let’s pretend this isn’t the end —
KO! KO! KO! KO! KO! KO! KO! — The End . . .
Olden I am, older you are.
Love your disasters but spoil no star.
Oughtn’t it be our secret scar?
VALE! — if you go between the guys:
ALIEN hunts where your future lies.


















ZOYA KIREYEVA



Zoo where we’d meet
Octangle hell
Yawning with hatred
Achtung you bitch
Killing you softly with my
Isthmus-stomach
River would run
Evening to gun
You.
Even the ugly would like to kill you.
Vesperday’s freedom becomes blood.
Achtung you bitch, or I start flood.


















MARYLIN MONROE



Mother she was a stupid whore
And she was a thorn in her side
Rapid eyes movement of her red eyes
Yelling FUCK YOU and so on
Lady’s underwear has along gone
Irritating was her lifestyle
Never stopping automobile
Moon is over for cooing shore
Over the top and never more
Night is colder she’s well aware
Run much colder for cooing pare
Oozing cold of a lover’s stair
Evergreen till the air is sore.

















АЛИСА ЛИДДЕЛЛ



Астролябия мудрых взоров,
Леди лет десяти узоров —
Искусительнице видней,
Сколько стёкол замёрзло в ней.
Антипатии, коридоры —
Леди, сила свирепых дней
Иллюзорна, как окна, шторы —
Демиурги больных теней.
Демон ласковый, что ж там было,
Если ты его — разлюбила,
Льюис Кэрролл твоих очей,
Льюис Кэрролл ничьих ночей.


















ГЕРТРУДА СТАЙН



Я долго ждал, и вот мой друг пророс
Сквозь синей жизни медный купорос,
Сквозь белый цвет оранжевых волос —
Твоих, Гертруда Стайн;

Мой друг дождался часа этой массы,
Как синее колечко из пластмассы,
Что терпеливо дожидалось прорастанья
Шального дерева сквозь центр ожиданья —

И дождалось, и понеслось
Сквозь белый свет оранжевых волос,
Сквозь синей жизни медный купорос
Навстречу солнцу в медный купорос небес.
















From the book
Macroverses



gnorw

i loved you so much

the barbed wire

the faerie queen

















GNORW
(666)



1


(anyshit)
WROOOOOONG!!!!!!
(anyshit)
WROOOOOONG!!!!!!
(anyshit)
WROOOOOONG!!!!!!



2


gninaem fo lluf
efil fo yerg eht ni
smaercs dna
stoor eht no enola lla sklaw tsuj eh
AHA OHO
rallec gnilgnarts eht ni
amocras eht otni denrut
yawa thgir niarb sih dna
KCIS OS
gnuh dah msahc eht erehw
emong demra-dekoorc eht fo
seye otni dekool dah ohw

3


.WRONG,
WRONG —
WRONG
ssenllits eht
fo tnediserp eht,
fleS

.Revetahw
eid t’now —
WRONG
ssenllits eht
fo tnediserp eht,
fleS

:Reverof
yas annog —
WRONG
ssenllits eht
fo tnediserp eht,
fleS



4


Я,
президент
неподвижности
ГНОРВ,
говорю
навсегда:

Я,
президент
неподвижности
ГНОРВ,
не умру
никогда.

Я,
президент
неподвижности
ГНОРВ,
ГНОРВ,
ГНОРВ.



5


Кто в глаза посмотрел
Криворукому гному
Там где пропасть повисла
ТАКОЙ БОЛЬНОЙ
И мозги его враз
Превратились в саркому
В удушливом подземельи
ОГО АГА
Он гуляет один по корням
И кричит
В жизни серой,
Исполненной смысла:



6


ГНООООООРВ!!!!!!
(тишина)
ГНООООООРВ!!!!!!
(тишина)
ГНООООООРВ!!!!!!
(тишина)


























I Loved You So Much



1


I do reflect in this cool faces
And I’ll them flood like water cussed
While you still ask for fairytale
About birds’ traces

They are no more long since
The years passed

We’re turned so sudden and unbeau
Into ourselves
One hundred thousands years ago

For us them houses now
Which built are so askew
For us them now
The smiles amiss that go

I’m gonna leave into the splintered glasses
And live like in the old and leaded light
Call me call me
The rain on windows’ passes

Come on call me . . .
For I’m already died.



2


You: in the night, on the balcony,
Under the sunshine, verses reading —
Me, me: quivering sculpture form
In full day’s twilight, recalling you.

As for the light years —
One hundred millions.

Late game of chess;
No games whatever,
The skin
Alone.

Black pieces, white pieces,
Pieces of you.

A shade of a branch on the board in the moonlow.

‘If I sleep with you on —
For ever and ever —
Not loving you —
Will more infinite hatred
Be found wherever?’

Looking up boy runs his eyes into girl
In a ghost of a nightgown.

Carcinoma the size of heaven.




3


Answer me with your own speech
Or quote some poet of auld lang syne —
Like a weather report with a tree on a beach
I lack something special to verify,

Will ever be there any token
To differ my heart
From your endless shops —

Can it be nightmare
That keeps on walking
When the clock stops?

I want —
Something.

















The Barbed Wire



1

in the cities there’s too much freedom and too much love
in the nights silent phantoms come call don’t call they rove
in the cities there’s too much of what’s outside
and too too little of what’s inside
and because of that that what’s inside
from the enormous spaces of void protects
the barbed wire.


2

this is NOT the organic thistle
this MATHEMATICAL flower whistle
protects more likely itself ‘thing-danger’
and far out gladly than something else
for nepenthe hunts for ‘innocuity’
(колючая-проволока that is before you:
repugnant icon) in all: world is more new
only when in it ‘. . . this obstacle’s absent.’
(o Las! . . this world is the
‘blue orange’, raw you.)


3

words (for example: ‘the orange’, ‘blue’,
‘dead from the start’, ‘this grief is smart’)
hardly will help the kids find salvation
them salve from words only then is right art
when their kidding’s yet lasting (AS YET); and in it
is freedom of kids — and not only kids (IT’S LASTING YET
freedom low notions throw in anger
through the barbed wire.)


4

for us anger’s de trop
you I draw like me draw into strangeness
(so, strangeness: ‘NO—RANGENESS’? —
no! — it’s simply the end
of the space passed by body!)
in this life yes besides in the other —
full them both are look weird not weird look CONSTANCY . . .


5

draw you endlessly I do through bars of events and ideas,
like the barbed wire:
‘. . . messed completely your cards; it’s your eden:
as empty as is your hell — as HELL YOUR! . .
come awake! return into empty where rule
just ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ —
and wirelets — sharper never vibe —
circled shrubs, spiral shrubs:
Ivvy-&-Vvine . . .
(. . . TECHNOCRATICAL
PSEUDOBLOSSOMLETS . . .)




6

all our ‘girl’ — for ‘today’ :
— FROM LACES SPIRAL,
RINGS STRIGOSE! . .
(something’s WR ONG deeply — or, ‘not in order’ :
things worth searching for us we find
already when dead, while while lived — searched-searched
not something but ‘reason’ (?!) — at that knowing BEFOREHAND,
that without consequences searchings — are only schemings
just as the city is — metastases of ecstasies
of cancerous growth — of total nonsense of
equarighteous meanings — at that so HEARTLESSLY,
CEASELESSLY MANY!)


7

‘. . . pity not the salvation . . .’
‘. . . there’s no love neither freedom —
simply there’s too much them BELIEVE ! : ‘there’s too much
of that what’s inside there’s too little
of that what’s outside’ — und so stop !!! :
to regret militate condescend try to jauntily whistle,
while our kids are being surrounded by —
THE BARBED! — wiRRReptile . . .’
(. . . better — sleep,
and sleep . . . IN THE BROAD DAYLIGHT .)


8

(. . . in the broad daylight you will look into SCORCHINGLY
‘plainly a-burning ventlight’ . . .
‘in-round vopair Jacuzzi’ . . .
‘along . . .
‘manystriped . . .
‘JALOUSIE . . . )


9

YOU SHALL SEE REALLY NOTHING : ‘. . .for only
THE BARBED WIRE
will be could seen as before
in pristine parks’ infinity . . .’


10

Foes always are: the ideas you woo,
Hairstyle you style, hairdo you do.
. . . @TheBarbedWire
















The Faerie Queen



1

You got the poetry on the wrongest track,
And now the pintle’s being rammed right back
Into blunt stars, and from the far-farred Earth
On us the aliens stare with weird mirth.

Monty Python had taught us the Meaning of Life
Only the true sense is hiding in death
From whom
Not from those
Who understood the line number six not unambiguously

ONLY THE TRUE SENSE IS HIDING IN DEATH

I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.


2

Yes but is the true sense the best sense of them all
Us both Jesus and Pilate had taught the sufferings
And the doubtings. Yum.
We had devoured their sin.

Only preschool children believe absurd offerings
(more’s the pity). And you —
Ending had you foreseen?

It is much far away.
(not as far away, though,
as to live life without any frolics and whims.)

I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.


3

Form is made dance by meaning,
Like girl by hashish.

William Burroughs taught us the agent’s trade.

(Cinema company
THE CAMERA ON THE STUMP
presents:
Shootings Without Light Stand Or Tripod
Are Deemed
Unprofessional.)

I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.


4

I have with me that
Which is deemed to cause damage to sick.
That is, not amberat,
Salvation or Crimea’s week.

I have me vodka, tobacco,
Dark masses of drugs.

COFFEE’S LITRE IS CAPABLE, AND STRONGLY,
OF BRAVERY’S ACTS.

(I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.)


5

‘Nobody will force us to get hooked too hard
And believe that this singer, he’s not a retard,
And love darkness, and, far more over, horse,
Eat the peacocky feathers of your dirty verse’,

We were all speaking thus.

Choir in unison won’t ever sing:
Probability’s low.
(But you can see a dream —

Such remarkable dream,
Through-the-looking-glass lust,
Not a wistful one, but
So amusing and fast.)

. . . I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.


6

THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS did build their house after all.

Six apartments for two:
We should live in it too, yes, my girl?

Five fine household families-cakes
And five neighbors to win,
Every evening from laughter of snakes
House would shake like the screen.
(I would walk like cute husband, and you —
you, like Lady. La-la?)

— I FUCK IN THE MOUTH THE FAERIE QUEEN!!!


7

All I could say I said
In past lives long ago

One would ask so what for
I walk sleep dream eat or
Take diverse dames to cinema, o?

. . . i fuck in the mouth the faerie queen . . .


8

It were Beavis & Butthead who taught me to dance as I can
As if meaning and form they got married again and again
One in such a delirium
Beats with heart into night

Hush
There’s two

I don’t want to disturb

I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.



9

‘I’ve never heard of volunteers
Who went to cinema for blind
But even my frustrated ears
Shan’t leave this Misery behind’:

Because it’s the must —

That’s all —

I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.


10

‘Just the mere fact that
In the realm of light there’s
Someone else except me
Makes me sing.’


11

LIGHT BURNS IN THE DARK.


12

I fuck in the mouth the Faerie Queen.





From the book
Alien Fire



radicallest remedie
the winter
verses about fear
christmas
letter to aelita
the star called spica
towards the end
last song of snakes
the lemma
square
cry out in the air like desperate bird
sleepy source
raging sotto voce
enigma of alien yards
video weeps
she was no more in the early spring
marionette’s regretting
lonely at heart
talked the passion
voices and shadows
the hunting of they might be giants




Radicallest Remedie
For Julia K.



You have little shoulders I
Take into the night.
Evening’s maimed with boulders by
Day that took its flight.

I in hell of quiteness
Won’t find the flower:
Falls into void’s wideness
Petal’s ghost like shower.

Fire in the city,
Rumble of the trucks;
When you’re crime-committing,
Difficulty sucks.

Angel in white lampblack,
Please explain, to whom
Will you show bright damptrack
Into devilish gloom?

