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LEE RICHARD KIRSTEN

B Poets BibleVol 1-3

a letchard inc odyssey

 

®
creative rebellion since 1991
Published by Letchard Inc creative rebellion since 1991® London, England.
editing and layout by Lee Richard Kirsten
Copyright © 2005 Lee Richard Kirsten

isbn 0-9548420-0-6
isbn-13 978-0954842000
All Rights Reserved.

Protected by UK Copyright Service registration
The Poets Bible: A Letchard Inc Odyssey: Vol. 1-3
cover concept by Lee Richard Kirsten

front cover artwork:
‘end of hue’ © 2005 Gavin John Kerrigan.
All Rights Reserved.

printed in london, England by panache 2000 ltd 00001.jpg

To
God

Let my imagination
laugh for me,
as I break

into the world,
poker faced
as a stoned apostle, true to the

flying invisible
kingdom,
i have outlined
to build.

Lee Richard Kirsten. <The Last Poet>

From
Me
And

My

 

Friendly Demon

 

INTRODUCTION (11)
TTHHEE PPOOEETTSS BBIIBLEE ((VVOOL.1) TTHE BBIIBLE

THE BATH 15
BLUE TICKET (IN) 17
THE BOOK OF POEM 21
LOST POEMS 34
THE BLACK DOT 43
THE ATOMIC BULLET COMIC (in three sections): 44
a. HIGH TEA 45
b. AN ESSAY AFTER A MOMENT IN
HISTORY 76
c. FINAL LOVE 86
BURNT ACROSS 97
MAGAZINE DRUGS (Reliquary: A and
Reliquary: B) 104

THE GLOWING ARM (in six sections): 114
a. SUMMIT OF THE EVENING 116
b. SEARCHING LIGHT 123
c. ALLEY POSTER 137
d. THE LAST POEM OF THE LAST POET 139
e. SARDONIC SCRIPT 159
f. OASIS NEWSPAPER 170
YOUNG MAN MAD WITH WORDS
(the battle scrolls in two sections): 181
a. LETTERS IN FADED INK 182
b. DEVOTION EXPLORATORY 201
KILLER-PROTECTOR 210
THE RED LETTER 213
THE EPIC 217
ODE TO HELL (land of the current hill) 226
THE LAST EXPLANATION (death defined) 229
THE YELLOW PAMPHLET 232
SLOW BOAT INTO THE SUN 241
THE INTOXICATED POEM (in six
sections): 242
a.THE LOWLINESS OF A LONG DISTANCE TRAVELLER 243
b. TREATY OF FALLS 253
c. THE PAPER 257
d. THE CHROMANTIC 261
e. JOURNAL OF A HUNTER (a page from The Poets Trench) 264
f. HOME 266
BLUE TICKET (OUT) 269

TTHHEE PPOOEETTSS BBIIBBLE ((VVOOLL..2) TTHE PPOOEET

THE POETS SERMON 274
THE 24 HR FREAK-OUT 276
MANIFESTO 293
ASSIGNMENT (NO4) 298
I HAVE A FIERY VISION TO PROMOTE A SENSORY INFERNO 300

TTHHEE PPOOEETTSS BBIIBLEE ((VVOOL.3) TTHE SSHHRINE

STRYCHNINE BISCUIT 306
CALIBRATED SUNSHINE 319
SUPERIOR SQUALOR 324
STAGGER AND BLEND 328
THE PURSUIT OF LIFE IN A RAM’S
SKULL SWIMMING IN SLUM SOUP 333
UNDER THE TANNING BALL 338

m

 

INTRODUCTION

All that I want to concern myself with is the rare vision of nature and to move amongst exceptional things, in the workshop of the imagination.

I came down to earth and realised the intentions of the gods had been impressed upon me, a gem of reconstruction encrusted into my paper crown ... I had been rewired into a new fool: an agent of the gods, a symbol of dark deviant beauty, a poet whose soul lies now in shards.

And so, I woke up just before the moon was expected to shine, then I went out to find intrigue and soon found myself tied to a gate with whip lashes across my back, it all didn’t make any damn sense ... but then the sun shot up and the ground started to burn my feet and the hot lord rose higher over my bowed head ... the birds began to jitter - the clouds began to litter - the drugs began to make me fitter; and then all in one high-octane adrenaline rush of appraisal for life, I dispersed the backropes and resisted the pearly gate and flew off richer, madder - more demented and most importantly free.

I had come full circle. I had abseiled to the lowest cringe. I had solo climbed up to the highest reality and had returned happier, whole, whole-hearted - fierce, fierce.

Lee Richard Kirsten (The Last Poet) THE POETS BIBLE a letchard inc odyssey Vol. 1-3

B
Poets Bible

a letchard inc odyssey

1

The Bible

Opening Quote

l

 

Talons in the veins

 

of the wrist, grapple out from the falcons unbroken fist. Understand the heart of a man most, by his choice of weapon.

 

This entire happening, was once a dream.

 

Don t mind about dying, take the risk.

The Bath

Remember to

 

reach the seas

&
beach your knees on shores of gold.

Blue Ticket <In>

A

 

This is only the start ...

 

AN INTEREST AT LARGE SEEN IN DETAIL

 

Oh God bless this ...

 

PICTURE PERFECT MOMENT

 

The first time if it is not, make it!

 

LEAD THE WAY - YOUR OWN EFFORTS THE HEART OF THE STORY

 

So indecent but so “the-in-thing”, we worship the light of the decade ...

 

AND BRICK DOWN FIRES

 

Slapping down virtuoso money, in the knowledge of our involvement & the stakes going up

 

EXPOSURE:

 

Sometimes I freak-out so much, believing in the sights and the sounds - when it is only a world of order & beautiful chaos

 

PRECEPT:

 

Breathe in - breathe out - stay true to the dream

 

BACK TO THE SCORE:

 

Living it one little day at a time

 

HOWL THE FRENZIED HOWL OF THE WEREWOLF GOD!

 

There is a new diatribe to sponsor B

 

The poem is as it falls

 

SYLLABUS ABYSS

 

There is eagerness in the versatility of restlessness

 

AND THE THING DRIVES ON ...

 

The innovator in fire, smoke and thunder assembled with demon and bohemian

 

CONCEIVE OF THIS:

Clouds pour bankless, over the street lamp looming over a quiet dark lonely road, hung & fritzing like a dying vein, underneath the collar of an outlaw, swinging from the gallows stage, as ...

EVERYTHING IS IMAGINED IN ONE REBELLIOUS SECOND

 

Manuscript of the moment

BUT IT ALL DISAPPEARS JUST LIKE THAT AND LEAVES AN INDELIBLE STAIN, THE CRIME SCENE POURING INTO THE NEXT RECEPTIVE BRAIN, I IMAGINE

C

 

Grateful for dreaming & love; I must love

 

THE PROPHET MOVES ON ...

 

Appreciating the warm return of spiritual friends and places - but not for too long ...

 

SNAPSHOT OF REVOLT IN MY MIRROR:

 

A desperate journalist of an accidental society

 

SPOTLIGHT

 

Let it all hang out - your artistic Faust

 

A TREASURE WORTH FINDING ~ end

The Book of Poem
c

BIRTH OF A KING (The Year of The Fiend)

Strange phenomena crowd my mind in the hot sticky nights of
Augustine.
I run to escape this enchanted madness, but my naked body is entrapped in a web of blind hate. It tears at my soul, draining the love I once knew, fulfilling it
with destruction and hate.
My name is Lucifer, King of death.

UNTITLED

Slowly the figure fades into the vastness, a shadow drags behind slothfully.
The sun beats down, vapourising
energy and will.
Voices stab the figure, encouraging disbelief.
Sweat pours down, running lines of exhaustion and tiredness.
Dropping into the loose sand,
the figure kneels and raging like the ocean, echoes out sweet blasphemy.
Mirages dance in the distance,
shimmering with deceitfulness.
Slowly the figure dies,
its ashes lay to rest,
in saddened disfigurement.

LET ME SLEEP THE DREAMLESS SLEEP

I see narcotics in funny shapes, sizes. I see needles, veins.
I see weird unexplained freedom. I stretch out my wings, feeling
flight - death.
Let me sleep the dreamless sleep,
no pain, just a heavenly gain.
I talk, my voice echoes in its box, my muted friends don’t answer; they’re dreaming themselves alive, leaving me to talk to God.
My marrow dries, my skin dies.
Let me sleep the dreamless sleep.

UNTITLED

Ancient warlords ride sturdy horses
along dust blown paths.
With bodies of armour and hands of sword, the army gathers upon a hill.
Flags of cult whip in the wind.
Ready to do battle the war trumpet is sounded, bellowing over the plains of Persia.
The rumble of horses hooves beat the air, as the voices of men come together in the clashing of swords.
Triumphantly the victor is crowned.
Grievously the defeated is beheaded.

BUDDED ROSE

Romanticize all ye lovers.
Read poetry, sing songs, drink wine,
make love.
Give a budded rose to her, when it blossoms - the time will be right.
And just like the rose, you will
open up to one another, smelling the essence of love.
But be warned.
If the rose is still budded and you open up, your relationship shall be pricked by the thorns of life and both your hearts shall bleed,
Left to wither in the garden of weeds.

SHE’S IN MY DREAMS

Her beige back and thigh, tans in the mid-day sun. The sand clings to her toes.
Running through the clear surf, the water almost eagerly splashes upon her breasts.
Her voice like soft music, tenderly caresses my ears almost seductively.
To touch her would be a treasure,
but she’s so far in my thoughts,
in my dreams.
Come here,
I love you.

UNTITLED

Satin lovers
Mexican dreamers
Swan lake dancers
Spanish fly seductions
Provocative woman with idol bodies, out for a trip.
Can you trust them.

UNTITLED

In your mind, you imagine - controlling thoughts and time.
You blow out the sun,
You touch the moons face,
You can sculpture mountains,
Control nature,
Destroy enemies,
Your arms are wings, soaring through Currents.
You are invisible,
You are a god
Creating your own world
Your paradise.

PENDULUM CHASE

Indulge in something light.
Observe panoramic views, linked with space and time.
Sip the pink champagne sky with its bubbly delight, feel the creamy clouds melt slowly down, chilling your throat.
Talk to the peregrines gods of flight.
The pendulum is timing us.
Walk in the palace of Sultan rule, smell the money, steal the jewel.
Crush the grape - taste the wine, pure from the vine sweet divine.
The pendulum is chasing us.
Horizons are yellow, orange and blue.
Gulls fly south.
The water is shaking with lines of white, the night is blue, full of fright.
Champagne turns the colour of the night, its bubbles bring out stars and comets.
The pendulum is dimming.
Serpents bite the moon, poisoning the darkness. If you are brave it will not bite, ease your doubts feel its painted cold, smooth skin; look into its eyes, protect your kin.
Kiss its pout.
Lick its fang, have respect it’s a King.
Give him wings - he will fly like a dove.
Give him spine - he will bite your heel.

