(Or, "Take me to Church" is a silly song)
Once upon the bed...
Starling starling, linnet’s wings,
Starling, silly and blue-
Playing zirkeln upon the hour...
Meine kratzen tier, wo weilest du?
“Introibo ad altare dei!”
Let’s come to the sounds of privation;
And how shall we cope with,
From whence we come?
Oh, new lost generation.
Bleed bleeds, a’way-
Copulate this sickness!
Agenbite of inwit
This life o’mine measured in fleas-
Barko at th’ altare ye;
Me, tuos scabellum pedum tuorum!
“Be thine own palace, or the world's thy jail.”
Her furled moaning never rests,
For a habitual fire trembles to:
Then spake the voices at 7:00AM
chiming bright like a hateful knell;
because all other times I hath resolved
too fully of the flesh; round it
now a savage ghost, batters tired lids-
so that eyes may never properly close,
and the all-surrounding
urban dawn, may devastate repose;
the edges of a blushing shore, engorge
to meet, an antiquated intrepidity –
with visions coaxing an elated
trill, atop concave tapering;
lucid the rifting speckled light
with all its cold descriptive solicitude,
provokes love’s haggard osculation,
bound in space, in time, to over-exude.
Let us never pause, or make an end,
it is dreary to cease the smoothing play;
seek always beyond the furled heart,
beneath the undulating force of the waves,
it is not too late for a heated expression,
abscond the natural importune dream;
regress again the forward journey,
praise the ecstasy of the desirable terrene.
Rage is dew on thy lustrous skin
Dido, scented like my quintessence.
Pierced and burning--brightest horror,
Brightest image on the devout horizon;
Is the light of my crossing, now meant to shame me?
Why can't I turn the eyes?
Why won't you turn away? Oh Punic star!
Phoenicia, burning, burning and Rome in dreams.
You will turn away, in that country
That last of meeting places,
Where death is love, and all those dreams
That once bled from our whimpering eupneas--they run.
Yes, I have let you see
Opened the skin of me;
Offered up this gift
In all primeval, the tremor
Melds with flesh,
Molds the sighing Earth;
Die, die this hour in breaths,
Oh, what I have given
What I have given into;
Night and dim light
Fall o'er your breasts,
Your arms sought more
Than arms could seek,
Still haunting with warmth
The pallid memories
You place in conquest;
A crown of brunette
Such sweet, ado
Rains down to silence, and
Thy cheek presses a'listen
To an oscillant chest;
One hysterical whisper
Then gentle snoring,
Sounds in triumph.
Falstaff is Dead:
Falstaff is dead, and life bleats on
A few million shoes go “bye!”
The host formulates along
Correctness, the sublimations,
Or those teary speeches, of how wrongly
He lived, and now how dead he is.
Rain dies too, athwart his face
(Yes, athwart) it sleets, authentically
Tarnishing his already tarnished--
Yet defensive rotundity; the great mass in which
He lived, is filled with massive space…
Space, deep below the roomy preconscious.
Now the Halophiles are singing,
They love a good ascent, the correct way
To say ‘end a story’ or, ‘cut out those tongues!’
No need to say anything eclectic: villain & man &
hero & coward and debonairly a slob! Such eloquence
Can have the long, routine execution--hence sublimation etc…
Air, air on the guts of words, what are words?
Or THAT word? To guts on the ground, and fire in the air?
It is a long sleep-nonsense-nothingness, while politicos
Decide who is who, and what is what, this word for that!
Trodden, broken upon the Earth that bore him-
His scutcheon resides, atop their organ; that is his end.
Trying to Hunt:
There was a tear sometime in winter
It was deep onyx and browbeaten
Bleeding murk that grayed the snow,
In an unknown portion of the cedars;
Cold filled the sandwich up with slime.
“Time” said Rex, “the seer of all things
has found you out.” (Trudging went the boots)
Winter looked soft but wetly it chaffed,
Making feet miserable; the gun kept slipping
And the jacket decided to forgo its warmth.
There was no grand effulgence amongst the ether,
There was no “I” in the clouds; what was one hunting?
Geese they flew in an echelon that burned like white
Every year feeling it out, knowing better; ‘they must feel
Love? They bond for life; no “I” was in the cloud.
Horrible is a truth that one can find, reflected in
A swath of nature, there was no help in the hollows
Or the brooks, no solace with blood in the ears;
Consciousness buzzed along, and breath labored.
A heartbeat drummed atop the clinking cans.
The land was separate from assumption, not the act
Fumbling went innumerable migratory denizens
Beating against the window of ice,
The blotted white, raised like stalking streets!
You saw the fluttering instant of a flower
You saw the tallest lamp reflecting death;
And the world hurried in, like waves of stomping feet;
When the images came flowing back
There was a place for you and “I”
Assurance would follow, backwards over the
Shambled hills, smoke toward an open wound
That is glorified in pavement.