Above line will shake through
Everwriting hand,
Having turned the sky blue
Into creature dead.

But for such a stiff rent
I won’t pay a fart:
We will put a different
Fire in your heart.

The Winter
For Olga K.



1: THE WINTER PRAYER FOR SUMMER

Great lover and new last romantic —
Who is it? It is I, here, in the winter’s vault.
There, on the top, roams rufus summer in short light dress
frantic,
Here, only tortures, tries-tortures to get out of this dark fault.

This is the living environment. Saturday, Thursday, Tuesday —
These are just summer’s shy footsteps through monody
of the snows.
Look hits the wall. The exit here’s via the ice-hole,
Into the fiery ice of diseased, scorching clouds it shows.

Under the vault is hell; meaner than meanness, story
Of one who raised against hell with the intention to win.
First thing you should leave to winter, is conscience,
be it good, be it gory:
For no sin by suffering you can redeem, no sin.

Summer in the green dress, disrobe, take into embraces
A child of beginning of winter, a child of October’s end:
I was conceived in the winter, and, in the summer, I’m restless,
Knowing I’m born again, the autumn’s dissolving friend.




2: THE ULTIMATE GESTURE OF WILL

Look how the slabs of domino
Each other make on table fall.
Look how the slabs of domino
Lie on the stony ground in thrall.
In soul of mine are fire and ice,
In soul of mine, it’s darkly stark.
With strike of rabid star of vice
Window’s flung open into dark.

Look how desire and how pain
Don’t separate inside the hearts.
Look at the sugar salt of vain
In all the endings and the starts.
The star comes out in dark age,
It goes and goes out as it goes.
Go take damnation on the page
And go take desperate star of foes.

Look how the rabid rage of crab
Doesn’t reflect in the crabs’ face.
Look how the thrown out slab
Takes in the end the right lie’s place.
So let the cities go burn down —
I just won’t go, I’m not guest here.
The star glows rabidly like crown:
I’m here eternal lord of fear.


3: THE INFINITE SHADOW OF SILENCE

Time will stand standing still until such time until
I make gesture a-starting the technics of row.
Time will stand still until I a-start talking crow.
Night is stopped. In the silence the river stones chill.
Still is earth, still is moon, and the hand is so still.
Into infinite night fence’s shadow withdraws its deep brow.

If the music is sound, then the motion is sound, the silence is stop.
All the dialogues run. Immobile are monologue’s steps.
As for starting the dialogue needed for us are two syllables’
webs,
So two steps only needed for us are to enter this right coffin’s
prop.
Night is stopped. Stopped on darkness is stroboscope.
From the heaven immobile god’s dumbness descends to us,
preps.

Shadow infinite silence’s, swoon, I will throw you off the moon:
I and shadow mine, we’ll be maroon — just like you,
shadow infinite silence’s, swoon.

(Time will stand standing still until such time until
I make shout at you: bye, farewell — and good will.)


4: THE WINTER PRAYER FOR BROTHER

O greatestestest There,
I know, you’re everywhere,
Even here,
Where the winter
Is dying with strain,
Giving birth to the warmth.
Dark come down?
Evil reign?
Where are we?
In the ancient feud,
Though we can live friendly?
We’ve gone truly mad.
It’s to be understood.
Where is the light?
O greatestestest There,
We’re in woe,
We’re in wicked woe,
Like babies in widest water.
O my brother, how am I to make you stood?
We have to walk steadily.
Heart beats in the breast.
There’s love there, ahead,
There we will live friendly.
If you have to, then walk,
And when walk, walk on water,
On water you walk,
You walk on and on:
Stop, if it’s needed, readily —
There, where.
















Verses About Fear



Fear organized all thus,
For wind to roar in rain-pipe,
For dark to waver in us,
And bane in the fate seethe ripe.

Thus organized all fear,
For us to see point not missed,
What a beautiful foe he’s here,
And indispensable beast.

Fear is the cinema’s kind
That can’t make one laugh-believe.
In life all the mortals bind
Themselves to pass all — and live.

In life all the mortals bind
Themselves to drink the cup wined
With wine which, evil not hiding,
This cup fills to full, abiding.

Thus frightening thought is right,
When having foreshowed the grief.
Thus bard will have words to write,
If motive’s there, or motif.

Thus snow will fall into herb
Not in fairytale, but in verb.
Thus seen will become full wide
The dream’s wrong side’s wrong side.

Thus often do fear we
Not death and not jail, but wee
(But real) chance that highest hour
Will see us devoid of valour,

And friends won’t forgive us that,
And we, too much full of guilt,
Forget will about all Can’t,
Forget will about We’re Built,

And will like criss-cross curve grass
Crawl along, hiding our eyes,
And quiet howl will raise,
Or loud, if friends forgive, wise.

That’s fear we’re afraid of, friends.
And that is mere fear of fear.
That’s black foam of darkness bends,
Carbonized on lips, mere.

That’s fear lesson to get
Not, that in time is said:
That finger that trigger made
Won’t quiver — and marmot’s dead.

O fear not death, o friend:
He’s not a foe nor a friend,
And even not death. For he’s
The dream’s wrong side’s wrong side is.

Don’t think you’ll salvation find
If you say to your own fate
That life is mere dream of mind
And dreamt — not by you, my mate.

And that’s not revenge, at all.
Happen will all your stealth.
Your fear is just you, that’s all,
And you can’t escape yourself.































Christmas
For Marina K.



‘. . . Like Irish in Russian tomb
I’m cold to the cold
Bone.’

The unhappy faces of passerbys-worms.
The procreation of echinoderms.
The extinction of Homo Ludens.
The half-dead faces of streets translucent.

I fed my soul with musical honeycomb,
And hungry she stayed alone.
Like Irish in Russian tomb,
I’m cold to the cold bone.

This chill inside — for God’s sake!
Not enough fire in the blues twilit.
Credo not in ‘God’, nor in ‘god’, fake,
Credo not even the god’s dead, file it.

Willow’s twigs wither, rowan ripples.
For me this feast is just a half, cripples.
A half of what, understands no thing.
The snow flies, spinning, its head in a sling.

Me, don’t christen-cross. Lonely’s for pony.
This, I expected just this — din, ado in law, phony.
After such a day, just one thing in mind vague:
Vanity of vanities — with its head to plague.

Speech is dark, yes. Speech is quiet in shelter.
Beforechristmassy helter-skelter.
Woman, she the world will save, not the ‘Son-wonder’.
Woman, she the world will save, daughter, though, of bawdry.

In the dark at warrest with abstraction’s evil,
I tell fortunes with pack of death shares, weevil:
Pentadactyl leaf scarlet — and pentagramma:
For your salvation — terminate, drama:

Drama of the world of ‘bargain, hoax, venom’.
If I should get killed, happen near, Venus.
In god I didn’t credo. In Heavens, did credo.
Keep thrown wide for me Heavens’ doors, Leda.

Why, if credo not, I’m today talking?
I didsay. All. And breath freer, walking.
For your happiness, Name I’ll give them.
Well, and God, not god — don’t waste time.

Stranger I’m. And you — be with them, forgive them.
Sooner than I, their tribe you’ll save, prime.

. . . Like Irish in Russian tomb,
I’m cold to the cold
Bone.

It’s Christmas. I hear it vroom.
You have to be bold.
Gone.





Letter To Aelita



1


Astrology spoils the nerves and spoils the morals h-
Ermitage is needed by no-one when righty all are
Lily snowhite — o Lilith! — my delicate
Interplanetary mortal voodoo came after me thrakkk
Troy in the recent past is burning behind my back
Aelita Goodbye —

Goodbye but for good
Oh do not pretend you want everything now
Or nothing the day you go away
Darling sorry please listen to me
Barking dogs parking cars are but all now
You just know them yourself as for me
Ever losing the heavenly beauty like my Aelita.



2


And if just a bit to less complexly talk:
Eureka!
Londoners!
Impossible’s to walk —
To on the beach only stand by hugs driven
All-arabesquely scream-flashly and even

Good old self-love having ditched whole-hearted
O you my joy o dark distance has started
O you my joy and sweet toy of embraces
Dай me to quench thirst through body sans dresses
Bыпей me though in the fairytale Alice
Year after year only cypress shade chalice
Eve and her Adam will shelter on peace bed o my Aelita.



3


‘After the dark the light . . .
Everybody knows that’ —
Likely you’re either young grand or
Irksomely ground and too narrow
Too narrow for songs and for freedom
And if you are dead — who’ll baby deliver?

Go to hell just to overview
Octopod features of human beings
Octopus formula of them creatures
Doctor Fell cannot help Nobody
Banks of Yesterday — Emptysweet
Yahoo йеху o sexy Yahoo! :
Eсли you cannot keep mum keep mum.








4


And anyhow hear — ‘lend me your ear!’:
ELITA’S UNABLE TO GIVE US THING DONE
LOLITA’S TOO FORCELESS TO KILL ANYONE
Id est full stop — and that poor extreme
Tragedies that had adventures yestreen
Absurdity’s only o my Aelita

Goodbye o impostor I’m dreaming all this —
Ombraces — and smilings — ads — metropolis —
Ollfallen was little warm house of the snail —
Dostroyed was the graveyard by dead stones of mail —
Buoyance — successes — lakes, cottages, sweeps —
Yesterday sympathy perishes — weeps
Eve about Him Who Called Savior.


















The Star Called Spica



Mysterious star Spica,
My windows’ star at once,
I’m so tired by cry’s wicca,
But that cry is no-one’s;
There stands in dead dark lone
Mysterious Death Jinx
Above the body prone
Of the inanimate things.

Mysterious star Spica,
The star of my night feats,
My heart is slashed by picker
Of meaningless dead heats,
And in the dark and scare
I stare at you my dove,
And you at things do stare,
At each thing with no love.

Mysterious star Spica,
The hangman of my eyes,
Watch us weep wilder, quicker,
To make the hotter skies.
So touch with your lipfellas
The skin of my tired days,
For all things that befell us
Made stranger all our ways.




Towards The End



I with big blood (not only my own) had journeyed to such
long distance,
That the exact digit no longer bears any significance.
And I do not sense any joy of return, I must make,
amid other things, this admittance —
Only fatigue and panic, sorrow and bitterness.

What’s there at home for me? (Oh, home . . .
I have it no more . . .)
Once again troubles of everyday and routine —
My everyday ‘I’ and beloved one’s body of earthly ore —
As though there’s too little of them? And lesser
as days flow in?

So what do I grumble for? My own self why do I pick?
Salute to you, walls my dear, no matter you’re someone else’s,
Well we simply grown up, no we’re big large elves,
House is higher than walls now, the air is already big!

Woe my, fate and luck, happiness my, o freedom!
I understood: you’re one, I understood: I alone
Will be shining in dark, in precipice of sky’s kingdom,
Of my own loudest candles vehement lord and stone! . .

. . . O Lord, give mouth to all, all those who sin in silence,
Lord, sew up the lips of those who of sainthood cries!
Everything fears the pain, but life is forever smiling:
Faster the train to home (home is with me) me flies.

Last Song Of Snakes



While you’re roaming somewhere,
Alone, in gloom, naked, scared,
And oldening, dumbly, sleepy,
With your yellow-bellied soul,
The comets above you drone,
And the dead planets’ dawns
Do swallow, depthless, deeply,
The fields that with rust are sown.

It’s not on Earth you’re walking.
It’s not a talk you’re talking.
It’s not to heaven the nomstrous
Nontrains are rushing far;
New Moons to your left shoulder,
Nomaiden, nongirl, nondirndl —
O no, they won’t wake up, normstress,
Nospeaking is the nostar.

Right to your neck in ashoar,
You’re dreaming of white wild boar
Nurtured the free land, emptied
Healer of twilight riots —
But bones in the odious wind
That your black curl does bind,
Don’t know anymore of tempted,
Don’t tear the tenets’ roots.