The pendulum has fallen. Our dreams are shattered.

 

NIGHT

The frailty of relentless thought fades, into the dark open night.
The forest is wet and damp.
Voices are heard through the trees
as the wind passes gently, sending a chill all around. The eeriness of crept up haunt, stalks its lonely and horrified prey, as wild beasts are formed in the clouds arrayed.
On the earth, hasty footsteps crackle to the sound of withered leaves, scattered across the unwary trail, to defeat,
to destruction.

THE COMING (As Children Dream)

A loud noise echoes through the cool midnight breeze.
A sharp blinding light pierces through the heavens. I look up in glorified amazement, looking into the face of purity and grace.
I feel my soul stirring deep within.
Then, the holy one raises his hand and I feel all my earthly burdens been lifted.
My naked body rises gently and I feel the warmth of God’s love wrap me tightly, for eternity.

THE CHURCH

Halo perimeters
Timid saints
Young virgins in gorgeous blood shed. Bent crucifixes displaying
a repulsive and distorted figure of Christ,
Hypocritical confessional boxes,
stained glass windows.
Brass bells ringing - bringing together
communion and gathering.
Priesthood indoctrination - feasting on the good Lord’s body in desecration: breaking bread,
drinking wine - flesh and blood intertwine.
The 666 beast has risen.

WHAT HAVE THEY LEFT FOR ME

 

Setting suns stagger down a darkened alley, to their home fires & tea beside the telly, after a day’s job, well done.

Darkness draws its shadows, like vampire fangs growing longer - greater, crawling over the
sun’s warmth - cooling fever - with great cool & vacancy.

Get inside children. Playtime is over.

Hasty shore waters rush like salty dogs after sticks, bashing the sand smooth. The moon cuts a white path over the glassy water and the splashing drops of fizzy sea, that foam onto our squirming tongues,
they burn our soft skin throats, like seamen.

The toilets are dirty with bad words & lonely phone call numbers and the public always piss miss & leave shit on the walls.

 

It’s very late & it stinks here, but I am wide-open & in waiting.

 

LAST NIGHT

I found her at a party last night. She was a rich golden honey blonde, with a broad innocent smile and helpful nature.
The memories I recall out of my
beverage mind are so wide and vague,
that my perspective is slanted.
Guardian carriage got me here safe.
I was drunk,
my sleep seemed restless,
as though drawn out and made up of thoughts and not dreams, because it was a
shallow rest.
As I write, my mind is still clogged by the same, some what percentage of a
dark burning evil water.

NAKED RADIANCE

The nakedness of their bodies, is
radiated under the cool midnight.
With wet back and thigh, they make warm love. Entering into the game of foreplay, he feels her sensual wetness.
Her inner beauty welcomes him deeply:
rising, stiffening.
Slowly he caresses her tender breasts,
kissing them with care.
The sound of lovemaking and arousal fills the nights air - rhythmically.

TILL DEATH DO US PART

Newly weds carry each other tight over the threshold of dreams:
a white picket fence, crackling fireplace, cat and dog, boy and girl playing on a setting hill
silhouettes fade.
Renovation is needed, cracks are opening, the garden is dying, dog kills cat, children are sick, dad beats mom.
Wedlock vows are derailed, the train leaves its carriage entering into courtroom divorce, alimony settlement, family feud -
the children are confused.
Their parents have broken the seal,
the shiny gold band ring, it’s in their past Till death do us part?

INSPIRATIONAL JUICE

Inspirational juice, so succulent it gives life.
It’s like citrus birth, a new season, with different
ideas, all growing - dropping seeds that set us forth into another dimension, making us the pith of idea. Everything we make revolves around us, description is interpreted from unspoken thought, that we could never put out to the bleak, unsighted world of people with no depth - soon should they laugh at our words, for they are of amoeba nature, overpowering with their mass consciousness & insect rebellion The Invidual’s thoughtfulness, with vociferous bogus words & actions of no higher meaning.

THE DRUIDS OF TIME

The Druids of Time sit in candle lit rooms, smoking inspirational herb, wandering into pens and paper of imaginary rhymes that form shapes and emotions, dressed up in words that change the lives of the animated.
We are the Druids, philosophers of time and romantic charm.
Our words are in the hills, over the seas, crashing out into cores of dense molten,
filling the earth with
upliftment.
Saving the human race from thought drought. BETRAYAL OF TWO TIMES (The Garden)

Two betrayals spread out evenly, the beginning and the end.
Two gardens proposing death in the hidden.

Deception from these two kinds led us to be born - for a blood
so new stained our future, saving us from the sacrifice.
Isn’t it true that the Serpent
and Judas’ greed were as ripe as the fruits that brought us here and in that poisoned our choice.

Can you imagine the first shedding
invocation of a difference.
Innocence is cruel, like an extremely trusting Lamb led to the slaughter.
Innocence makes each and everyone of us victims, all following the new order of death
rising to a new life of naked rebirth.

Many of us betray ourselves, kissing death on the cheek.
Young death so appealing, you can fall in love with it.

My death was so ripe, so fruitful that it changed life.
I do not blame my elders or the great teachers for my death. I was just turned on by its thrill, it was so different.
I wanted to see what was on the other side.
WISDOM

Sitting here in my study mire, what can I from knowledge acquire?
Dog-eared; brittle, leathery books lay dust dormant on these study shelves.
What can I acquire I plead - is it fame, fortune, a degree or wisdom;
all three can make me happy, but wisdom I guess all men seek in the fortified depths of life.
The world cannot cheat a wise man - only he himself. So what do I do great source of unseen presence? What can make me solemn and wise?

‘Wisdom is found in yourself and your reality with life and how much you are willing to see in the unseen. Seek wisdom out, don’t wait for it to find you.’

O great Visage, source of life, touch my eyes, ears, mouth and heart, to make me understand the world clearer.

UNTITLED

Eager to down the biting snake holding firm
its body clear its venom golden.

Fool you are
to be in its lure.
A numb head
heavy feet.
Another side - wish you were here, wish you could feel me,

I am cold and smooth. UNTITLED

All the moments passed and outlived, we have either made into movie or poem.

The record of time never ceases to end, keeping the diamond on track and in tune to the labyrinth lives we have led.

Obstacle on obstacle, pain bound with obstacle is void of expression, like a lost proposal to a
mute girl.

I was once told to forget
the expectant eye and close my own to the audience of pressure.
Staying in a world of your own is safer
collusion with another could be disastrous, for the bits retained might not be your own.

REPTILIAN SCALE

Ancient photograph, scale of time
preserved with memory kept with a glance.

The young never get old and the old never die. Eyes re-occur in the smiling of pain,
to the mourner
who kills the dream with drink.

UNTITLED

We walked
and talked
and got lost in

our words,
at the end of our
conversation we found ourselves in some

other vicinity.
Words have got us where we are today

let’s just hope they can get us

 

- back.

 

THE END

Lost Poems
c

I lay clasped in the hand of my master, guided through
passion and dream.

Hungry highway
slowly feeding
the insatiable City, traffic.

Behind the wheel
like patterns steered
we, traffic.

Into contemporary needs & new ways to feed the City’s magnet

we, traffic.

 

The City is not a place where we assemble for our way of life,

 

it is where we stir up

 

to honour our toast with, traffic jam.

 

Poignant rebuke

 

under a wilful crucifix.

 

Paused suspension in sudden outcry

will he release himself and discard the
thorny branch, or shall he give up, sink his head and fade into the throng?

Do you doubt the promise? Will you forget and turn cold?

Don’t you remember his words that stood bold and made you cry.
Have you forgotten already?

‘Why did you leave me and
join the goats, ramming
the blunt tool into my palm,
causing blood to spill over the tree, over the hill that firmly supported my thorn.’

I embraced your sin

 

extracting it from the pretence

 

Amen

 

SACRED BOWER

‘I shall make the uninvited guest informal and forecast a canopy of caustic to ooze the pious entrant.’

Dark, dazed side effects, equally weird and evil. To touch would be immediate entry.

Mist or steam.
Settling or rising.
Settling next to her under the sheets. Rising discreetly, discreetly pouncing.

Caught tight in an outfit of fornication,
never out growing it, never vowing.
It comforts, proper and sober, for all what she is, is a mother figure of option.

I do not wish to blindly propagate or lustfully in discomfort to connect and disconnect in the selfish hour.

A minute of love overpowers all these aspects modestly, with accomplishment.

‘Offer him something, quick, quick.’
‘Tea or whiskey sir?’
‘Are you finding it perennial between the words or shall you cope?’
‘Uh! Whiskey please if you do.’

Cold growing distraction
under the needle
in the vein.
‘Hot, it’s getting hot, almost too tempered.’ Illusion by chemical fits like a mask,
stipulating recreation out of imagination; until the strap is cut and reality waxes and the wage of addiction is spent

‘Oh dear, quick wake him up, oh no is he drunk?’

Still, is its fascination.
Men never get weary of its expense: its costly recruitment to the line.
The truth is hidden, just like the lead and shrapnel covered in crimson.
The sickness lies in the neglect of aftermath, where food is scarce and money shallow.

What can be done for now?
What can be said, to those who have waited and those who’ve returned.
Who will pin them and their pride?

Who will sacrifice his soul, on the altar of war?

 

Cover me over - dust to dust. Cover me over - ashes to ashes.

 

Depression is gracefully killing.

 

Massing heartache In the echoing thought.

A new person
Needs to come
From this sour seed.

I need

 

sex and drink

 

drugs and creation.

I need to see things as They aren’t and exchange Pain for numbness
Prolonging desire in the Fulfilled need.

Strangers will show me the way

 

But only if I see things fit enough for a growing King.

The moon shall not wait for The half-hearted man.
Change needs commitment.

The quiver is full and the target for the taking.

Bodies surround me,
Unorbited
Switched off to
The slurring elements.

All is ceramic In neat detail With a last glint.

I pluck a feather out of the sky

 

I run my fingers over water, like glass

Abstract similarities All earnest behind the Cabinet’s window. Mythical splendour Plush and rosy
Coveted by a Devil.