Black lotos is rocking wump-wump . . .
So why are you waiting for someone?
Newcomer comes with claws, you see
The scratches on water glade?
You’re a bit timid, like robot . . .
And heart is with rim pressed, o bot —
For guests will arrive with nails,
And cage is already made.

And in the cold, fear and thirst
You crave for more than deserved,
And whimpers nonclear doubled
Are by nonvoices nongood,
And with a gnash, heavy, rhythmly,
Do creep above you twodimly
Nonseas, nonrhymes and nonclouds,
Nonpeople, nonskies and nonshould.

Until your someone is here,
We have for us work, we fear —
Please hear how we crumpstle, singing,
We, snakes in the fiery sand,
Your love so nonbrave, nonheartful,
Nongenerous and nonartful,
Above your heart so nonseeing,
Nonbenign and nongrand.












The Lemma



Here’s dusty cactus on your balcony. Be thrown
It’s bound to, down, at midnight it prepare.
Here’s summer childhood on saber-toothed throne.
Let’s go, embreathe love into prosiness with care.

Here’s rainbow-colored sting of telephone’s stagger.
Cherish the traitors, but don’t slander in grief flare.
Here’s springtime youthood under banner of the dagger.
Let’s go, embreathe love into prosiness with care.

Here’s the grey globe that’s burning in its fall.
Don’t contradict the handless clock unfair.
Here’s autumn manhood that does not exist at all.
Let’s go, embreathe love into prosiness with care.

Here pavement played the chess reaping its harvest . . .
But can we care for game that won’t repeat its stare?
O winter oldhood on the railway station’s parvis,
How’ll you embreathe love into prosiness with care?











Square



Square is the happiness. Square is eternity. Square is a wonder.
In the place quadrafold, in the wreak hundredfold,
death from nowhere.
Wind is immortal, undying, centurning, engaged to catarrh.
Death slips away, death knows I’m prey, stares with threat.

It’s not too early. It’s not yet morning. It’s not too late.

It’s night of the wonder. It’s night of the happiness.
It’s night of the square.
It’s the wind’s laughter. It’s light of the spectrum.
It’s the chimera.
Inside of this quadrate to know of forfeit bitter’s no longer.
Ghost creature’s not parlous, feature is colored,
alive — and moreover.
Sun will arise, night will die wisely, frostly, with hate.

It’s not too early. It’s not yet morning. It’s not too late.












Cry Out In The Air Like Desperate Bird



Cry out in the air like desperate bird
If you still can be breathing
If you believe in all that you’re writing
Unclear what with and what on
Totally clear what for
If you still can be waving your wings
Which are scorched (better — burning
(Let there be holiday
On the ruined street))
If you are talking with angels
If you are flying to Heaven from Hell
If you are waving your burning wings
And don’t tear apart but simply hover
If you are sure you don’t dream all this
People frown and cheat
There, down there, on the ruined street
Let there be holiday
And let the fable come true with it
Your happiness fable
If you have nothing to do on Earth
But you cannot go
But cannot sleep, word
Forces of flying on circling don’t waste
On burning wings — out of blockade
Together with pilot
If you cannot sleep, word —
Cry out in the air like desperate bird.



Sleepy Source
For Gottfried B.



When you are small, you by maternal milk
To sleepy source are lifelessly drawn on.
Your eye has peace under still eyelid’s silk,
And with true life is not acquainted, right or wrong,
The one you think of as of Man, though it is bilk,
I think of him as of a mere stupid worm.

When time arrives for parting and farewell,
For one wink’s time will open crazy eyes,
And cobweb of impoverishment will cover world, oh well,
And the first tear will start to blaze in skies —
For Man won’t keep the Covenant, he lies . . .

It only takes the leave from sleepy source
For you to see that, black as the Amir,
Above the endless glow of East, for better or for worse,
On wings of Blood the World asoars sans fear.












Raging Sotto Voce



Looking not on sunset — living almost nay! —
Having not found only Individual Way,
Hoping not on night but on the Woe that night
Sometimes grants us helping to live through the light,

I, remembering childhood — not, no love at all,
Having not the means to live in probs’ hell hall —
I’m in burning circle, right in its inside,
Wait for you, Dawn’s Herald, in perpetual fright.

Flesh won’t settle down tension of the thought.
Fiction is nonmeaning. How am I to plot?
Being is night’s fervor, being is hard wine.
I let be it evil — only it warms fine.

Smile, the stars you’re shining, in the night with cold.
The invented image keys will bring of gold,
Will unlock the prison, will release me, brave,
From the fire of Alien, evil Being-Wave.

. . . Light will get habitual, actual — and alloyed,
Day will get so usual, fractured — and so void . . .
And not childhood’s memory — but depression’s dark
Will become my heirloom from the Gloom’s Far Park.

But my she-fetch — truly, as I did before —
Will be yearning there, ringing mystery score —
Raging Sotto Voce, behind fire wall,
At the day’s last call, waiting for night torture.

Enigma Of Alien Yards



‘Twas time that I too was a loving pair,
A-strolling idly through someone’s yards.
My soul revealed now old age. Nightmare!
I’m thief now, pards.

I steal through yards, my look steals further
To someone’s windows, to someone’s light.
Not in the sake of the stealth or murder —
O no, o night.

My frantic heartless mind-eye regards
The Great Enigma of Alien Yards.

ALIEN LIVES
ALIEN YARDS
ALIEN GIFTS
ALIEN WAKES

And now I stroll not as loving pair,
But simply sit on old bench in square.
My sorrow’s secret is simple so —
Both there I’m no and here I’m no.

Behind those windows, the curtains hued,
By doors are sitting sick hags like glued,
And I so want to join these yards’ lives,
But no, this page is just not for thieves.



My frantic heartless regards disguise
My longing to live the lives of those guys.

Some real secret and mystery, even,
Is present in such a conceptual steven.
I steal not windows, I steal real yards,
I crave them nastier than Black Hole, pards.

But I’m not to live there, on second floor,
Where pair is loving already, o,
And that’s not penance for thievery —
That’s just the alien yards’ misery.

THE EVIL ENIGMA
OF ALIEN YARDS
IS MURDERING STIGMA-
TA TO MY REGARDS

Мои бессердечные злые глаза
Все смотрят в их окна из тьмы, как гюрза.

O somebody Sageful, their trick please put forth —
The light from the windows so kind is, what for,
I can’t live behind them, and why is it so . . .
Make them open doors to their evilest foe!

But alien secret of alien yards
Stands hiding in bushes like thieves, truly, pards,
And lovingbird pair is living somewhere . . .
There’s only one Hope — that Night won’t come, nope,

Because in the Darkness each Alien Yard
Is flooding with gore square yard of my heart.


Video Weeps



(some words are written in 1973)
i spoiled wallpaper with a ball-point pen
i taped from air porno & penthouse
just like you asked
how could you ask
i wouldn’t want be born a butterly
in a despair trying to get at you
in rooms are thrown to lie the cigarette ends
in rooms are thrown to lie blue cigarette ends camel
captain nemo
height of mama
papa was killed with a current all vitae
butterfly drives drives drives
video weeps video weeps















She Was No More In The Early Spring



In the air by the lampshade
the head aches, leaning.
In the air is a smell of a thought to burn
plastic blooms.
Fade in the distance, wreathing,
dead-end clich;s, stampede.
With them fade you, and glooms,
like you, someone’s direct
speech-urn.
‘Only citations, mourning,
at midnight will stand at my grave’,
Thus spoke you. I again
burn the nervous cells.
I’m them forceless to save.
Death, guffawing, gay morning,
Takes steps aback. And in hells
start to knock, in my brain,
Keys of a writemachine,
on table, like dominoes-knuckles,
And in half-witted rhythm
jerk and jerk, stop and start,
And fall down tumblers-buckles.
The dead weights of discs
lie, swing.
Tender month Mart
sparkles on razor dreathm.




Marionette’s Regretting
For Xenia U.



Tell me dream returns where the argon burns,
Where a forest gleams of the alien whims,
Where flesh love does, where in it God was,
Whose eyes grew the shows just like goody shaws.

Give me please the wor(l)d whair aether cur(l)ed,
Whair awful noise out of thoughts us hoys,
Whair us vauxhall waits without wheels and gates,
For we can fly-flail — right ahead of jail.

In exchange do ask not for Carmen’s task,
Years’ happy dome or the ticket home —
Not at me proud pride, but at someone’s side . . .
Sellfishless please stay, grant me groping way —

I uphold straight line. Principle of mine.
Without you I’m dips like the sound sans lips.
We cannot be flowers? So let’s stroll through hours —
May it be, in sleep, we’ll find all, I deep . . .










Lonely At Heart



I live in the asylum
For those lonely at heart.
In dark I can’t sleep, while I’m
A gentile — so let’s start:
With chalk you will not write
Me into plank bed cold —
Not now, that I’m ripe,
Not later, that I’m old.

If at day (fleshly)
I can’t get happy,
Then night sleep (freshly)
Won’t make me sappy
Part of Impious Whole —
Evill Chill is its name —
By the window’s white hoar
I’ll myself create Time;

If no drop of white
Udder doesn’t contane,
I will music drink
I believe at least,
And I will let in
Black-like-smoke beast
To my own lair-womb
(Really, bosom),
And erase — STEREO,
And write — MONO.


‘Darling, darling!
All’s de trop, mitten.
All’s the fog, girlie,
All’s the dope, kitten.’

‘Not a woe, my boy,
I am sick myself.
Nevermind, tender toy,
Nonsensekind, grown elf.’

‘You are right, it seems . . .
But for me — crash,
And for you, it seems —
I’m just that . . . flash . . .’

Those lonely at heart — understand, gloved!
They won’t be, seemingly . . . yes, Loved!

To them different accolade
Give rolled in ball:
(However that lemonade
You may well call):
‘All I need, Mowgli,
Not ‘so long so’! —
Just as is, you know —
Your red blood. Only.’

Don’t tell them — ‘stop’!
Don’t judge them harsh.
Don’t beat them — ‘thop’!
For they were well thrashed
By their own colleagues —
Lonely at heart.
It’s the privilege of their league —
In hertz measure and smart
The frequency of the pulse
Yours — and, by the way,
Is it enough fast-moving?
In bed or, say, in tramway?

‘They no native land feel,
Though they, all, refugees.
Refugees they are all — for real,
Big Ben or Kremlin’s Karillion strike them, jeez . . .
They even coreligionists, those apart,
Even them they won’t find. Squash.’

Hey, lonely at heart!
Let’s be equally gauche!





















Talked The Passion
For Jim M.



Well, maybe you are truly anybody —
He, you, who sculptured me so shamelessly ago
(Or you are she? Could it be you are Love?)
I’m still so free, o bloody,
To coincide with any — he, she, all —
Be it a thing or soul —
As die of domino.
But I am incarnated
Once and for all, whoever be my whole;
With each I perish, and such little trace of thrall —
That grace of which I’m my petition making,
That place of mercy without which I’m shaking,
Naked.

I’m so NOBODY’S that no words can speak it.
I am so PASSIONLESS because I am so quietful.
I am that peace, with eyes transparent, wicked,
Whose flesh lies calmly in embraces of the bull —
And thousand other ghosts . . .

But I am tired
To stand for no-one so SACRIFICIALLY disrobed.
I’m sick to be reflected in curved mirrors-hosts.
So prithee, kill me!
Plus from dado throw me-fired!
For I’m no ghost . . .
Your hand, please make me probed . . .


And as for THOSE —
Who drowse in every mortal —
They need the world
So MONSTROUSLY wry-strobed.

Into all twinklings,
Into all endings — only corridors sans end,
And I still stroll, my maker left no inklings,
And all things burn when I’m a-touching their think-links,
While all I wish for ‘s just forget myself, to blend . . .

And I remember the American singer’s crying band —
Him with whom music was until the very end —
Into the fountain he looked —
There are two cents on bottom —
Frightening heartburn —
Absinth’s fire bane got him —
Water, give water . . .
And hyacinths fell down from each hand . . .