FALCON

Spread the sun On your tail,
The shine on Your feather. Push altitude
To your limit
&
Penetrate with your Skilful eye
The prairie your
Shadow possesses.

Dive quick &
Comfort your
Prey with
Crimson claw &
Pluck out its eye to Reward your sight & Eat out its tongue to Revenge the lies & Tear off its ears
To soften the rumours.

The currents shall hold you & The sun shall possess you.

You are the brave, the strong & the struggling.

You are the Falcon, Paragon of flight.

 

Any law that compromises - is as impotent as the power that governs over it.

Her understanding was always of a child, seeing the pasture in the battlefield.
An individual who becomes dependant on something, which transcends them only to a temporary level - begins to grow weak in spirit.

In the cross-hairs blood splatters against the walls, there sprayed for the children to learn.

 

The scuffed claw like an overcast jewel, is disallowing for us to look inside, at the water-mark of its worth;

 

The perforating amethyst, the vinyl claw, eating a grip into our valueless trudgings.

 

There is no aim for a man who has no teacher, master, etc.

 

I have retired and seen many things; though nothing so great as a man who knows himself.

 

I wager that day would give much to see the play of night. Though not all fair, who will wrong it over right.

 

The gods are curious and are game for anything.

 

Remember to discipline your face, to uplift your defences.

 

I see God revealing his pain in the grotesque reality of today.

 

THE END

 

Temptation is the opportunity

 

to learn something about

 

eternal pain.

 

Great weakness, is the
foundation of great strength.

 

Map your own creation.

Black Dot Atomic Bullet Comic

< In
Three
Sections
>

High Tea

ACT ONE

 

RIBBONS AND MEDALS

 

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

Dandy welcomes and dolly kisses to the stage at High Tea, where the tea is high and always green and nothing is what it seems. From afar you have come from stores ajar, on trucks and coaches and cars, bright as bristles and red as pipes, all types of twist and tell. Sernel is my name, as in sergeant and in colonel, but for no infernal militant fame do I intend to aim, but to bring to you, a strict thick madness, of a kind closer than near, so it is well you are here, so high and dry and plumed like feathers try, so fold your wings and things asleep and fall back deep into your seat.

(Tea-Cosy enters)

I am Tea-Cosy, here supposedly with a word or two, to soothe your cosy watch-chain-hour and the games court in your tower. Young at heart, I dart with my arms stretched apart, fall on my chin and within time I heal, ready to traipse and trot with stains of tea pouring down to my heel. And now ...

SERNEL:

 

(Assertively) And do get it right this time, soldier!

 

TEA-COSY:

 

Filigrees and Dents, I introduce to you your host and the ghost of the boast, tad-daa.

 

(Letchard enters)

 

LETCHARD:

(Points with prim finger to the sky) Ahhh. A souvenir am I, for your minds to have near by, so find a place or palace and if not there have I at spare: there is cushy cocker band for the authentic man and for a mad Mrs Roof, her claw and ball hoof. There are paisley-tongued gowns, for the high coming down, fireplace purled fabric and unfurled wool-brick. There is mildew velvet and vinyl helmets, water cushions, woven hairs and cinnamon chairs for the pushy ones.

(Letchard exits)

 

SERNEL:

And now authentic attendants, wherever you are, in tents or bent basilicas, please give a pricey applaud for the curtain haul and the rollicking madness after all.

(Curtain rises)

 

SERNEL:

From under the gowns of shrubberies, the night in shoo and blab swims over the mortuary slab, over the nursery school, passed the silos and piles of straw, onto the ballroom floor. And listen, you can hear the waltz at dark, that soft black shoe over polished bark and then off again, over the tavern, over the foundry, over he hill and peak and listen to it speak, as the coffin opens with a creak.

TEA-COSY:

Through the heads of trees, street lamps send shafts of light, sharp and smooth on the misted breeze. Squeezed from a tire, from the occasional car, a stone is fired into soft silver grass, where patient beetles loosening their bows, latch away their legs and toes. A row of abodes: matchboxes, drift dearie-dee on the thud thick black, and the safety matches hit the sack and the dogs moan to their fleas and the cats spit and fight and the moths ram into the light of the one and only house that burns yellow like a bottle brush of egg; and coming up the road you can hear him step, you can hear the puddles on the sugar shiny road, spat and plop and you can hear the depth at the bend of an ear - hear the hallucination, see the fascination and see the yellow disappear from our peeping minds, as the light turns-out, goodnight.

(Curtain drops) MONOCLES AND HANDKERCHIEFS

 

(Service bell rings in background and curtain rises)

 

LETCHARD:

Good hello, with a clump of Tallow in my cup. The tea cart has arrived and now the start of a marvellous morn, is contrived in the marigold lawn: carnival wheeled across a field of luxury, laughs and such eulogies of life. Bugled and belled the air struts and the usual spell of mania, it takes us tamely near the bowl of colour, caricature and picture. Follow till the ending; it is only a little mellow bending.

INTERVAL: Words be freedom, sentences be wings,
set them together
for a new height in things.

(Tea-Cosy enters)

 

TEA-COSY:

In the soft cardigan garden, of his untold dwelling, Letchard lights up a sensational Section, spelling out phrase after phrase, to the gifted ears lifted about.

LETCHARD:

(In the garden) Snake pies, pelican eyes, the slake beast lies in an elegant high, while its biscuit eyes and whisker tries to see beyond the wireless tune.

(On the roof) The Petticoat Road, with its berries, cottages and loads of cut hedges, goes on and on with a windmill or none, or a park in the sun on a swing. Though nothing is as fine as a bench and the sense that scones and fences go together.

(In his mind) Penknife. Walk-in cupboard. Feather duster. Shoebox. Stale photographs. Ugly neck ties. New hat. Broken necklace.

TEA-COSY:

Shoe for shoe, Letchard steps through the garden, contemplating on the kind of dye, ink and paint to swirl in the beaker of his mind.

LETCHARD:

I say, how about this then: a bright wooden bottle; a night moon and pot hole; the lint off a beard; a stint spent stoned and weird; a jug of rain for roots and a chug of trains which toots, all to neatly fit into a book.

(Letchard and Tea-Cosy exit)

NOTICE: It has been reported, that a
Distorted Character, having a keen insight into the chit-chat of
things, has stumbled upon a
Euphuistical Cat. Having been described as a mellow creature with a
full rich cello speech, the cat
appeared with no signal as to its intentions, over-laying the
gasping character with a thirsty wit and wet spit. The Distorted
Character had this to say:

(Distorted Character enters)

 

DISTORTED CHARACTER:

Well, it all took shape when in matin flight, from a crêpe satin bush, bedazzling me with light lisps and counts that the ambusher appeared. It held luxuriantly between its claws a meditative cigarette and in the air lay paused in sophistication, on a soft green leather chair, puffing on its smoke seductively, whilst I stared. It then spoke. Its words sharing a tone with my very own thoughts, words so splendent, that they brought me to fall into a pendant sleep and then, was I then deeply brilliant. But of course, naturally everything changed, for now the eccentric creature laid kaput on a mangy thatched carpet. No longer did it smoke a cigarette, for with each allusive toke, each one dreamier than the after most, did it post to its lips a handsome Pipe and leaning in towards me, whilst the cannabis glowed in the Pipes orifice, did say:

‘Now don’t you think mind games with toys, is a delicate poise.’

 

(Distorted Character exits and curtain drops) ACT TWO

 

BELTS AND BUCKLES

 

(Curtain rises and Tea-Cosy enters, Letchard is seen seated by a desk in the background)

 

TEA-COSY:

With pen pouring into a sheet of pine, Letchard locks arms with the colours in his mind; and he sways and like a drunk pheasant he brays, spilling his jug of mother-love and shrilling above his fathers snore for more, more of the violent nets and crow-nests, where the lively violins saw and the wifely doorbells ring for more, more of that orgasm wail, that rising organism of detail; and he, that lazy Bandstand Player, he slips a smile on his trumpet lips and forgets for a while where his trouble lives.

LETCHARD:

Brush boy burn, brush boy burn, Your whip and spurn and bucket jewel, Shall not turn you red to cool.
Stale cigarettes calm your sores
And the clocks and cradles matter no more. Light it and dip it.
This is the appetite of your poverty,
Winter is inside your heart
And your baths are weeks and nights apart And as you well know,
The mildew and yeasty groin
Draw in, the scum and the bruised
And what you used is how you grow. Sip it and smoke it.
Coffee and tar
Sugar and smoke
Tuffstone and fire
Ash and spit
Stub and bile
Stain and spill
Factory silence
And the barbed wire kill.
Swing it and pour it again.
The cylinder cinder and purple finger,
The rim chipped and the blooded lip.
The Bandit Poet strolls by breakfast, lunch And supper,
In search for words, an upper,
A compassionate bed
And in the heads-air, that in pops and cracks tears, Is a serious life,
The one held
Before that
Dark delirious dare.

TEA-COSY:

Shadowy and deep, the Crooner’s letters lurk low in the sheet of paper, perhaps scared to creep from their furrows, as it is better that the heart does not spill until it is dead. From a window, a light in Ianguid array, sedates the objects on the desk: a quarter-full jar of ink, slippery as prized marble, possess in its little rink, the most magnificent black possible. A black one could send against a wall to spatter and no one at all, no matter for their life, would be able to remove it. A traditional cup, holds a shiny medley of a familiar vermilion tea and the tall dark tincture of a Resin-THC. A muted candle, with drool down its sides, stands rooted into a bottle and a holder of water, it distils, as yet as unperceived as a porthole unchallenged out at sea.

(Tea-Cosy exits)

INTERVAL: The unwrapping of the bird’s song, swished sweet inside the mouth, of not only one ear. (Tea-Cosy enters holding an archery bow in one hand and an arrow with a rope tied to it in the other)

TEA-COSY:

(In announcement) It is high time for tea it is! (Tea-Cosy shoots the arrow across from one end of the stage to the other and rope is pulled) Heave! Heave!

(Tea-Cosy exits and Letchard and Sernel are pulled onto the stage on a platform with wheels, seated on a sofa, behind a table, containing a teapot, teacups and other finery)

SERNEL:

 

Do you believe it is from hammocks and boxes where those thieving crows come?

 

LETCHARD:

 

Who knows, but as I said, it is better they are fed, than dead. (Takes a sip of tea)

 

SERNEL:

 

Yes, but did you not say, you wished they took the poodle hair scarf, rather than the blue one; you would wear for a laugh.