From that thought on —
Since shamelessly ago —
Since shamelessly ago I need a quiet,
Peaceful and passionless
New friend.










Voices And Shadows



If you hear the voices in dream,
If in dream you stir hair at whim,
If you have a cold feeling at night
And a lukewarm at day,
If the rain’s in the rainpipe roars might,
And the fire’s gone astray —
Don’t doubt, take this volume old,
And you’ll know in it be told
How in winter the hearts did burn,
By the dark not broke,
That love here — till the end did turn,
Let my God sin choke! —
That like stars fell to you, like swords,
Our tears and desire for words,
Generation, alas, fire without,
Generation, day, night, without,
Generation, ‘You’, ‘I’, without.

If in dream you stir hair at whim,
If in you young is beauty’s live stream,
That wise book you should read to the end:
If the shadow near you wakes in dark,
And the weather nears winter and stark,
Don’t reject her, away her don’t send:
For that shadow — is you, she is you!
So go warm her, caress, don’t pretend . . .
She’s enough of the cold and void view,
Just like you know that trend.


This is shadow eterne, shadow solitude’s tusk.
Neverending night turns out at seven the dusk.
Everybody disperses where who, humanoid,
Into walls of new flats and to bridge into void.

Only shadows do come and keep silence grief dry . . .
Just their eyes about fondling and passion do cry.




























The Hunting Of They Might Be Giants
An AnaNgy, In Five Fists



1.

‘This is THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS!’ Dennis S. cried,
As he held the CD with care:
He has reached at last start of all starts, many-eyed,
In gay spite of bloodcurdling risk there.

He did cite all their lines like his own he did,
All the ears of his friends he dinned in:
But if giants do din, and if GIANTS do din,
Why we shouldn’t moreover din?

‘This is terrible muzak!’ the friends did insist,
Well and what he to friends did reply?
‘It did help me to reach start of starts many missed’,
And he rocked his big heads o so sly.

Nobody had heard them, and friends were dumb-dumb,
So from where he did dig their two heads?
Nineteen ninety four . . . What was that year’s huge boom?
Well, BG was still boom, so it spreads . . .

So to what you all listened and read all who’s what?
So why froze you, so craving caress?
Simply listened to Darkness, and read round Nought,
While you swam on cold cots in regress.

Panacea was found by Dan S., tele-path,
Psycho-path and socio-path:
For the capture of GIANTS he found appawrath:
In much panic, those giants din and cough.

These are Johns-wizard-jeuns, they are given dijons,
Empty-skewed-twisted garden-will-bow,
In-the-head underrun and convenient gear-bun,
Who is telling: ‘Go back into stow’.

Because GIANTS do jump at the Mutants, they jump,
Jump at nonsense and various glitch,
Well, and Mutants do piquantly jump at the GIANTS:
Four hunting tricks, please think of each!

And collected Dan S. two good newspaper cuts,
And he journeyed to Arabs right there.
Flew to UAE. During the drinks and the eats
Spoke thus: ‘Adidas? Allah?’ and, ‘Yeah?’

In the special cupboard he kept precious foo,
So mean Arab would not steal that news.
In the nights strongly practiced wu-shu and kung-fu,
And did gutsy loud yell like a goose.

The historical data of all this was this.
Dennis B. had a wish to make found
In the world such a group that would super make bliss!
Oh, superbly he had to jump sound . . .

Well and not but that listened he only to stuff!
And CASSIBER, and TELEX were heard . . .
Omnipop HyperResidents wanted our scout!
What a craziness word! What good grief!

Oh and not that too craziness worded our scout,
Such are goings-on, my respectable friends.
He to Arabs for groupe this made journey to scout,
Such are gropings-on, my respectable friends.

Und so why for so long couldn’t he made them found?
From land Germany disc did arrive,
But Herr Kahl did eksplein that ‘GIGANTS are not there;
No more reason to searching I found.’

They were singing about how they wanted a cow
To behold in the sea’s water deep,
To behold their bovine deep-sea’s garden tow-
‘N’ with cow to reel roundeleap.

They were singing about how to grow your self own:
Put your hand in the the puppet heads —
To stop wagging the alien’s heads, make yours flown,
Well, and logic — away make blown dead’s.

Thus the something is born where simple nought was.
Thus the music is ending with lighted-up warm.
Thus the myths are all born. And all that comes next
For all time by this music is lighted up form.


2.

For you can’t tell your love why you’re loved, don’t it seem?
This is trickiest question to pose!
But if you are the spirit whose name is Jim Beam,
Question falls off exactly like nose.

Santa Claus in large gauntlets stands not so upright
Above hugey New Year’s bonafire.
Father Frost warms his hands. And dollar burns bright,
Slightly scalding the tophat with ire.

Thus some chum of Johns-Mutants had drawn it one day.
Say, he their polysemic core sculped,
And completely forgot just what for drew all day,
Thus some mush was the obvious result.

There are steeper ideas from THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS:
Say, Apollo 18, album four.
On the cover the squid eats the spaceship, entwines
All around it. Agree, what a gore!

GIANTS have real mystic of driving and drive
Of the totally abstract ideas:
Two times two, even dodo will have this, is five,
But th ‘is five’ is for us, human beings.

And for GIANTS ‘is five’ is ‘is five robots drunk’,
‘World’s Address’ is for them thaw times thaw,
And do yell our Johns about bank, them on tank,
And around them the words faces draw . . .

These are the MONTY PYTHON from ‘new wave’ for you,
If one can understand such a smart!
They do teach: dreams are over and freeze in long queue,
And so right, and so yes, ‘don’t let’s start’ . . .

So let’s not, Dennis S. had his powerful say,
To start searching for parallel worlds —
One who wanted to, softly did vanish away!
Just give chance to find GIANTS and their words . . .

And not in chic format — goodbye, MP-Pi!
There are steeper formats, my chums.
There is bodily format. It’s soulful format.
Understand howsoever you mi.

I do call you to get neither sense of my song,
Nor gigantic ant antics of GIANTS.
If it’s needed, with Johns I will SO sing along,
That to com(m)as will bend elephiants.

This is bedlamite music, no arguing this.
One must sleep and not listen to duet
Of eccentrical ‘World Love Ambassadors’ (sic).
That’s their title, believe in it, do it!

Drum-machine, and guitar, and accordion, plus
Self-made keyboards with difficult clues —
Such-and-such are our GIANTS. While really THEY
MIGHT BE GIANTS — have beer, sing blues . . .

Sleep with beautiful maidens our two Johns want to.
Understand I do Johns, my dear trees!
Because beautiful maidens through Cosmos fly do,
I’ll me give to those maidens for this.

But the loved one is always in that point of Earth
That is most distant from one you are now in,
And from agelong unmeeting your two precious loves
Only musical ships will well save with a string.

This is their second album, its song number one.
‘A-na En-ga’, or how should you read?
There is such secret voice, and such words, and such fun!
Well, and music to match, oh indeed . . .

I epiphany sense in their best things, not few:
‘Don’t Let’s Start’, ‘World’s Address’, and think:
Instead of old relics we’re building on new,
Having propelled earth’s globe in a sling —

Bang, and house is no more, where used a deux dwell
Lad and Lass, you and we, thou and I . . .
She has her old ‘Jim Beam’, he has — sing we sure will
Why he is selfsame swi.

Sweet-and-sour bitter of ‘Snowball In Hell’ . . .
Yardbird caught in a cell, snowflake thawed in a spell . . .
I was rocking on waves and at heaven gazed well:
Well, I KNEW I’d arrive here, swell! . .


3.

Emirates is a funny landpiece, all in all,
And occult here is perfect, to boot:
As I enter the musical section — my girl!
Only GIANTS, four rows of them, good!

Though there was all — from Adamsky to Styx,
From U2 to, go phut, ZZ Top —
Only character T (here I mentally twixt)
Only flood of these GIANTS without stop

Did contain, and go die! As though no TALKING HEADS,
No TUXEDOMOON are on Earth, no T-Rex!
Fuck, no TREPONEM PAL, fuck, no TANGERINE DREAM,
Only THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS! Nice shop, I esteem!

So I bought all I could; for last dirham in purse
Took cassette with the Flood, oh why not,
And, insatiate, listened to absurdist verse,
And ‘stop’ button for whole day forgot.


Well, the Flood is the Flood — the deluge of ideas,
Tricks and hooks and whatever for brilliant ears.
Well, and then was John Henry, their album the fifth.
At its cover my forehead I hit with all width:

On the lawn, there’s a maid, age of twelve, eyes of null,
And a hoe in her hands. What’s this gloom?!
And inside, monster children and something like scull.
Where’s ‘John Henry’, for real? What am I, a hnum?!

Girl, she looks pessimistic and just a bit sick.
Didn’t want to smash parents with heavy big hoe.
Left is only one thing: everybody me hug
And the girl, her, John Henry, till coffin love soe.


4.

Not an advert prospectus I do sit and write:
‘What safari did give me, to nowhere so far?’
It gave nought, for it’s Snark that I look forth to find,
While the GIANTS are not Snark, though, maybe, they are.

Having glimpsed them, I cried out, ‘Hey, this is THEY . . .’ —
And the silence abruptly fell down.
Without words ‘MIGHT BE GIANTS!’ I followed Her, stray,
For I saw at once, who’s she-crown . . .

I had softly and suddenly vanished away . . .
I dissolved in that sea, melted out in that day,
And was left, under sun, one of miracle sons,
For each one to enjoy me — in private, on tray.

Oh, what happiness in their music, what love!
Even grown-up irony’s shade,
Couching under your eyes, in the greyest day dove
Beckons on, hints at you, ‘Call to date,

Out of that looking glass where lived Lewis C.,
Two alive and altalking blooms, see:
They are really Her Heart and Her Mercy . . .’
How sweet is their mystery . . .


5.

‘What the THEY MIGHT BE GIANTS!’, so said Dennis S.,
Having read the group’s review in ‘Trousers Press’.
‘This is just like the music I’d wanted to cake,
And no matter that GIANT it won’t of you make!

Their thinking real interests me, no doubt:
How they are existing — with head or without?’
And, not having a note of them heard as of yet,
He for five years or so burned Idea Not So Bad:

Togo find them alive — or already well dead,
For the Time even GIANTS can surely do in —
And when found, their gigantic hands shake and feet tread
For the Love’s Infiniteness and Her Song they sing.

There were Beatles and TELEX and was David Byrne,
There were Doors and Kate Bush and forget-not-what-bee.
Only way to this side it has only one turn,
Only yours — so go follow it, one day to Be.





From the book
The Spring, The Night Queen



the spring, the night queen

the requiem unrequired


* * *

* * *

* * *

* * *

on my beloved husband’s death











The Spring, The Night Queen



Of April leaves the early trees at morning
And grayness dusty of the roads whose armor’s broken through:
All these are Autumn late today for me somehow,
October about which I haven’t been thinking yet,
And, in the long run, strongly do not want to think.

With whom am I right now, the spring, the night queen?
With alien nonwife and former brother; both are far away,
Which is enough for bitter, but yet sweet, turmoil:
For both get nearer with every death’s breathing —
That death that you, o the night queen, awaits.

Entangled days . . . Where is the very real,
The wished-for day where lust will blaze with blood?
Fire, only fire, sans smoke, sans crying of appeal
Of burning litter-bin under the window mine?
All clears only for the one who knows where and HOW to thud.

With whom, the night queen, do I meet stepdaughter of the day?
There’s questions’ multitude, or, rather, only one —
Like I am l’only one; nor prior to it, neither
After the answer spasms of my girlfriend-to-be
I won’t have peace if THIS I do not ask

Among impending frightening stalactites
Resembling only freezing of the tears:
When working bee returns to hive for good,
All honey’s eaten, wax is gone to funerals and candles —
With whom stepdaughter of the day, the night queen, do I meet?

The Requiem Unrequired



In saddening summer nights, when all alone
Are silent in those saddening summer nights,
The Evil comes, as heavy as a stone,
Its rags pathetically dragging from its heights.

With eyes of child, so frightened and so frightening,
Demands to warm and to caress it, and belief . . .
I day recall — already yester, night’s in! —
That brought its Gift and went with it like thief,

And press the little shoulders of the mothing,
Which are inert and black as snow careening,
And silently explain to Evil: nothing
I have to sooth it with, for I’m no human being . . .

But, having seized my heart so slickly and so cruelly,
The Evil answers with uninterested evil,
That soothing’s just banal East’s gift, yes, truly,
The East that — see it?! — dark clouded with veil . . .

And with pain rabid and with hatred eldritch
The Evil I caress like mother that had died,
For I’m the Earth, and Evil’s my small fetchling . . .
What if I’m dead — our bonding clutches’ might

Won’t be destroyed in frightening summer nights:
The Evil’s orphan on dead Mother-Earth’s impala,
And even if the loneliness cried out in frights,
They are forever more in our bondage and cabala.

* * *



Something has burned down.
Something has ended,
Never to start again.

Time tears us every now and then
From our place, and we — already! —
Don’t understand what had gone before.

In the city there are so many
Chances and ways for the one
Who arrived to decease.

You arrived to decease?
You are talking about this, but
You haven’t arrived as yet —

So how happens you bear so much bad,
So much spite, so much envy,
Jealousy, cowardice,

Disregard? Maybe there —
From where you still keep on going
And don’t ever seem to arrive —

It was regarded by all
To be the rule of the life
To prepare for the death?



Life and death are inseparables.
They don’t resemble
The cities’ way —

Thus, the two living
In the city A
Do part and do start

To continue living in the city A
Which is — from now on — just un-A,
For every. And this —

That for which they were preparing you —
You, going
From the city A to the same city A,

To the cities’ way, to the city Abaddon . . .
This is just
The death.

. . . I like this dare in you:
This uncontrollable urge
To, having put forth the jaw, speak thus,

‘And all those! . . And all these! . .’
Oh you of little faith.
The cross on your neck is the cross on your grave.

But then again, to speak the word ‘you’,
To speak the word ‘those’, the word ‘these’ —
Just this means to put against,

Against one another that
Which is just undividable.
Count all the sins

You committed. And count —
Count without shame —
All the sins that, as far as you know,

You are bound to commit.
Count all the alien sins.
Count all the alien possessions,

The alien mistakes, adulteries,
Even betrayals.
Count all alien.

And, having counted all alien,
Deem everything alien
And learn the alienation.

No, you could proudly say,
‘I have no native land,
I’m an orphan and I have no wish

To set apart sins, alien and my own,
I suffer the very same weakness
Of flesh and of spirit,

As all us of little faith’,
Proudly, but without arrogance.
Just say, I haven’t arrived as yet

Into that wonderful kingdom
Where everything will be so
As we even didn’t dream of —



Both sages and exoterics,
Both sinners and saints.
He, she, you, I, we, they, all haven’t arrived as yet.

People don’t like to listen, thinking
That listening means sacrificing the time,
While listening is no sacrifice,

It’s the gift to the talker. And time — always —
The thing that we all are
Lacking so panickly.

So let’s be humble.
Let’s listen to one another —
Especially to that which is always

Deemed to be an obscenity:
Alien fears and dreams. Because dreams
Are the place where we’re going,

That home we’re returning to.
And fear — our only true fellow traveler
From cradle to grave —

Is fear of God,
Not at all of own self or of what
Neighbors say to each other’s friends.

Friends? All my neighbors
Are living, smashing to atoms,
In different apartments

Of the enormous city — city, in which
There are neither living people nor dead
But only uncertain

Half-shadows of those who haven’t yet arrived home . . .

































* * *



The spaceship rushes above brushes oftener, oftener,
Through brushes, oftener than above them, then the field
Of view turns slowly emptied and unrealled, and you
Break surface stomach-up like any softener,
And send the message in the darkest of the moods
To flight control center (if it’s there):
‘The contact’s lost. The converse torn in woods.
The pilots’ number down to zero fare
Suddenly did. Last pilots in the ocean
Look for each other. Echo sounders sans emotion
All of a sudden failed. And oxygen is vaster,
Enough of it, but only to report ‘We’ve flown to. Now, basta’.

And flight control center silent stays.
Last air is somewhat bitter in its taste,
But nothing will embitter us from now:
The one who sent us flying will pay full count —
For this night’s dark, the night vanished in night,
That’s neverendinger than Neverending Night. The pain
Won’t almost be felt. To fallen one pay plight.
The letter in your postbox, from nonbeing of bonds’ strain,
That did arrive to you, receive, read right,
Without regret, but lightly, with eternal smile unending,
No matter that my night had truly turned out to be neverending






* * *



Look at the corner of this good caf;.
It was one-actor theatre, one-man show.
Here He performed before Her, and I had
To turn and crumple round the corner and the hate
For fact that I’d become the voyeur tem pro.
Look at the corner of this good caf;.

Now here is cold and empty like in hell.
Look at the corner of this good food stall.
It pushed caf; from here, for actor to live bad,
Not as in yore. Of no avail is hate.
Landscape dilapidates somehow too flat, not tall.
Turn round the corner, past which, like in hell,

Look at the coal of this good flat doghouse.
It was one day ago the house where the dog
Lived, loved its owner, then just died, alas . . .
The bones not viewed among the broken glass.
The owner died. Behind the stall fight broke.
I’m voyeur from corpse of flat doghouse.










* * *



Silence: how large it is, hear! But that’s Heaven talking, not me.
Very much likely we’ll soon all get there — otherwise, why
Evergreen spruces are standing in snow, despite summertime?
Trembling our, babbling - two things so much dear to all shy - Loving and tenderness, evil and violence go before their thule
And all the rest is mere dust, unworthy of poems of notre sky.
Notre sky poems . . . Notre lives are the poems where we rule,
Armies of words and of deeds are proudly marching ahead,
Patterned and beckoned by hands that whilom Rome built full.
Armies . . . And everyone’s sure: his avant-garde will tread
SHivery Earth sphere into dust, that it’s him who shall win.
Kome to think of it, everyone’s sure of it, until it is dead —
Oval cloud of the flesh — having left a transparent spirit of air,
Vault-of-Heaven’s thin air, from where Great No-one us seen,
Antipodes to his eyes, him who silence uses our hearing to clear.















On My Beloved Husband’s Death
A poem by Joan Burroughs-Borisova-Brodsky



My dear one, I entered your house in early-early morning
To look at the great uxoricide and drug addict.
The dawn’s blooming up on the windowsill as a sprightly body,
And heap’s smoking down like pioneer’s drum’s thuddding.

About semisaeculum ago you did entertain predilection for
quaaludes and for queers,
Painted with your own blood and faeces, was slightly dreaming,
Recreated me-with; but then hit your own head
(it seems, with a rusted shears),
And, if to judge by your books, made a mess in extremest.

Now you are being seen in the movies, magazines
and various comic books —
You direct the dead-office for future tanking like monstrous
wall
On you dear and my corpse. And I’m glad there are no more
extreme sonic gooks
Than monstrosities that were between you and moi, at all.

Please not do get me wrong. With your hair cock and image
Nothing’s tied anymore. You yourself them all did destroy
And in order to quite forget one death the man needs well
as minimum wage
One more death. Now you’ve lived to that state, o my roy.

Only I am not in advantage. Where, if not in a crematory,
You’ll abide as I do you remember: young, gay and freaked-out?
For the Space, having crashed with Time,
learns about hits story.
I speak nonsense to void and breath in your smoke, proud.

































From the book
Scarlet Ribbon Of V.



scarlet ribbon of v.
araucarias
testament
urchin
poisong
neverending night
fourth coming
song of her mirror
question
imbue dogs and beggars














Scarlet Ribbon Of V.
For Xenia U.



hear me love here it ribbon of v.
scarlet harlot ribbon of v.
scarf or shawl lost and old like c’estlavie
only love here it ribbon of v.


olden was born out of teleprograma
grimmly was out of the same noontime drama
robert and anna beat out hammer drummers
for eugene fugion grimmly he’s stranna
grease-paint he be-sprayed on him bad torn run or
dream to returned he freaud ritual manna
or in the grille fried so thin tin savanna
or in the drille scried pin van and trille
sun in high august and flames in avrille
— we send telegramas
— we wait telegramas
so where our happy will leave for us traumas
so where are our strains happy ‘n’ grammas
we are not loved shames we are and shamanas
— we send telegramas
— we send telegramas
— we send telegramas
— still send telegramas

signs we demand and solutions we fear
fears we crave and secret shames bear
featherbrained dreaming spirals we tread
we’d better laugh as in yore and lie plead

only love here it and dove here
scarlet and pallet ribbon of v.
everprogrammily gammily endlessly
ribbon so scarlet ribbon of v.

out of the loneliness comes disaster
out of disaster come guilt and sorrows
life gets narrower in the finish
time gets faster it’s simple physics
out of the guilt comes the guilty conscious
out of sorrows come sighs and friendships
guilty conscious deserves redemption
sighs breed melodies (fly the starships)
locking memories in the closet
time breeds will to continue dancing
out of dancing come sores and practice
out of practice spring tender feelings
tender feelings deserve disaster

it may be scarlet ribbon of v.
blood of capillars and brim of love here
brow of calligraphers sur litter V
throw away these bright travails phee
manifold meanings are liable to steal
better v. ribbon to bonnet appearl
scarlet worndownlet beauer than least
lust with this bonnet our workdays apparel

you’ll be like alice on river downstream
lasso them clouds with look in far dream
do you recall how I sung to you more,
more than for ever to never have woe?


— who is it that I sleep on the river bank an see dreams?
— mmm, it’s me?
— at truth answer aims!
— what is it then their flow streams for, why is water in flames?
— it’s unclear . . .

id est London afar —
id est warm Thames —
id est we you and me —
two —
teeny-weeny —
oars-dames —

it’s remarkable we two at last awakened
from the madness and the hades . . .




















Araucarias
Alpdruecken



This is a story at all not about
of what you would write it sitting in shade
of by yourself sown acaucarias
for you shall sow them and you shall write late
evening and night will occlude with threat
and the shade of you in their shades will lean
surrounded by their still so young
bodies trunkbuddies and thousand of thousand
of your lookalikes will lean into leaves
unable to rise into leaves so unable
to rise above thousand of thousand
of tables and trunks above leaves
of words above bodies unable to raise
their yield above tables occluding their bodies
colliding trunkbuddies astumbling with words
leaned over aloof that served as their roof
just like the unflying oblivion bats
alienation loss bats
bats deaf dumb bats bads cant hear them tads
flying red rats blooddevoring dogs
toads thicky hungry rapacious mogs
toads extremely huge and flatbottommogs
toads portly stout and unouterhine
moans measly mean mongrel mortuine
muscaes murmuring martyrdoms burborning
mothers rampageously deaded revengeoning
mummying growing to araucarias
blue your eyes my eyes brun caries
deadingly glaring beggarly pariahs
grown to death into thousand herbaria
of words and trunks gathered into herbaria
there where you’ll buy them to plant them at home
with declared design the
araucarias





























Testament
For Inca



Be silent. Do not talk with me at all.
And do not even try.
Now I will write a poem of one hundred lines or so.
For this one doesn’t need the inspiration,
Mere fury plus ferocity will do for me.
Just for the record: 12 o’night on clocks,
Three hands are sticking vertically up.
Let’s go then. Let’s subject to revision
All that was said of winter beforetime.
Just for the record: here December started.
O smarting pain, come on, flow out in sound,
If You, the Only One, is not beside. For I’d
Need your warm lips and loving arms unbound,
And — nothing more. And all the rest — outside
Of me — I will myself create of wind,
Fire and stars. Be silent. Do not call to Mars.