 

LETCHARD:

 

That is half true, besides if it warms their jewellery, then there is no reason to begin a storm.

 

SERNEL:

 

(Sipping on his tea) Nice cuppa this is.

I sure miss the old hostel I do: the fossil furniture within, the mad overture of the inmates grin, the woollen radio crackling, as while a violin and piano cart the moth mind lace through the butterfly-works, where lurk suitcase memories of moustached men living in their mothers den, where care is a cake and kisses are as wet as tea. (Takes a sip of tea) Aah.

SERNEL:

 

Would you care for One?

 

(Sernel offers Letchard a White-Leg from a silver cigarette case, also taking one for himself)

 

LETCHARD:

 

A darling Ling, why how treating.

 

(Sernel lights-up Letchard, then himself)

 

LETCHARD AND SERNEL:

 

(Together) And now lavish gallery, it is by time of old, that we made our knavish leave. Heave tiger! Heave!

 

(Letchard and Sernel are pulled off the stage and curtain drops) RED COATS AND PAMPAS GRASS

 

(Curtain rises and Letchard is seen sitting by a desk, gazing out of a window)

 

LETCHARD:

There now, stillness is resting nesting. She took from a gloomy vase
A dozen dripping stars
And the room in-a-sudden
Lifted out
Carrying mind good-bye
From stout.
I am to think
Where comets lay
And find a spider there,
Her retreat must be such air,
Her feet are smooth and fair.
Watch over me young navel,
I travel unsafe
And quaver.

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

Poetry; small days and flashbacks are made to resemble this fine monstrosity. Assemble the troops officer, this cockaded flank has duty to parade: tramp mud and blood; spit boot and groom that weapon. Find the quarters below the earth, where the mind reports of mirth Line the trout; storm the trench and ignite the dugout, but do not score their uniforms, for we shall sell them reverently after the war.

(Sernel exits) Poetry a life, poetry a drug, poetry the only vessel to unperturbed finality.

 

(A raspberry is blown in the background and Raspberry enters)

 

RASPBERRY:

Merry wishes you Highness. Bottled bees (Blows a Raspberry) I am Raspberry, the Party messenger by hit or miss, proposing for your notice. So pick a ticket your Highness (Pulls out a hand of tickets and Letchard takes one) but hide it in your pocket, as is to be you pass is free, to the Locket of Lunacy. Bottled bees (Blows a Raspberry) I am Raspberry.

LETCHARD:

 

A Party of what matter?

 

RASPBERRY:

Why, laughter, cries and hearty chatter. It is a Party your Highness of kettle talk, with hardly a petal removed from its stalk. It is bubbles, juggles and fumbles your Gladness, things to bring your latent madness out: to be seen, but not told. Bottled bees (Blows a Raspberry) I am Raspberry.

LETCHARD:

 

And dress, what costume shall I be putting on?

 

RASPBERRY:

Your Highness will assume a silly suit of humour, in short the sorts of a costume made for the stage, brass button armour and linen as straight as a page. (Preparing to exit) And now ...

Wait! Wait! Say, I was just about to fetch a splash of tea for us, I am dead thirsty.

 

RASPBERRY:

Aaaah, the swill of childish bliss and for your Highness have I just the fill. (Takes out from hip pocket a small bottle and hands it to Letchard) A frill to dust your dryness, for your Shyness to have and to hold as a last memory. Bottled bees, I am Raspberry.

(Raspberry exits and Blows a Raspberry and curtain drops) MAGIC LANTERNS AND MUSIC GRINDERS

 

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

 

And now Ladies and Gents, it is by time to allow of zany evidence, a dream to endow your crazy sense.

 

(Curtain rises)

 

SERNEL:

Down a fangled grove, acrobats and minstrels rove, in spangled spats and hats, orange, yellow and mauve. Minstrels under their billowing hats, ensemble below at a bower-shaper, setting string and vapour, under a brush of bubble-gum paper. Whistling lips and somersaults, heads at hips with tricks, the acrobatic boozer dolts pile up like pick-up-sticks. A pantaloon plays a spoon, on a tub of dirty dishes, while a manic-loon blows a tuba, at his late grandfathers wishes; and the reputed two: sister Nettle and cousin Poe, play their ‘Boil it, Toilet’, staccato for the spewing and the foaming on their padded balconies and soft rows.

(Sernel takes out a White-Leg from a silver cigarette case, lighting it)

 

SERNEL:

Laugh all you can, laugh like a day at ease, for this band of talents is what deity is. Laugh more, laugh more and strip your sides, trip wide, guffaw and count the tides, your mind is every pattern woven, the magic is your own, a kind of slippery satin chosen, is the mad-sick tone.

(Tea-Cosy enters)

 

TEA-COSY:

Quietly as the voice fades, livening instruments gently are tuned and warmed as once again, well-informed, the voice performs its words of choice.

SERNEL:

Listen for the motive, the music most of all, the malady is a catchy one, a roller coaster fall. Listen to the colours, taste the dripping ones and spend your day fun hours, zipping passed the sun. And in the madness of your making, turn away from grey, abandon all your sadness, clearly seeing the way.

(Sernel exits)

 

TEA-COSY:

 

The voice for the last time subsides and in full vibration, the instruments now abide, to their portion of romance and trance.

INTERVAL: Where ever he went, he carried his moustache and when asked why, he would reply and explain that it was plainly, a family heirloom.

TEA-COSY:

 

Paved with the bums of bottles, a road runs passed hotels and brothels, stores and pubs, roars and hubbubs

 

(Letchard enters, seating himself in front of a bar-counter)

 

TEA-COSY:

Entering a pub, Letchard seats himself and greets the barman, as a Jar Man slips from his support and a head dips into its quart. Off the walls in sorts of animal suspicions, hang tameable tricks and tears, visors of haughty expressions, made happy with drinks and beers; and pairing with a pinking shears, the pieces off his customers, a butcher-barber-cut-off-ears, wets his comb and precedes yes, to style yet another outpatient from The Home.

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

The rare inhale of ale on-tap sweetly wraps the air. The wood-ware from spilt drinks and polish is dull and tacky and it all takes one back, to the frilled labels on beverages and the hint of skin in lace and pearls. Never was such an age so filled with wine and sunshine: the many parasols and fellows smoking their woodbines, strolling unwedded and rolling in love. And it is splendid to recall the bend, that did lead to all the times we did spend in the derelict mews, heady with stews and brews, merry amid the sparrows and wheelbarrows, the stirrups and hips, the undone tassels and the tons of hassles of being free.

(Bree, the barman stands behind bar-counter)

 

BREE:

 

Letchard. Would you care for a spot of tea?

 

LETCHARD:

 

Why yes Bree, a half-pint sounds splendid.

 

BREE:

 

If it were my guess, it is a pot-hot-Joint you are missing mostly.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Yes, you are quite right Bree. Bright as always.

 

BREE:

 

Have you heard; there is a sideshow been put on in the town’s square?

 

LETCHARD:

 

Will you be going?

 

BREE:

 

No, but one thing though, I would not mind seeing it become a box office success, I hear it’s very ornate.

 

LETCHARD:

 

(Drinks down last of tea) Ahhh, well it will just have to carry-on to impress won’t it.

 

BREE:

 

Yesss. ACT THREE

 

SPIC AND SPAN

 

(Sernel enters to stand behind a podium)

 

SERNEL:

All those thoughtlessly far-gone, it is whistled and wished you stay that way, so come along and be extraordinaire, comeon and play and rare without care. Jump up and strip into those special clothes and become that child who very well knows, when to raise the curtain and show the show.

(Curtain rises)

 

SERNEL:

 

See the show of a Life’s find, the greatest exhibition; see the excerpt of a rife mind, the latest extra dishing.

Clamour up to the sale of day-to-day paraphernalia, as for the very best I will tell you all, you cannot get better by a longer straw. So clamour up as member or leader of this day-to-day memorabilia and consider the curious dream and at once the bidding will begin, once you have been ridden of that furious theme. Going once, going twice, going three times - sold! OLD BRIGADE STREET

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

On Old Brigade Street, the promenade of marching happy feet, daily pass to greet and daIly on their funny friendly street; and in their booths the black telephones click and down the track backed roads the trolley busses start and stick and in every mustard store, is a custard door to that old home space; and the buildings and houses face the sun and the fields of Green and Gold hoist the horizon and on every porch and tile sits someone, torching that beloved Pipe or Section, smiling upon the day, in that old fashioned way.

(Sernel exits)

INTERVAL: Side burned with an epaulette on his top lip, the Brigadier announced he was stripping rank, for a shave.

(Tea-Cosy enters)

 

TEA-COSY:

Simmering along a shimmering footpath, hooting passed the half daft dandies and heart to heart ladies; Letchard enters a corner lounge, ordering a sound Hinge of a warm to hot salvage.

(Letchard enters and is seated by a table, followed by a waitress with his order)

 

LETCHARD:

 

Waitress, I ask you, when will Mr Cigar be popping in?

 

WAITRESS:

 

Well sir, I know he stops on here regularly, in fact sir, I think he is likely to arrive here at high tea.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Well when he arrives, could you please alert him to join me. Thank-you.

 

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

High in their roomy gables, seated behind their tasty tables, the mad regulars gossip and chat, sipping stably away at their tea, as on long standing broadcast a grand symphony, is brought at last to a landing degree. From the waxed kitchen, the perfume of soups and flans relume the stacks of itching troops and prized citizens, who flatly presume that period pieces and facts are nothing more than frames and cabinets for the sober.

INTERVAL: The strapping fire tenders drilled with a nodding song, under their brass helmets.

(Mr Cigar enters)

 

TEA-COSY:

Popping in for his usual Tea and Toast test, Mr Cigar is casually by the hostess, pointed to where Letchard is leisurely in his sweet asylum, seated on his best.

MR CIGAR:

Letchard! (Letchard turns around, getting up from the table, to shake hands with Mr Cigar)

MR CIGAR:

 

Letchard dear boy, fancy meeting you here.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Smashing to see you, you dashing fellow, I do say do you come here often.

 

MR CIGAR:

 

Ha!

 

LETCHARD:

 

Please, please, have a seat.

 

TEA-COSY:

Reminiscing mentally in dozy mouthfuls, on the moments spent rosy and doubtful of reason, Letchard and Mr Cigar ease on, shining and dining in the light of a very fine Thing.

(Letchard receives a White-Leg making its rounds in the room)

 

LETCHARD:

 

(Takes a draw) Dancy stuff this is, dancy stuff.

 

(Letchard hands the White-Leg to Mr Cigar)

 

MR CIGAR:

 

(Takes a draw) Yes, yes fine stuff, fine stuff. The Park.

 

MR CIGAR:

 

The Park?

 

LETCHARD:

 

Yes, let us go to The Park.

 

MR CIGAR:

 

Why now, that sure sparks a fond memory or two.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Marvellous, yes-yes absolutely marvellous.

 

(Curtain drops) THREADBARE GOODIES AND SPARE PARTS

 

(Tea-Cosy enters)

 

TEA-COSY:

Running small races with untucked shirts and undone laces, Letchard and Mr Cigar on the clap-tap-tar, pay visits to the many far places, supporting and introducing themselves as play-play Sirs, when ever the sporting need occurs. Waving passed the grinning cars and tea sheds, the red brick houses and flower beds, Letchard and Mr Cigar wade, their trousers strutting through the tall balustrade of the haphazard Budding Heads, to the place that has its balanced trade on-up ahead.

(Tea-Cosy exits)

INTERVAL: Those penny-farthing dreams are always a tinkle away from the corner they still today wink till.

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

What pure hark it is to stride in the stupor of the sun and kick with a shoe the powder of a blossom. To be outstretched on a Far Fetched Lawn, on an excursion sworn to adorn. Indeed, there is value in the picnic in the park, where all the remarkable people sit in the holiday of the gramophone, feeling all perfectly at home.

(Sernel exits)

 

(Tuneful whistling is heard in the background as Letchard and Mr Cigar enter)

 

Here we go; we finally made it then.

 

MR CIGAR:

 

Yes, despite the short stop at the chess club, we made it in the best of time.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Right, do we wait here or look?

 

MR CIGAR:

 

I think ...

 

(Packet appears from behind a bush)

 

MR PACKET:

That gentlemen will not be necessary. I am by all means Mr Packet and it is my swapping knack, which makes me the top-lemon of all the other legmen. As is seen I am no lavy or dilly-frilly-fop, for don’t I wear: a scurvy red beret, a moldy Persian scarf, a frayed cuffed coat and to my trouser loop a hessian pouch of the finest growing Crop.

LETCHARD:

 

Fabulous day isn’t it?

 

MR CIGAR:

Yes, isn’t it just. I say, how about this then Mr Packet. I swap you this (Holds out a bottle of marbles) my bottle of marbles, for that (Points to the hessian pouch) your Round of Golf in The Park. Deal?

MR PACKET:

 

Oh yes mister, it is a fair steal for the colourful vista, there to be revealed.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Then it is settled. To the OIympiad, Damned Friar or frog-toe, I must there into go.

 

(Curtain drops) ACT FOUR

 

TALKING LAMPS AND COUCHES

 

(Curtain rises and Letchard is seen seated by desk)

 

LETCHARD:

Have you seen the intangibIe battalion In the order of the day?
Tense artillery
Exotic fire
On the forefront
Of orbital play.
There is non-stop madness
As the hot horseshoe melts the hoof And drives the horse away.
And for them of civil good,
Let them trench like weevils in wood, For their cigarettes red quiet,
And the night cadet’s cry out,
Are the only things to still them still. As for animals,
There is no wonder
Why manes
Are constructed
Of fantasy
And fantasy
Alone.

(Letchard rings service bell and Tea-Cosy enters with the gift given by Raspberry on a salver)

 

LETCHARD:

 

(Impressed) My, my

 

TEA-COSY:

 

Your drink sir.

 

LETCHARD:

 

A notable curio, if I may say so.

 

TEA-COSY:

 

And a peculiar content, if I might add sir.

 

LETCHARD:

Yes, our answer is definitely in fond regards for familiar things, as with milk and cookies; pots and stoves; books and shelves; pee and pee pots; knitting machines and linen; cuffs and bruises; buttons and cuffs; wine and horses; whiskey and whiskers; beer and beards; watches and hands; sown seeds and sand and so on.

TEA-COSY:

 

Would you like me to pour sir?

 

LETCHARD:

Thank-you my good one (Tea-Cosy pours and Letchard raises glass) Here is to soliloquy and to a health and a wealth of thoughts and fresh ideas. Cheers.

(Tea-Cosy exits and Dolly Grey enters)

 

DOLLY GREY:

 

(Purring) Well, what is it we are having here?

 

LETCHARD:

 

Nothing dear.

 

DOLLY GREY:

 

Aren’t you going to allow me to taste, from that noble container?

 

LETCHARD:

A taste. Well for that you will need a short smell for savour, a shallow utensil for flavour, a mind on balance to combine resemblance with proof and most but not least, a favourite tooth for my hall of trophies.

DOLLY GREY:

 

Oh so courteous.

 

LETCHARD:

 

Oh so pert and yes, it is for your own good.

 

DOLLY GREY:

 

Oh I refuse to be taken lightly.

 

LETCHARD:

Now, now Dolly Grey, in lilac and black there is no lack of comfort there, as with wallpapered walls and an invitation to share a seat, in a Liquorice Room with Exquisite-heat. There is factor abound and method found in ones own madness. Each one to themselves, it is mine, it is mine, it is mine.

(Letchard and Dolly Grey exit)

INTERVAL: He kept a stirring teaspoon in his boutonniere and when ever he mixed with company, a delightful concoction was was shared

(Sernel enters)

 

SERNEL:

The dusty coat of arm and the charm of remote standing, is as it must be, the theatre of theatres. Striped arm, uniform balm, the eloquent cinema and elephant grammar, are the animal endings to personal beginnings; and hitting on their Gerricks in moonlit barracks, good people write homeward letters, between walls of red and brown brick. He is insane and he is sane, insane and sane, insane, sane.

(Curtain drops) ACT FIVE

 

HATS CAPES AND CANES

 

(Curtain rises and Tea-Cosy and Letchard enters)

 

TEA-COSY:

Minding his own business and bliss, Letchard passes by the town and gown of everyday that and this, seeing kids in pyjamas and cats as calm as cameras; and the running children land on their chins and the sun spins down and pops on a pin and Letchard waves to the tin thin light and smiles goodnightgoodnight-goodnight.

(Curtain drops) THE END

An Essay After a Moment In History
c

(PLEASE DO NOT WHISTLE)

 

ACT ONE

 

(Enter Weed Warmer)

 

WEED WARMER:

Ants and decadents, feathered chats and musical prats, connoisseurs and dears, I do-so bleach you and landscape, for a mere mad escape, into the regal shape of hearts.

(Curtain lifts revealing Moth Worm and Pebble Boy)

 

MOTH WORM:

Steadying-on on the Cool Flat Grass, beneath the fast brass fuel in the sky, the partisans and artisans by their biscuit ministries and watering cans, live onward in their pullovers and real days, from day to material day. And in a way, in crosslegged breeches, the Smokers and Poets and Haggard Preachers, with gags and notes and speeches, they set fire to their Admiral-cigarettes, on the Blunt and antique beaches.

PEBBLE BOY:

And while reading their Atomic Bullet Comics and indeed play acting their erotic farm kicks, the Bandmaster and Showcaster sip silently on the last of their Salamander-tea, across from the florist, toy, pet and book shop.

MOTH WORM:

Behind winter-time windows and moss that grows, old girls and similar ladies with plastic hair and war-time prose, play rummy and simply smell of fragrant rose and coffee as drunkenly to their ivory radios they hum, waiting for their linoleum suppers and their hubbies to arrive back from the circus or chemist, where on purpose they must be a part of the arena mist.

PEBBLE BOY:

And lounging and commenting all day on their hot-lotiontoddies, the Conversationalists and Lingerie Parachutists, with their reading room pleasantry and hobbies, mention and list not only their love of Liquorice-wheat and peasantry, but of laughing sickness, milestones and the fee.

WEED WARMER:

 

And with a lot of velvet and vigour, the Pot Purring Sopranos and all but bigger shows, carry on and on and on.

 

(Curtain falls) ACT TWO

 

(Curtain lifts and a spotlight falls onto Showcaster and Bandmaster)

 

SHOWCASTER:

 

I say, what is there to do about these so-called Constables and their unstable ways?

 

BANDMASTER:

Collect them dutifully of course, as for all we know they could be a well turned out Band of Men, smart at heart and unspoken in their solid uniforms.

SHOWCASTER:

Yes I must admit, things certainly are lasting for the good, like old brown ink and ticket stubs, match books and the story of sand.

BANDMASTER:

 

Yes, really, admission is something widely suitable.

 

SHOWCASTER:

 

Would you favour another Ling?

 

BANDMASTER:

 

Why yes grandfather.

 

SHOWCASTER:

 

Oh stop it.

 

BANDMASTER:

We shall work and work at that (Bandmaster holds out the Ling) creating legends from the tip-ends of our hats, to the ship-shape of our shoes. There is confusing weather and calm conclusion. I love it.

(Spotlight fades off Showcaster and Bandmaster)

 

(Enter Peach-Wort)

 

PEACH-WORT:

Trol-lop-tra-la-loo listen to my hoo, troI-lop-tra-la-loo it is for you and you and you: He loves the taste more than ever, as He sits in the study parlour clever, assembled amongst mantis pants and poplin coats, rum and tea and Reefer-boats. And here where service is always with a smile, one can taste and laugh the teapots porcelain and Green-rum tots poured still into the brain.

(A dog howls in the background)

 

PEACH-WORT:

 

My Masters voice, why, why, why-yes, I must be off and a day, yes off to the cafe studio of thought.

 

(Exit Peach-Wort)

 

NEWS ANNOUNCER:

 

(Heard in background) We now cross over briefly to our news banquet.

 

(Enter Radio Speaker)

 

RADIO SPEAKER:

Leaving the Old Brown House, I proceeded down Rookery Street with its spooky smells of wet shadows and Burningwheat. In passing and in passing I noticed I became subject to numerous whispering windows and humorous whistling tones, that fast began to have effect on me. I was not alone and then and then I knew no one could save me, not even Villains with well crafted tobacco and suede filters, as I felt myself having back to go , for my fill and stir of complete insanity

(Exit Radio Speaker and Enter News Announcer)

 

NEWS ANNOUNCER:

It is narrated: in the community of No Fate, that a Man ahead of his state of mind, was once witnessed smoking hectic batches of Bind, from Romantic-patches kept in his back garden; and it is told-on, that with this eavesdrop came the tackle of conducting with a vinyl crackle in the backdrop, some dialogue from the Man; and as it so goes, in response to the Interviewer’s whereabouts, the Man had this to comment:

(Enter Man)

 

MAN:

 

My insanity is filled with insanity and to talk to you would only verify what I have already said.