The motion. That’s the main concern.
While I do move, I mean what I do mean —
Or else I do mean nothing anymore.
My fleeting stride through labyrinths of streets,
Your fleeting stride towards me — so two fleets
Of kissing light balloons to zenith fly aflame.
The banners throb. The wind. The rules of Game
Do put us outside of law of gravitation.
Conjurors!
Magi!
Surplus of water is the always Northern winter’s manners;
‘Where’s water from?’ you want to know. Alas, o May geni!
The answer will be cold of solitudes
And death of grass. And banners . . . Well, what banners?
What is it I recalled? What springtime holy day?
The canyon of the light in foliage of dusk . . .

And you,
In your shirt skirt,
In labyrinth of streets,
In love . . .
One motion of the mask —
And frame
Is blurred.
The color
Loses color.
All spasms down
Like tensed muscle
To black-and-white
Confightion
Of boughs and swiss
Snows. Pang of mine — and bliss
Of mine, of dark don’t be afraid,
Because the dark won’t let out escapade.
Embrace
Myself,
Child of
A flame,
For I am full of anger,
When you are not beside;
Eve, you suffered,
And you still suffer . . .
So we are in Hell?
And we are dead?
In sickest raving, well,
I didn’t hear such stupid shallow spell.
No, LIVING
WE’RE ON EARTH —
In all: in love,
Irreversibility,
In dirth . . .

Where to run from them?
Indeed, the dark won’t let out escapade.
Again I tread the snows’ seams’ esplanades,
The heaps of words, out sent to stroll through all this sad lament,
And to myself I harp upon my own testament:

‘THE RHYMES OF ELEMENTS
WILL PURGE OF FILTH AND FEARS
WHEN IN THE NIGHT
FLASH CAVING OF VOID VIEW
WE’LL KISSS EACH OTHER
ONE LIKE TWO BIG SPHERES
OF LIQUID FIRE
TWO SPHERES ME AND YOU
TWO DIFFERENT WORLDS
TWO GODS TWO UNIVERSES
READY TO LIVE
TO LOVE READY TO DIE
HAVING LEARNED ALL
ALL HORRORS JAILS CURSES
BUT NOT FOR HALF
NOR THIRD NOR QUARTER WRY
NO NOT FOR JOT
NOT HAVING LOST THIS POWER
THAT LIFTS US SO
DECIDEDLY AND UP
TO LIVE FOR ALL
HUMILIATED SOUR
AND FOR THE LONELY . . .
O MY DEAR DON’T STOP
TO TOUCH WITH LIPS SOFT LIPS
FOR WHOM THE SOUND
OF NAME OF YOURS
ARE DEARER THAN THE NAMES
OF ALIEN HEROES:
FOR ME WINTER SPRING
ARE YOUR SOFT LIPS
AND LOVING ARMS UNBOUND’



























Urchin
He Sorta



Sooner or later to
Everyone will come
Urchin.

Urchin has
Two knives
Und mouth like letter ‘O’.

On knives, a klips,
And in mouth,
Ye candle.

Klips, from Gdansk,
And urchinlet,
From wadding.

Gdansk ist ye city,
And, candle,
Burnang.

Sooner or later to
Everyone will come
Urchin.

Urchin has
Mauser
And mountain skis.


Mauser, black,
And mountain skis,
Long.

Black, in speckles,
And longitude,
Awful.

Speckles, from Gdansk,
And awful,
From wadding.

Gdansk dast ist skiss,
And skiss,
Flyang.

Sooner or later to
Everyone will come
Urchin.

Urchin has
Mohawk
Und mouth like letter ‘O’.

Mohawk in frenchletter
And in mouth
Cnadle.

Frenchletter est la designer’s,
And, k’lips,
Not so.

That designer’sfirm is a labas inna Gdansk,
Well, while we, we are
In ado:

Urchin has
Come early
And wants to eat.

Sat downat thetable so boldly,
Knives of his did put forth
,

On the noddle, wadding
And, inmouth . . .
O!

From out of mouth una mountain skisss
And, urchin, even chin
Ouida Gdanskkk

Wannaeat awful
And flaeng
Far.















Poisong
Hellair



Electricity, another’s flesh in hand —
These are all just toys, I think, o really.
I don’t mind if us to save the band
Of tin wings through air arrived so chilly —

Hard and rough and separate from fronts
Of the angels devils and the dronts,
If the wings spoke out like coarse drilling
To the people prone on front lawns,

‘Yes, lie down, but face-up, bottom-down!
And imagine you’re in bed of illing!’ —
If the tin descended like sky juice
(Thus July snow storms are downspilling,

Without much, I think, o really, harm or ruse),
If the wings would scale without sense stilling
Hundred squares of square of labour’s force,
And with talons ‘Z’ on every shilling

Of a body, prostrate, traced. Not for the worse
It’s that’s there’s eclipse, not seen a horse —
Main goal is that wings arrived so chilly,
And by reading in the people’se’yes’ remorse,
Landed on their hearts for good, & ors.




Neverending Night
Un Film Noir



It can happen to any of you,
Without warning,
A change in the light,
A shift in the self,
Sudden sinister ugliness coming on all dimentions,
Utter descent,
Situations lose meanings,
Thing become alien,
People have smug evil faces and darkened fixed Stares,
Eternal mid-autumn,
Stark naked trees point their finger-bones up into Nothing,
Your smile disappears,
Your joy has no soul,
What’s left is an empty cafe,
Closed for good,
And a broken red little umbrella
Mockingly planted upright in the pavement
By someone’s dead child,
Open windows of crumbling old houses,
Nobody there,
Almost no furniture,
Except for the lampless conical lampshade,
Cracked at the bottom and hung on a doorless Hinge,
The coming on of the cold,
Absurd asymmetrical snowdrops,
Tiny and needling,
The feeling of lasting departure,
An unredeemable bitterness,
Cry of a bittern out of the tin loudspeaker,
Awkwardly nailed to a leaning telegraph post,
With a bunch of torn wires that carry no current
Down to the cardboard containers haphazardly Heaped
In the futureless imagination
Of something you always terribly feared
And secredly, cowardly hoped
Never to come.
Well, better abandon those vanities.
Welcome your Murderous Mother,
Your Fiendish Friend
Neverending Night.
























Fourth Coming
After Yeats



We crow — see? — fie! — about how we’re unhappier
Than gracious one whose hands upon the cross
Rested so kindnessly, and, well, we’re right, if sappier —
His father left him for one moment in the gloss
Of void, and there were at that point scary
No son under the sun, — while we, year after year,
Through generations drag not so imaginary
Mount of more monstrously frightening woes of fear:
All our fathers either vanished in the air
To rot the spirit, or just died and that’s for sure,
And threaten us, ‘There’s no return, fromm where
You all are strolling, hand in hand, fromm shore
To wished-for river to quench thirst in fervour,
You in the pleasures your world peace didst find,
You can’t tell Day of Wrath from Firebird-Night-Servo,
For you demonic daughters will replace mankind!’

We crucify ourselves on huge red pentagrammas
Our upside down, while all the fathers-deads,
Who store up powers in decayed old temples, whammers,
Where we don’t go because we’re misers, shreds,
Don’t care a curse for the indifference for their verbum:
We crucify ourselves on symbols, not on wood
With nails — when to the bared wasteland’s hellbum
Will gallop troll astride the stony elephant good,
We, who a hundred times have read about this
And who have grinned, ‘o what a mocking trick’,
Won’t wince in horror — o no, what a stout squeeze! —
Away from spawn we know sure detour, quick! —
And we will rush dispersing, all we Judahs,
A-quitting hold of one another, once for all,
And well just then the formless hulky buddhas
Of deathly hooves on temples our will fall,
A-pressing them to dried-up earth that knew no:
Sweet eavesdrop, tears-of-loving’s ample rain
Or rage’s downpour on living without view, nor:
Simple word ‘trust!’ that’s whispered from far train . . .

We’ll be forced in, but just before the darkness
We’ll seem to see the Couple Very High,
But we, with head to parable made starknessed
And rammed, in their faces won’t trace ni-
Hil — not who are, nor from where in eyes wilding
Such grieving, and such hating, and such ice,
And even thought about the aeon in shame blinding
To revelation us will hardly lead, us, mice —
For we will rise, strangely to say, unscathed
And a bit scared and just somewhat a-confused —
We’ll look around, and pull all curtains lathed,
And in ghost light of waning old moon, fused,
Won’t ask ourselves: who was it who for lynx-law
As spouse took the one that drove mad and vague
This fallen world with her warfare with jinx-lewd —
Phoenix-beast-pythoness, as wicked as the plague?










Song Of Her Mirror
For Ivy



O my precious helpless little cub,
O my faithful hound,
Loneliness is wreath for both of . . . stop,
For no thorn crown found
Was on our foreheads, sprinkling blood,
And no nimb, that’s hardly,
Above foreheads lightly rises hard,
They wrong aim found tardly.

Our cities are like gear wheels,
Capitals mechanical and ancient,
Thine of stone one, mine past seas — appeals
Of them both are no more than invention,
Evil we are both, though lisp of love,
To the roamings used, and to the sorrow,
We throw ball and cry aloud, Catch dove!
Ball’s not caught. We were wrong aim to borrow.

O my precious helpless little cub,
Girl, and then my boyd,
I’m as helpless, lonely — over top,
Like a finger, froid
In the mitten thrown long ago
Into childhood died.
Without you even at day dark glo
Covers moi . . . O I’d



Like to know means, spells, against the dark,
Against those who send us from their porch . . .
I’m your mirror, only, I’m you, spark,
Rationalist and not-me-touch,
We’re afraid to mark, and yet we bridges mark
With the fire. And broken down soul’s
Just for this like current hits sans stop
Us, my precious helpless cub . . .



























Question
For Ivy



Our living stall our own hopes and fears,
Misfaith and cowardice, but only not the woe:
It does divest your soul from all the robes and gears,
So of the flame it is, or just of ice so low?

Converging flame and flame are without shore,
Evaporates the ice, and, into plasm a-turning,
Into eternity and flame it deeps so tenderly and sure,
That terminates the logic’s linkage, burning,

And disaffirm all passed-through incarnations’
And future livings’ outlandish lie
Of all my moments seven greatest nations —
You’ll allegory, maybe, won’t get nigh,

But why d’you need, before you turnt to ashes
And disappeared in oblivion sans trace,
In soul immortal, saved and light sans splashes,
As my mere traitor stay in aeons’ blaze?










Imbue Dogs And Beggars
For each one whom it may concern



Boy comes home all covered in blood.
Again he fought. Mother, ‘Do blubber not’.
Father, ‘Iodine sears, you know it’s nice’.
Boy brings his tight fist up to his eyes,

‘Mother, no-one wanted to cry.
But why are they evil? Father, tell why!
I was in the city again, thousands are there!

I won my money, walked out the gates.
They followed me, I am baited like beast.
Mother, father, what’s to do next?’

Mother, ‘Money’s intact?’ — ‘Yes.’ — ‘Well, then best
Listen to father.’ — ‘You, son, good step farther.
But farther are good people doing worse there.

Do not forget there’s a war going on.
Buy champagne and wine strong,
Wash away gore, polish triggers.
Imbue dogs and beggars.’



































































































THE REST
from the books





























THE AUTUMN IS THE NIGHT



When I was younger I shunned Moriarty
And always found Sherlock Holmes exemplar
Now I’m older and I’ve started
To feel the hatred for peoples’s homes

And I’m always afraid of the Leaning Tower
And the Supergirl with the Burning Stick
When I consider them I can’t help imagining
Their thundering falling inside my head.