 

(Exit Man)

 

NEWS ANNOUNCER:

 

And that at last bring us to the end of this broadcast.

 

(Curtain falls) ACT THREE

 

(Curtain falls)

 

(Enter Fish-Lop and Vo-Viem)

 

FISH-LOP:

Look to it then dear mister,
For she is not gone
And as much as you miss her,
You should know she was the one And only one
To do with your quaint nonsense
And that faint whisker of a sweet sadness.

VO-VIEM:

Magical moments lost
My best friend
My baby,
O the mystical memories run fast Without end.

O playmate of wildness
Help me help you rest,
Help me help you to your rest,
O help me the rest of this helpless way Rest, rest, rest.

FISH-LOP:

Buried alive
Or
Buried, buried, buried, buried, buried Buried to contrive a surviving idiom, In this surface scary iron dome. Buried and blue as an ocean seed, Buried Buried Buried.

(Curtain falls) ACT FOUR

 

(Curtain rises)

 

(Enter Trolley-Teeth and Mr Hat Stand)

 

TROLLEY-TEETH:

Standing on their kingly chairs and working on their Matchtans, the Air-sottaire and Madman catch up on their airy affairs and plans, whilst lurking with elephant smiles, into an old high standard, elegant of style.

MR HAT STAND:

And rolling rolling rolling like silent movies, the Melo dramatic Poets and Devil-Damned Crooks move about with violent ease, as they owe it to their dream in books, of victories victory victory.

(A spotlight falls onto Morning Glory and Cosmos sitting in background)

 

MORNING GLORY:

 

Well, we definitely were not expecting them for two months onward, were we?

 

COSMOS:

 

Well you know those Old-fires.

 

MORNING GLORY:

 

Yes, a surprise isn’t it.

 

COSMOS AND MORNING GLORY:

 

(Together) Ha, ha, ha, ha ...

 

(The spotlight fades off Morning Glory and Cosmos)

 

TROLLEY-TEETH:

It has been found out in the song and dance rooms, that doting sets of Guests, existing by chance of bloom on the company of floating carpets, have been paying great attention to the detail in the neat and the smart and the existence of a fail-safe fleeting part, in time immemorial.

MR HAT STAND:

Smelling quite like naphthalene and paraffin, the dust lively floorboards beneath their feet creek, as slowly and significantly with sleek posture, while smoking only for taste, the guests move up the stairway, in their smooth and laced behaviour.

TROLLEY-TEETH:

And well within their cooking minds and sanitary corridors, the Candidates and Kings of tomorrow’s doors, carry on and on and on.

(Curtain falls) THE END

Final Love
c

ACT ONE

 

MONOGRAMS AND SIGNPOSTS

 

LISTERN:

Sweet and homed in the great domed dining room, in the company of my inseparable pipe and its indispensable fire, I pine and swear pop, while my thoughts cavort the play streets that never stop.

INTERIM: Puffing on their brass And strangling their strings The mad band made their Music move.

RATAIN:

Seated in the blue-grey mist of an electric tomato fist, Listern elects to ponder on the distance of his stability, as the days of dandelions, green bottles and red-tiled roofs are once again upon and in.

INTERIM: They added to their collection The unselfconscious entertainment Which reigned supreme before Their very eyes, pinning it to Their lapels.

FALSE-IVORY:

Leaking from a hollow window, a certain music flows, speaking its noise, as dreamier and lustier it employs the trust of its teeming listeners, who grow.

LISTERN:

All that is written, In all that has bitten,
What a slender stone,
That is precious can chew, Shall remain the earth, the earth, And the dew.

(end) COLOUR WASHED WALLS AND NEAT PATTERNS

 

RATAIN:

From his blazing house, Listern leaves to laze and louse with the local flavour, passing the road menders and those with a flair for the seven-day wonder that is life. Trifling on, Listern passes the palaces and terraces, the non-sobriety stalls and the fun and variety halls. He sees the linen kicking mistresses and chins resting on fists - the fat beer - the over crowded ashtrays and the flat-real world of the seer, as he turns in at an antique store for a peep.

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

Listern my son, may I be of service to you on this fine day?

 

LISTERN:

 

Not really, the way it is, is just fine.

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

Just dropped in then, for a look hey.

 

LISTERN:

 

Yesss, to peruse the wondrous-ridiculous paraphernalia you have here.

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

O, I say, no matter what you think, I am not ready to lose my share for no small thought of failure.

 

LISTERN:

 

Yesss, these odds do serve to excite the imagination and its continent.

 

You could say, that I have married the ages and in that I am quite as content as a mudbee.

 

LISTERN:

 

Oh tell me, you wouldn’t still happen to have in stock some Hills In Sunlight, would you?

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

You know, I just might (Indian Rubber disappears behind the counter & reappears) There (Indian Rubber puts item on counter) You know what the funny thing is, it has been a dusty while since anyone has asked for this particular supply, queer isn’t it.

LISTERN:

 

Yes, strangely. Be it that antiquity is the youth of the world, it still collects dust and an old popularity.

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

Yes, hmmm (smiling).

 

LISTERN:

 

How much does it come to then?

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

Nothing, it’s yours.

 

LISTERN:

 

No, I couldn’t possibly... No I insist, you must take it, go on, it’s your prize.

 

LISTERN:

 

My prize? Belonging to what tournament?

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

The tournament & event of simply staying true & living the dream - quick now, take it with you, there is no time to lose.

 

LISTERN:

 

Thank you, I have to be leaving (Listern grabs the article off the counter, hurrying out the store)

 

INDIAN RUBBER:

 

So long.

 

(end) ACT TWO

 

WHERE EVERYBODY GOES AND LITTLE STORIES

 

RATAIN:

Over hill and dale on the split shale stones, Listern dashes head over heels, holding onto the article as if it were a Grail, quickly diving into a shady unknown alley.

LISTERN:

(Raises article to the sky) Easy to look at. (Lowers article to lips) Easy to take. (Swallows contents of article) Easy to endeavour. (Throws article, smashing it against a wall)

INTERIM: The colour and noise Of the war souvenirs Was much like that Of peroxide blondes With bright red lips.

FALSE-IVORY:

Flourishing in an endless succession of fun and fire, the motionless passengers untied from tier, light up in their elegant smoking rooms, surrounded by subdued lights and soft music.

INTERIM: In garden and vinery The days spent, Are delighted with Existence and where It went.

FALSE-IVORY:

Smoothly humming while making summing tracks, Listern kites and glides to the bright outback, to slide and chat-slow with the crowded conglomerations in the downstairs rooms and on the paved patios.

PLUM CHEEK:

 

I bet you would like to join me? (Offers Listern to swing some Rolled-Yarn)

 

LISTERN:

 

If not for comfort, then definitely for some time with something special.

 

PLUM CHEEK:

 

(Plum Cheek lights-up for Listern and himself, holding up the lit Yarn) The sphere.

 

LISTERN:

 

I beg your pardon.

 

PLUM CHEEK:

 

This here means a lot to me. Yes, indeedy there is nothing like a good smoke and a wonderful man to share it with.

 

LISTERN:

 

It’s the full glorious morning. (Listern nods) That is what it is.

 

PLUM CHEEK:

 

Ha, no, it is the epic flight. (Shouts) Take-off!

 

LISTERN:

We are nothing but streamers On the tail-ends of dreams, Whipping ourselves in the Beaded wind,
In a race to be airborne And torn from the sky.

(end) ACT THREE

 

JAM TARTS AND SLENDER LEGS

 

RATAIN:

In a grand way to travel, unravelling his thoughts and destinations, Listern arrives at a gravelled path, beaten in the best of notions to a heated club. Ordering a ready-to-wear-drink, Listern observes the flamboyant and enthusiastic fashions, the knee lengths socks, the enormous hats, the embroidered waistcoats, the lustrous hair, the sweater girls and the enamelled skin, as each in their continuing sagas, experience their delights on a sensual level.

INTERIM: The head hugging
Scent of lavender
Drifted through the
Rooms with an
Astonishing new freedom.

LUNARY:

 

Would you mind if I sat next to you?

 

LISTERN:

 

No not at all.

 

LUNARY:

 

(Giggles) I have been watching you from across the room (Flicks her hair flirtatiously) are you a new breed?

 

LISTERN:

 

That’s an outlandish question. Why, do I look alien to you?

 

LUNARY:

 

Well. (Giggles) It looks to me that you have come over the most fascinating of planes.

 

LISTERN:

 

My. My. You have a strong expression and might I say, that I think you are very pretty.

 

LUNARY:

 

(Blushes, swallows hard and smiles behind her hand)

 

LISTERN:

 

And now, would you like to leave this imbued and exhilarating place with me and take a walk?

 

LUNARY:

 

Love to.

 

RATAIN:

With arms tightly joined and bodies closely pressed, Lunary and Listern walk off into the comforting moon, resting in a quiet spot, making massive love and sounding flaming moans, under God and eternity.

THE END

Burnt Across
c

Psychology in parable -

Pebbles on my mind, nothing to do with Goliath.

I am freed
Freed through
Literatures intervention

THE BRAIN OF TRENDS

 

Musical chair roundabout. Sober after too much.

 

Home grown Ling and gin-solemn

 

Poetry excess

 

Behind silhouettes of trees cars ocean press

And the fling
begins: woman and wild man living as sex and symbol
a wonderful cul-de-sac
in our forgotten instinct.

The soapbox was nice but the dictionaries better. Grammatical cripple

 

Amorphous (one of):

 

Disruption 21st Century man, ready for the 120th Century woman ~

Enter into
the soul of my city
the sordid sophistication of made-over
places and ideas: the same old fruits of rebellions labour.

Too much of earth will kill you
- that is the stab.

But here:

Dawns golden temple Initiation baldness MAD BAD
Insights

SERVICE IS WITH A WRY SMILE

 

Brand new teachings in sensuality and luxury, greed and profit, covetousness and lasciviousness & worship for the new man.

Sinful trivia
Libido stuck
God, I must be in HEAVEN

An angry young priest & a Special Envoy of the Shadow Order, it is my special mission to be assigned to the case of:

heaven
and
the missing angel of light. In deep cover I remain - gathering more evidence on the case

And myself?

If we are apart,
hate will stupefy our modernism; our idiot shows and our bastard art.

Who throws the greatest party?

 

Who knows how to call up ghosts?

 

Speak up for Gods sake!