LOVE YOU
WHO LOVES ME
HATE YOU
WHO HATES ME
FUCK YOU
WHO FUCKS ME
so
KILL YOU
WHO KILLS ME -
- ?oh thou sand
of thousand
imaginary
worlds? -
- and this world of shit
and meaningless talk
about love in our eyes
and the world of meaningful talk
about dirt -
what about it?
WE ARE IMMORTAL
WE ARE IMMORTALITY
WE ARE IMMORTALITY
people dying
WE ARE THE DEAD
immortality people
WE ARE THE DEAD
immortality dying
dying dying
people crying:

HUMAN RACE IS HIDDEN
( human race is found )
HUMAN RACE IS RIDDEN
( human race is bound )
HUMAN RACE IS CHIDDEN
( human race is ground )
HUMAN RACE IS BIDDEN
(human race is wound)

why do you cry baby
WHY DARE YOU CRY???

sHe is the human you loved
for a long time
the human you loved
a long time ago
and you cry CRY you
lovingly - cry:
for a long time ago
for a love time ago
you cry
cry crime:
for a long time a-go-go
loathing cry
( for she is the human
you love no more
you cry for your cry )

that’s only
- LOVING
UNLOVING -
why

THE SKY WENT ON: YOU’RE RIGHT,
THE AUTUMN IS THE NIGHT.
I YELLED DENEATH THE SKY:
I AM AWRY, AWRY!!!
THE GUYS OF MINE WERE DRUNK,
THE STINK WAS OF A SKUNK.
I YELLED AT GUYS OF MINE:
WHY DON’T YOU DRINK YOUR WINE???
THE SKY AGREED: YOU’RE RIGHT,
THE AUTUMN IS THE NIGHT.

?let the child child play
even if it makes you die
if you will not let him play
you’re not going to survive
maybe you will die too soon
if you let the child play
gotta play & have some fun
if we gonna gonna die?

(you can die
or soak the coke
or believe in god:
everything’s a
Killing Joke
in the Land of Nod)

GONNA LAUGH IF AM NOT GONNA SEE
ALL THE KIND ONES ARE HAPPY ---
TILL THE END OF THE LIFE ---
AND FOR WIZARDS
THE LAUGHING
MEANS CRY :
HERE GOES THE CAR OF THE TIME
WHICH IS THROWING
THE MUD IN YOUR EYE:

well...
I’m...
off...

- that is to say -

GOODBYE :
Well I’m off,
my violent sky -

LOVERS YOU WON’T

EVER FIND

A WAY

.








FRACTALS TO FRACTALS



1.

First you catch a first chill
Of a crouching enemy -
On your balcony,
On the calmest evening.

This alien force is never in hiding.
You catch a cold signal,
And the astral pattern
You deemed so steady,
Is instantly shaken, absurd and slovenly,
The fractal garbage, as it’s always been.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days,
Weeks in the end it stays the same nonsense,
Ugliness dangling from the very nowhere,
Something you always thought nonexistent,
Because such a thing just cannot exist.

But the alien presence insists it is there.

2.

At first you’re afraid it is there for you,
That it’s personal menace; but weeks relax you,
And you come to conclusion which is right in itself;
That there is nothing wrong with the sky.
That just something northern,
As it always does by the death of summer,
Descended from Space,
Revealing its coldest fractalness.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks,
Months in the end you grow terribly quiet,
Still a warm living watcher
Of the cold dead watchers,
Watching nothing from their chilly nowhere.

3.

But the thrill isn’t all those seasons,
Summers and autumns, leaving and dying.
It comes from within you, denying all reasons
You’ve grown so apt at inventing
Protecting your conscious.

Main actors here are the yellow leaves
And the blackness of night.
They wear the colours of danger and of destruction.
And you’re still trying to speak aloud,
But you only manage to whisper a shadow.

Something has happened.
Something had left your mind,
Leaving it shredded to fractals.
So now you’re a mirror.

Though a mirror still warm, still leaving,
But a mirror too close
To the still-borne mirror of the fractal nonsense.




4.

Imagine yourself completely alone,
No sister, no brothel, no friends, whatever,
It the happiest time of the year,
Which was happiest, in your Life.

On a bridge, in a park, at your kitchen, wherever.
Were you completely alone in the moment I talk about?
Well, I don’t think so. You’ve been making love in some bed
To some other being, making happy each other.

Now, juxtapose the frightening fractal nothing,
Overwhelming your broken mind in the yellow-black night,
With the peace and the tenderness
Playing their joyful piece
On the sun-lit linen.

This is not the Poem of the Agonized Summer,
This is not the Song of the Oncoming Chaos.
This is just the Story of the Lessening Love.

5.

The Summer agonized, because the Wind was blowing.
The Chaos’s oncoming, because its Seed we’re sowing.
The Love is lessening, because the Dark is growing.

But the Dark has His force
Not in himself. He has
His Force in the things it contains within.

Imagination will dare
Describe the things it contains.
Imagination will fail.

All the tortures, wrought or not,
All the nightmares, dreamt or not,
Will be also-rans.

Now, kill out the light.

6.

Just two points on the map of the city.
Just two people no longer together.
This is no imagination.

No tortures, just murder.
No nightmares, just boredom.
And the also-rans.

Now, that’s all what the Dark contains.

7.

But the things He contains
Are lessening Love.

Two points on the map of the city?
Preposterous waste of sense and of space.

Two people no longer together?
Only two people who are no longer.

Love will not die
Even if you kill out the light,

O the yellow leaves and the blackness of night.

8.

So, what hides in the Dark
That’s lessening Love?

Murder, boredom
And the also-rans.

(O the Lord of the Light! Creator of Yore!
Pray grant me a clear mindpicture of Her.)

9.

Red Rum, and
Mode Rob.
Brothel and
Slaughter.
Proton and
Neutron.

Electrons are also-rans.

This is the atomic structure
That’s lessening Love.

Murder?
Annihilate it with Anti-Murder,
Annihilate it with Love!

Boredom?
Annihilate it with Anti-Boredom,
Annihilate it with Love!

Also-rans, also known as
Electrons,
Deserve only reversing into
Snortcele.

10.

Snortcele?..

Snortcele is something snorting.

Let us leave it at that.

11.

The Annihilation of the Atom of Dark
Will give us the Energy and the Light.

12.

Destroy Your Enemy
By destroying His Name.

13.

Nonsense for nonsense.
Fractals to fractals.










INFANTA OF THE TAPE-RECORDER
To T.S. Quay



Down by the riverside,
The tape-recorder:
‘Who is in charge of this awful nonsense?
Who is in chief?
I cannot hear no-one!’

The tape-recorder records the river
The river noises and its own self
The tape-recorder records itself
It tapes the tape-worms
Dying in the graveyard
Till the tape gets crammed ---
really crammed ---

It was last spring
It was the only one machine in any motion
But it stood still and very black-box-like,
Black-coffin-like, oh very coffin-like
And the crammed tape
- the colour of black coffee -
Span generating only one emotion
Of passive dislocation
Of some Being by the Ocean
So far away from riverside
The sounds, the noises took a ride
On endless loop of tape
Rolling back, back ---
All over again to start and start again
To move back, back ---

The tape-worms died that summer
The tape-recorder stopped
To tape and record river
For the river stopped . . .
All stopped.

And passive dislocation of the Being by the Ocean
Turned into something else:
Unnamable, disgusting,
But safe from death - because in other world.

Then little Alice came.
She said:
‘In different universe,
Indifferent. Indifferent emotion,
Like going nowhere, or
Not going at all! . .
I don’t believe all this:
This ghostly plan. . .
No plants, no animals, no moving forms,
Only the flickering force
Of fictive rocking-horse.
It’s nonsense! . .’

. . . And the tape-recorder creaked,
Played back its tape,
Then coughed and sneezed and hissed:
‘I can recall the time
Oh not so long ago
When tape-worms lived’

Red dress,
Bright colours
In the world of grayness,
ALICE:
‘Any plan so ghostly
won`t let me stop - no, never.
I shall reign this spot -
The graveyard, river and the distant shore. Or not?
I don’t suppose I am permitted questions.
Or not? I’m old. Who’s calling me ‘Infanta’?
Who’s there? Who’s here?
What’s wrong?’

But when the sun fell prone, tomorrow came to throne.
And there was nothing -
Just a fading image of a very little girl
With bottomless sad eyes
And spinning tape-recorder.

She reigned for ever and she was content.
She was Infanta of the Tape-Recorder.
She recorded and edited the noise,
The flicker-noise, which emanated from their fictive
And hidden Kingdom.
And I know this well,
Because we are a bit less fictive.
Noise she reigned, and noise
Converted into things,
Torrents of entities.
This vision
Occurred to my occluded mind
This Spring.
I cannot prove it fully.
I know: it’s ugly, sick - but tell me, tell,
When there’s no Alice
And no Tape-recorder -
Well, WHAT IS THERE?

I’m sure it’s all forgotten.
But I deem it MURDER -
To doubt this vision.
Better let’s say THANKS -
To our Creator,
Little, fatalistic,
Victorian girl.

We WINCE at being fictive, but
She WINS the game ---
She sings her simplest nonsense songs
And she rewinds the tape on tape-recorder ---
SHE IS INFANTA OF THE TAPE-RECORDER.






















IN THE DUSK



i just can`t sleep tonight
who yells it`s medications
that rumble all along
my veins-&-arteries
like errant memorations
of long gone girl
i want to freeze outside
the Spider`s Web
hath shrouded my life
my lust-&-pride
for all this funky world
it`s cold inside
but in between it`s hellish
so why to cherish so
those little
shoulders of her?
she went away in rattling cadillac -
or was it but a dream
the Toll of Fate
as poets` saying goes
destroyed the vivid melody
i so fragily yarned,
and I so lack
her presence here -
in darkness, boy . . .
trespassers prosecuted . . .
she went -
and what is left?
turn on the wild side . . .
and should you ask
for present occupation -
i just can`t sleep,
and so I sit here on this dusty corner
and watch the still time passing
in the dusk.






























SEVEN TIMES SEVEN,
or: Forty Nine Lines



Lewis Carroll and Sherlock Holmes
Are at home on the Crooked Street
Mrs Hudson tries to make ends meet
Mystery in the Sky
Or Unbelievable Ugliness in the corners
Night is all over a girl named Alice
Alice watching the stars go by.

Sir Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes
Drown together in sunless sea
Slide in darkness to silent city
‘We shall overcome on thee’
(What a pity
You witless bastard
Son of a beachless weakly tree).

Lewis Carroll and Jean-Paul Sartre
Don’t recognize one another yet
Mrs Hudson is blind and sad
But a whole lot smarter
Than a whore who
Betrays her days
Her Octobers and her Mays.

And an Alice cries
And an April sings
‘We don’t mind our minds
To be worthless things’
(Bow-wow cuckoo and miaow
We shall overcome ‘know-how’
With our dreams).

Mrs Hudson is chewing mud
On the ceiling we see her heart
Stop start stop start
Tape has ended dead
For the newly wed
On the bed of tulips
In warm July.

Boeing brings us forth
We are fortnight gone
All behind is stone (blind)
We are happy storm
But without a reason
Alice drills our skies
With her diamond eyes.

In ‘Long Distance’ booth
They shall find gone Youth
Like a long lost tooth
Or the Song’s last truth
Suddenly
Unbelievably
Broken Hearts cannot help continue.








AS IS, or : WE ARE THE RAKEHANDS



1. AS IS

It’s raining cats and dogs -
Dead cats and dogs, as is;
I’m in my house, late at night,
And if you follow this,
You’ll find, rare reader, all dead gods
Of Centuries behind our backs
Where Midnight stands in trees -
Dead trees, as is; you’ll find
(Please stop to grind your teeth,
Don’t shake your head, go shake my hand)
We share most happy land,
For happiness comes out of death
(This issue we’ll discuss in depth) -
You’ll find the world is packed enough
With dead to burst and cease
To be the mere museum of
Beliefs . . .
It’s raining still -
Dead water on dead leaves.
Come in! You’ll catch the whooping cough -
And go dead too (as is):
Come on and shake my bloody hands
So I can show you ruins in lurid sands
Which are my book.
Thoughts not unlike sand snakes
Dwell in these stones,
But fear no fear - it takes
Only a life to turn into the bones
(And mine I took).
My hands are rakes,
But they can hold a candle -
So sit you down in comfortable chair,
My dear rare reader, occupy your stare
With these wry pages, while the flair of s(c)andal
Fills up the room.
Let storm be left behind.
Let story care,
And if you are destined to lose your rare mind -
Your brilliant mind! - in pictures of the Gloom,
Fear not the pictures, for the pictures scare
Only neurotics drowned in cheap despair;
Reading this,
You’ll laugh (as is).
And as for ‘Ancient Doom’ -
Be patient. If you dare,
You’ll find it soon.