 

Get it down and ...

Do it Do it Do it.

Soup sick binges: two weeks and a row in a boat of hinges

Poetical bulimia:
The centre of belief into where we go;
for the same old
struggle: cleansing

through art, a vision
defying
death allowing our flesh and maggots
to erupt in a modern grave of
spiritual death.

The rain baits the snail to escape its immobility

Bird cormorants a black wind-vein on the blue sky.

T.V. goal is scored

Come on killa-dilla
hone in on the
migration sized pastures

Frontier man of outlaw religion

 

They are destined for attack

 

CHARGE

Spray paint
tags the ruins
of the New Jerusalem.

Most grave
sibling
of seedy cinemas

and

 

clinical pornography

Lonely in serial killer clarity

I wish I were a sailor
roughing
turquoise painted sands

in the thought
drought
universe

of
today and
tomorrow.

Thank-you
Mr Sun
For drying
My washing line

Thank-you
Mr Breeze
For putting
My hair the way I like it

Thank-you Mr Rain
For wetting My paint

As I look Great In front Of
My art.

Two now
kitty cats
reading graffiti
in the
neighbourhood of
good feelings

You gotta potta

Paint your truth
on
our
buildings our
houses our
room walls

Moving on Moving on THE END

Magazine Drugs

Reliquary: A

 

and

 

Reliquary: B

c

RELIQUARY: A

 

ONE

 

Good morrow Gomorrah, I see your Sodomites are shining: engulfed in a squealing furnace - fat oozing from roasting skin

 

THE THOUGHTS AND NIGHTS FLY

 

Spread out like a crazy woman’s slit-guava-pie, life is there to be taken

 

SOCIAL INTOXICATION: GOSSIP - SIN GAS

 

We have passed-by the destination of vandals, into an age of reconstruction

 

SPEAK-UP OR FOREVER BE FORGOTTON

 

Cling to the predictions and put them down into practice like Judas knew he would

 

BLACK VEIN TWIG

 

Religions pigeon

 

is sitting on a lesion of gold

 

THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE - THE MODERN BOY-GOD

 

Maturing in filth and rags, the clay on my breasts crack, like the slut red mulch on Venus’ blowjob lips

 

KEEP THE SUN ALIVE & APPEASE THE RAVENING GODS

 

There is poetical odyssey on the walked seas and more so on ...

 

THE HORRIBLE HURRIED HEATH The coward's mire: sleep

 

THIS NOD LAND OF OURS

 

TWO

 

AMEN FOR SOLOMON AND HIS BITCHES

 

And so, in idolatrous temples I heathen, breathing in self-indulgence and prosperity. Hey don’t you know ...

 

I AM A BASTARD:

 

Used up gold and silver for the sake of sanctuary

 

IT’S HEAT TO TALK LIKE THIS

 

Up yours, wave the dark children, welcoming the new comer to the fallen city, this ...

 

PURPOSEFULLY NAIVE PARADISE

 

THREE

 

Restaurant on the hook

 

SURREAL PRIESTESS

 

Art is stuffing a hole to open it

 

KING AND QUEEN PHALLUS

Portrait indulgence
vulnerable quote:
alcohol permeated
& conked out
next to an amazing naked person MISS LUCIFER LUCY

FOUR

 

A crocodile huntsman, I globe the gasoline swamps

 

GIANT KILLER

 

Chase and confront

 

AND I HEARD THE GODS UTTER

 

Do not rest upon possessions, as it is property making-a-noise. Move on & grow & experience better sessions ...

NOW I SEE CLEAR AFTER THE SACRIFICE - MY OLD SKIN SHED - MY COOL NEW SNAKESKIN GLOWING A BRIGHT GOLDEN RED

And I learnt not to hasten the end of my life, as I am appointed eternally

 

YA-HOO! OMNIPRESENT POSSESSION - I AM A PRANCER, A PROUD ROMANCER IN THE LIGHT

 

FIVE

Song: He’s a man of the mile Yes he’s a man of the mile With a rattle snake jacket & a beat-up smile

YES HE’S A MAN OF THE MILE.

He don’t stop at nothing No he don’t stop at nothing He travels the world
On a hitch hikers thumb To the back of beyond

NO HE DON’T STOP AT NOTHING

 

SIX

It civilises a wild man to smoke whacky baccy & watch the early rise
catch the sun.

It civilises a wild man
to die for fun &
have the world at his feet,
all possibilities a jumble;
but no real choice, open like a black hole star.

It civilises a wild man
to dragon a Mexican cigarillo & flat walk with mud boots the night, its stars, its tall lonely trees & its still quiet Legoland neighbourhoods.

It civilises a wild man
to do his job &
work the local bake till she’s been raw dogged & her mouth’s glued shut.

It civilises a wild man
to knock back corn mash & watch the dust settle
after the sun has finally landed.

end RELIQUARY: B

 

ONE

Heart-sore for more the chauffeur shows off with unbuttoned door - the fall guy sitting in relaxed paralysis, already very much used to this, stunt

SHHMACK ME TRIPLE

 

Dabble and belong, rave and bullshit, I am the stumbling block for my conquered flock lit

 

IN THE LINE UP I AM CRIMINAL

He spasmed-out like a paranoid bug, as black as a Madman's eye, screaming: ‘Have no common sense to explain things, the way it is seen, is the way to go - each one suicided by their supernatural consciousness.’

SHHMANGLED

 

It seems we were born for bedtime, The Head Town down under

 

LIFE IS AN OPERATION TUNED TO BE MYTHIC

 

Jive Jingo jive and thrive on the jarred jim-jams in your hive

 

SISSY BOY

 

Eros man:

 

GENERATED ON INVISIBLE BRIO

 

An unknown Japanese artist, I slash in Van Goghian seizure, my bold design the heart of a feudal lord

SAVE THE SHAMANIC CRETIN The pong infiltrates the place - so punish down your drink and thank God for the little things: a cig, maybe a drug, or perhaps a piece of pussy, with a cute little sob story for you to fuck away; amen

TWO

 

From the rubbish heaps glean the information and make it clean

 

YOU MUST BE CLUED UP ON YOUR EAR

 

The invitation lecture on the ticket - smoke it

 

PARA DIDDLE - RAISING HUB

 

You gotta smoke like it’s the last decade on earth. Gotta get cool before the fire

 

GONNA LET NOTHING LIMIT THE SIZE OF MY COCK

 

Kinetic psycho, walk brittle sequence and disco down Broadway

 

CROCK DIZZY MIME - RUSHING IN A ROUSE

 

Out on the City tonight:

- a pill is shhnarfed
- a lovely spliff is lifted
- a microdot or blotter is shhnacked
- straws of speed off tables are shhnorted
- brow sugar percolates on foil
- lady lines break jaws spewing words
- base pipes suck the flame & crack the crystal-rock
- drug pimps sell paranoia and fame

AND WE LINGER LEGENDS LONG AND ...

 

Come down slow like a good lover comes in for a blow DESTINATION: MIRACLE SIZE PLEASURE

 

THREE

 

And the sewer-bait whores with their ...

 

PURPLE SUCKED NECKS & DIRTY KNEES ...

 

Double dosed like blue-gilled sunfish ...

 

THEY FLOG THE TAR & CONCRETE ...

 

Scratching their disgust ...

 

STILL THE LITTLE GIRLS WHOM ABUSE ABUSED ...

 

Still the Things that never grew-up warm ...

 

BECAUSE NOBODY GAVE REAL LOVE

 

FOUR

 

She’s my queen of concept

 

VINTAGE VIRGO - HEAVENS PIN-UP

And I kiss her legs in my mind every morning and
evening
for
breakfast
and
dinner

For luncheon afternoon I eat the middle of her heart I slide she swoons
I lied she croons

sun and sun and moon

 

SHE’S NO DULL GLANCE

 

The stomach cramps in my blue balls constipate my insomnia hard-on

 

PINCH HER BEAMER - HER SHIT STEAMER

 

The hairs on my knees are under her toenails I worship her so much ...

 

I ache to poke her whiskers

 

And I sick to sleep inside her

 

MESMERIZING: BUTTERFLY BRA - SMILING PANTY

 

The red clarinet and the mashed eye

 

HER MUSICAL CUSHIONS WHACK TO MY VENTRICALS

 

FIVE

I got with the times, now I am in front, never going to look behind, don’t want to look like a cunt. You in your small corner and l in mine

SIT-I-ZEN

Wear your fabric speech like a regal robe
Wear you satanic cloak like the wings of a grounded angel Wear your angelic linen like light from a holy bush

LET THE TOUR AND TORMENT BEGIN Let’s commute down the corridor, let’s compute our Babylon talk and let’s dispute the signs of the times

CADENZA

 

Want to be low with Bob and goblin - even little me is going to bake in the liars fire

 

HEAR THE MANDARIN MANDOLIN

 

I pluck a lonely chord of blue

 

BASIC SIN: SLITHER INSTINCT

 

Warrior of the chill reverie, I conquest side by side with trouble doers and the sons of chance...

 

CELEBRATED AS WE ARE IN OUR DOINGS AND RUEINGS

 

Elegy: Young lost wine, a ruined kid with hell to pay, for being the child of a comic goat

 

I AM THE YELLOW CHRIST

 

I AM THE BLUE KRISHNA

 

I AM THE BLUE DEMON ~ end

The Glowing Arm

Prelusion

 

Entered upon a road which can lead

 

only to

 

destruction, The Poet mirrors the world & listens closely to its vibration.

Summit of The Evening

- Ears in my veins adhere to The sensual rhythm
Moving in such an ecstasy:

Rich to die with no pain, Soft names run under My skin.

Fed on an
Alien corn,
The Emperor’s magic Encases me,

Do I wake or sleep?

 

And so I amble low to be high ~

In bits teachable
I blab in anaesthetics, Pure aesthetics ...

The faster you live,

 

The more time stretches out.

It is easy to get lost under
The floorboards of this old house, As no one bothers me,
For I am the only one who knows How things work, here.

The mouth moves,
The tongue waggles, But no sense comes out.

And so I dwell among the furnaces fortified and With my stairwell eye I wink, tipping my flirted halo.

 

- Your country does not matter. Your language does not matter.

 

no headlines;

We have no country, But the hope of a New country.

God, take this, our all. This is the voice of The blood that sings:

Long live the Revolution of the Mind.

We are young
Living in our dawn,
All things have their time,
So let the earth warm with my battled hot foe, For I am open like a wound,
Because I clutch the soul
When I sing:

Long live the Revolution of the Blood.