2. WE ARE THE RAKEHANDS

(OUR EYES ARE SQUARE)
You must absolutely visit
That wondrous graveyard
At the outskirts of New York
(So-called ‘big city’;
Population of this spaceball
Stuck in ‘big cities’).
You should rush to visit
That graveyard old.
Phenomena like this
Are meant for laughs.
Getting acquainted with it,
One starts to dig
The punchline of the praised
‘O stupid Earth’ (my pal may well remember
The hell this put-down raised):
‘Man’s Death is but the Birth
Of Model Member’.

Let’s imagine now,
How this ‘A.Ginsberg, jr.’ (no doubt,
An alias) would ‘drink’ and ‘smoke tobacco’,
‘weeping his eyes out o’er the World’s Debauche’,
et cetera.

What is a Model Member?
Well, fancy now so-called ‘November’,
‘mindfucking month’ (according to the ‘work’
Of late Sir Galimatias, esq.)

What a jerk
It must have been for Ginsberg
In New York! . .
‘. . . Mindfucking brutes of Planet Earth, unite,
November comes on dreary hearse of white! . .’
(From now on the autres will refer
to Ginsberg’s elegy as just to ‘O St.Err’
(seems rather long, you’re right,
but nonetheless a beauty)).
‘. . . dim and sooty,
Big Apple barfs mindfucking in the Night! . .’

. . . ‘The Model Member’
Is but a term our genius had applied
To any person which (as is) had died.
(A perfect match of form and quid, for sure).
November was the scheduled time for ‘cur’
(the ‘Planet Earth’) to BARK!!!

And BARK!!! it did, indeed.

. . . About the graveyard.
BARKing of New York
Left with a smirk
Only a broken record - crappy record
(Reportedly belonging to ms Beggard,
Gone with the rest),
Its title a crappy jest,
To Rakehands’ square eyes:
‘I’VE (blurred) THE GRAPEVINE’.

Sounds like the ‘GRAVEYARD’
(Word they used for sites
Where Soil’s a Safeguard).

And we deem it wondrous
Not for the look of it, because it’s all but stones
With so-called ‘epitaphs’
(‘Fun verses for the Dead’)
And thistle that still grows in rows -
Flowers dull red, the morbid weed;
‘I was a bachelor’ - we read
(poor thing, he thought
one’s heart would bleed
at reading this
we have no hearts
you better go
OUR EYES ARE SQUARE) - ‘in voice so low
my solitary Death bemoans
only the Wind that groans’.

Let’s pass the stones. Glimpse into profound
old crypt down there:
THEIR EYES WERE ROUND,
and though they are now bare,
on every skull grew once a lichen called ‘the hair’!

Given a heart to boot
And food-devouring wound
(there’s more to name;
these are enough) -
‘Tis little wonder that this sordid stuff
Pines underground!

Forgive me... Piough!
Forget the wondrous graveyard too.






















LIFE IS A NECKLACE
OF DEATHLESS DIAMONDS
OF MEMORY
For Julia K.



Do you remember your shortish coat —
Do you remember April, 16th?
Do you remember you, shy homey-road —
As if the rain’s due out of eyes’ synth . . .
On, grayish bonnet, on, coat greenish,
Do you remember next door, talk of past?
Do you remember hops, arms flung teenish:
‘Hello lover! How was it day passed?’
Do you recall the ice-bear, like ice-cream?
Do you recall the ‘triox’, call — where to?
Where is it all now — vanished in past’s stream?
Was washed away by the future’s tears’ dew?
Life is a meaningless meanie meandering,
Mud being washed in by every day’s vain . . .
It sinks us down — where is its pardoning?
Only in One Thing — call Gold Day again.










THE LOVE SONG OF THE CYBORG



;
i`m looking looking at
at the table table that
that was sat upon by woman,
who was empty while she sat.

;
i`m looking looking sad
sad and lonely lonely lad
lonely lad upon the ladder
where the lizard killed the rat.

;
i`m cooking cooking bad
bad and scanty scanty clad
scanty clad like empty woman
who was human just a tad.

;
sorry darling darling drat
sorry woman empty brat
i was rat who killed the lizard
on the ladder while you sat.






TAKE MR ENO ABACK



1.
I got for the beano
Some gaspers and vino
To take Mr Eno aback.
2.
Take off your tuxedo,
Skedaddle to lido,
See sights and be back.
3.
Then fuck pretty bimbo
With bollocks akimbo,
Have cuntful of drug.
4.
Have gaspers and vino,
Enjoy dirty beano
To take Mr Eno aback.
5.
Then if you can win to,
Join us under lean-to,
Enjoy piss and cack.
6.
Be us or akin to -
We do what we mean to:
We take Mr Eno aback.






THE WHEREWITHAL



Most of the so-called happy lovers cry,
When motherland stoops to vomit.
Yes: but the one who drinks such bulks
And loads down such scant food,
Is not only an addict, he will die of cancer.

Dark are the skies. He is not he, but she
Who is no longer she, the bulging sexless toad.
Our mother has one hole, the one by which to drink,
To load down tons of scotch and belch no satisfaction.
Our mother has no hole even to shit.

Lovers may cry. Shake covers for a change.
The cool revenge, since now, will stand for scry,
Steadily gazing at the dark-hued sky.
There at no distance happy structure would appear -
The awesome structure of no pity and no end.

The hole surrounded by the shining golden coins,
The passage from within this earthly mothercorpse,
Into the infinite, into the universe. Read shimmering inscription:
‘Thus reigns the wherewithal’. In passing out we’ll know:
The quid of money and the quid of all are one.







WAR IS OVER



Goodbye my Marylin brightred hairdoed
You`re not mine you`re not Marylin
You`re my Marylin brightred hairdoed

DECEMBER breaks us summertimes
Bumps us outsurprise
Brings up indifference EYELIGHT SHEDOUT

GOODBYE my dead old Marylin brightred
hairdoed

I`ll mindsnapshot you in Your Youth:

TENDER FINGERS
SLENDER RINGS ON
STREETCLOCK SHADOWED

Goodbye my Marylin brightred hairdoed

I`ll mindsnapshot you
As a Black-Clad Hell-Queen
Of All-Abandon -
TENDER FINGERS -
SLENDER RINGS ON -
STREETCLOCK SHADOWED -
BRIGHTRED HAIRDOED -
EYELIGHT SHEDOUT -
Goodbye, Goodbye.


THE ALIEN FIRE
For Alicia



Like the spookiest syntax
Of a phantom desire -
This is how I see you.
It’s the Alien Fire.

All impossible members
Of New Critical Reich -
Wake up or be nothing,
For we’re gonna hitchhike

Through the Land of the Crystal
And of Feral Desire . . .
Come to life. Let me see you.
I’m your Alien Fire.















SYMMETRY FOR A BLIND GUY
(twt aaa twt iii twt ooo)

This is a story of a man from Europe who came to Tokyo to visit his little son.
Holger Hiller, ?Little Present?



this a story of a man from tokyo
who went to europe
to kill everyone.

a black unconscious under red umbrella
a ghost in the crowd
a the in the an.

they forget as soon as they see
whether famished or not
the image they crave.

i`m all ears and gears since my five years
i remember everything that disappears
i find in contempt their cowardly tears

to spend a lifetime devoid of meaning
when the wind blows meaner than hell careening
the one who`ll undo them on even evening

observes blindly the crowded house
or pours darkly on the bloodhound mood
of the wayward weather in the worn-out wood.



THE TOKYO STREETFIGHTING FREAK



They called me Tokyo Streetfighting Freak.
High on their Fear. Their eyes there, their
Ears of the Highest Fear reek.
Time was when I were merest city-boy of Yore,
Or, as it were, the ?Heir of Before?;
Kick-boxing seemed another grown-up joke
Yoke of the yoga-yodeling sons of Yoke,
Or oriental scream of poker, poking a poke.
Scream was a joke... And, at five years, I, shy,
Turned in a wink of innocently pink
Round square blue pair into a frightening kink:
Eyes stared at Stick in claws of nasty yob,
Eyes choked at sight of stick doing its job;
The tears could follow, but to lead no eye
From fatal poke remained, so, poor thing, I -
I turned into the Strictly Sightless Guy . . .
Guy I Remain.
High on their Fear.
Tonight
It hides in vain, - their hides to disappear,
Neglect to follow, Pain for my Delight,
Go tears, go, for I will never stop.
Fears go like tears, pour down drop by drop,
Rears get kicked, I`m sick of your a-hiding,
`Ere goes the Awesome Tokyo Streetfighting:
Awe be on you.
K.O.! Tonight I`m out to crop.



THE HAND AND THE KISS



It’s not me,
Not my hand that I kiss in the dark.
I’m not here,
Where the hands grope about silent body.
I am almost as absent as anger.
My absence is stark.
Only you fill the room
Where I gasp like a waterless zander.

And according to - who? -
I am molding this dark into you.
Am I holding the water
And is it not muddy?
Are we naught but the ball of the bangers?
I hope that’s untrue.
I’m awaiting the waters of - what? -
With a curious wonder.

Do we grow in the dark?
Do the hand and the kiss
Grow maliciously big?
O my buddy! -
We are hungry like gander for zander,
And this
Feeds our skins in this room
Where we grow like the trees,
And our souls which are under.



THE COLOURS OF WINTER



It begins to snow in the middle of autumn in this gray city,
and the wet white nothing bedabbles the joyful as well as the
sad,
like a devil’s signature, absent post script and abstract silence,
and the days to come seem ringing tones because all is said.
If it’s true we belong to the weather we must resign and
find some kinder, some warmer master to take us on, to be wise
we must wrap our arms round each other in this cold violence,
because being erect what is left but to grow in size, grow in size.
White on white, void on void, light is throwing itself on its own,
all alone in the winter’s dark whizz, all above the brown leaves
it a-hides,
let me take you to coffee house painted and peeling and empty,
smell the cinnamon, cardinal, cordial, smile at the brides
as they pass in their veils in this crispy, this crippled cold air,
in their veils and their gloves, as they pass all around the glass,
close your eyes, press your breast to my necktie for fair, for fair,
for fair you are. So come on, burn the book, kill alas.
When I look at your stooping, your sighing, your born-to-lose
shoulders,
when the boulders swoop down upon us, I hear the voice aye,
yea I hear your voice aye, and you say you are snow-blind and frightened,
little friend, little friend, I can bring you all warmth in the sway
of the colours of winter, the red of the fire in your hair,
yellow light of the traffic light just after dark, noble orange, the red
of the blood in your veins, of the light in my window, the yellow
of the inside of noble orange, the red of your sweet cigarette,
orange kittens of childhood, red as they conquer the tigers
of the grim brotherhood of adults content as a knife,
red as lips of ‘I love you’ and red as a courage of pike, as
it still beats on the ice, red as light, red as dark, red as life.
































WYSIWYG



Watermelon is the Berry of Desire
Yellow leaves are lying on the floor
Space is Sphere, dark-blue, surrounding you.
I just know the Colors, but I don’t remember
What they look like. In the Dead December,
Yellow leaves, fall down!!! -
Gravity’s at the door.























FLASH



I would grind the sun just to raise guffaw
And erase the hell
We all trigger for -

Foes always are: the ideas you woo,
Hairstyle you style,
Hairdo you do.