- On the vert fields
Over the feather fantastic ground, I featured with others.

Tight jawed
We thawed in the Spartan sun,

Bright in our Life and Love

 

Sucking that feeling that is “Love On A Stick”

Knowing that it doesn’t get any much better.
- Stone dream: A tomb
for the Poet

A ruffian den,
which the Poet when
he enters, must
swallow the homely comet of negator dust

and like an
overloaded tart, the Poet
in his realm,

Becomes

Totally free,
Totally off his tits,
barking up the walls in a thrilled oaf fit,

Killing the
hesitant voice of daily thought, as part of a great poetic sport.

For the Poet,

 

Everyday is Poets Day.

- Collected in a long-established
Hell, with indulgent acts that
Mean nothing,

We live with no aim,
Blinded by the half-light
And kept down with deep hearts,
From a stowed readiness, in the blood sea sky.
- Dark and dun

spark and sun;
the paths and landmarks well run.

Force the planets from the sky and Penetrate the most wanted: Dead or
Alive you’re coming with me.

Dark intrigue.
A deathless voice, made to praise God, in all its rabid jealousy, curses over & over.

Licensed satire,
I a sinful man
sit on the steps
of the Eternal Blue Sky, unchanged by
sufferings, time or death.

I am the Lion Absurd

 

leaning upon his own good word;

 

Getting it on.

- To sink in slothful sin
and shame
in necromantic night, I crossed the distant

mortal line;
taxing my mind and might, to aid my arrogant
art and sight.
- Fooled by the enemies of

Man into taking the bait,
I am left poor,
with the humps of a rich man on my back.

Save my swollen whore hotel.

 

Save the massive fortress that once shone.

 

Scale heaven’s icicle,

 

to the tops of its builders hand.

 

Cross the gate and visit the view.

Such ornament extreme;
but the prompt vision fades
and I am left broad and cold,
locked outside the shapeless walls,
with the many other pigs, killed in their sleep.

- Fierce riders,
the continued thunder undulates over the black clouds; which mushroom in the distance,

Highborn heads of warlock fame, we speak out from the drowsy page. We are the readers dream

And like a powerful spell we grow,
we establish ourselves in the readers subconscious, we cornerstone ourselves in the strong hold of their heart, mind, spirit & deeds.

We break the stone tablet of Ten Commandments and pull it all off, with our own characterisations and improvisations. Indulgence, instead of abstinence.

Blessed are those beyond good and evil, for they shall ride the whirlwind.

 

- Decaying on oblivions stream, the fantasy tames my heart.

Alarm-bells call,
but my danger is voluntary, my pattern a lingering disease and painful cure.

To the false applause, I strive in changeful colour.

- Rare merchandise of precious device: weave a price of orange silk,
this fresh germ in its course,

revealing wine and milk:

My seal-stamped head:
a juvenile ruin:
as huge as a mass of flies
and crammed as loud as the starry skies.

- I tell you, the Beast has locked Itself in, to get drunk on our senses & It cannot get enough of our precious life; It is amused at how easy we are to be played upon. Instruments in league with Its calling. Fallacious man. Wrecked & dishevelled. “Why did you burn your family’s house down?”

The wicked chair creaks & rocks contentedly in the blistering invisible sky & recurring in the distance, herding lost souls, the faint scoff of a jealous laughter, it gnaws away & blasts all doubt out, like an old friend who knows your insides & who is as good as a bad habit.

Duty is duty, seen from a lordship view. end

Searching Light
c

THE GOOD POET

 

Rolls-Royce poet,

 

that bad poet,

where by many men have fallen from
exhaustion before reaching his gate, is a mysterious
friend.

With an evil finger to his lip,
he contemplates the chill,

as if he were made of it.

 

There is no sound.

 

A master of his own movement,

 

he treads down.

 

A warning.

 

Get clean away,

 

for in his eyes

 

sleeps the human,

 

while the monster has Its day.

 

THE TRAVELLER

 

Strong son of anger,

 

‘His fever was scarlet, but our minds he fed.’

 

Ride more slowly on.

Mister marked-millionaire,
on a dreamlike immersion trail
through immemorial resilient dark & out into light, it is just another game to you - win or lose.

Never lose your mane. Never lose your name.

Feelings strong, heart stirred,
drawing maps with accurate observation, your pondered theories fume
with a determination that is implicitly your own.

A leader and friend,
bloodily and boldly
you interpret the Separate Side.

My Captain Blood, rider of the black steed,

You have come from Africa
to sit in struggled Limbo and shoot your word gun, to witness in single file, a family of humans, destroyed as common vermin, and from their dead old bones, you have come to see asteroids dawn, with bolted hot fate and rare skills;
your own tribe of your own making.

You have come from Africa

 

To touch them, teach them, torch them. YES

Kill me,
touch me,
with crime compound.

Drown me in your quagmire, take me down
give answer to my petition.

Share my love, not my hate:

I love no friend whose love
is only words.

Let me share your death
and bitter pains.

Taunt me,
tell me,
I shall not
stand in your way,

Life was your choice when mine was death, but now
both in the wrong, both condemned.

No!

 

You live.

Happy are those who know nothing about the taste of evil.

Generation to generation the dead dust
is crushed out.

Evil seems good
to him who is doomed to suffer:

The world has a mouth of honey, but the wine it gives is heavily paid for later.

Live live live.

 

EASY GOING

Double damnation, double divinity,
in ordeal filth
I move through the sloping sea.

Dark and gigantic
on the river deep,
into chasm and cavern I move with strobing speed:

the trance of wonder
winding my head down to lawn on the musical air, sprinkling, reigning, lashing, steady-rocking me into new changes
and new glories
full of love and skill sweet and overflowing, as I, high on horns, embrace
The Eagles Rite

And put an end to the black clad son of
bothering tough days.

STING US

Troops of geometry and ladies of whom to laurels sing

Smuggle rare gems and tithes over treacherous trails,
back into my custody,

And help my planet march
the brain of the dogma hoarded moron to the firing line
And help me stand alone,
as a culmination of
the asserted idea sown.

A scandal block

 

I count words and list letters

 

I court unexpected phone calls

 

And provide what the arching diva needs, Crowing like St Peter at the top of his water walk

And like him; always without faith, I fall - because I let sins babe chat with ardent gusto & tongued arts

instead of hearing-out Christ and his Ghost

 

who have nothing for me but good news:

 

Absorbing, though yet still only a sedate jealously.

 

LADY LOVE

See the warm
light in carnal luxury. Explore the edge of human rhapsody

Run from the huntress.

Barred from
society,
she is the
collective queen of my death.

I kiss her
sacred hand, her deep land, her madman’s dungeon.

Bright windowpanes, street straight hair, Spanish villa skin. Such superior disobedience and dangerous example.

Do you think of me with self-anatomy? Are you lonely when I am in secret?

Self-created woman, my best mind,

 

I am mad beyond all doubt for you.

 

Circular motion, contaminating mist,

 

Eat my flesh and damp cells,

Over react,
butcher me,
love me & nurse me,

From a gory mangle of naked limbs.

 

DOG-ROOM-SHAMAN-ROD

The hot blood
beat in his brain,
as angers bastard
drove him insane.
Tossing back his mane, with head up high
on the storm
he carried on
warm on warm; hot. Oiling his boots
with margarine
and polishing
his coat with
mirrors, he blazed like a bible prophet
through the world
of the archfiend,
rattling the
fence and the sleepers who were meant to be the dreamers.

I loved you best.

I called you a
butterfly with
the finesse
of a matador (shaking out the dusty carpets),
taming the
bullshit into
piercing eloquence.
I loved you
no matter who
swore otherwise.

‘God if it be
too early to fly, then why do I feel not shy,
to speak of
freedom like this.

I know I enhance myself with devotion to criminal damage of my temple, but it is with energy not idiocy that I fill my time;
and the devotion
is more a shortening of a
fuse, than a pulling out of a root

no more jokes no more hoax no more anything.

MY LIGHT

She teases herself with thoughts of one day coming to a decision about her life.

Wickedly good,
she is to me
the image of the
indestructible little girl:

Skipping on the
hay hills of heaven, deadly close
to the gates
of the screaming sun.

RAZZMATAZZ CLAY

Not to labour for prosperity, but for the labour itself,
we run sun and moon,
our fired clay ready for the hunt.

And I am healed by the

 

spring trumpeting out from the fallopian-reef in women: That red-honey, a bloodclot no warrior can resist.

 

HOLD MY TURNING

Lying in a meadow of deep grass,
in the Palace of Poetry beside my fire dancer, I dwell.

Moulded by a godliness greater than genius, into the perfect
shape of a woman
greater than wonder, she smiled.

Baby in my arms,
wipe from your
sweaty brow that
fringe of fire,
that sweet incense rising from your flower.

Love never dies where distances straighten.

 

TAKE ME

Under majestic lamps, in ink wells of brilliant blue,
bathes the tigress of your dreams

And you know through your love for her, it is your right to be a poet And sitting on the banks of the cooling ravine you call upon her:

Take me to
the land of
old traditions
where the cats
lay on the baking bricks.

Take me to
the place beneath the dilated flame where the ants relax in the works.

Take me to
the turpentine clear world
where the only paint is love
and the lovers a true impression of predatory art.

EARTH ANIMAL

Clutter the drums,
Whistle between index finger and thumb

And
Chant the smithereens
To the Gateway
Of the Sun.

Kick up the sky’s filter And
Acknowledge
The Magpies
Bridge, built to burn,

Dreaming of the orgy in the sky.

 

ROMAN MILE

The weeds have deepened infancy, The river lawns flowing with
Sweet indecency
And
Beloved decadence

Tasting the bitter pit,
I hit the bottom of
Adam & Eve’s defloration.

OPEN AIR (1)

And in a waver of silence he wept to the thin air, knowing that somewhere he would be safe, a place where real friends understood why he had turned out the way he did ...

The biggest improvement is exaggeration:

 

Substance to substitute what he once was!

Drinking the Green Genie, with a dose of morphine & dopedelirium he found fabulisims & fantastic rhythms to be gone on, concaves & curfews to detour; lean & lagging & sparked off his feet ... rolling with the dark side ...

The Poets Prayer:

“O mother of the old sky burn down the night & from the old canvas
let rise from the ashes a phoenix-sun
to establish a new horizon in what I may find to be a better day.”

OPEN AIR (2)

The smell-good of my girl on a red flag, with-unembarrassed white skin & small curves & tiny tip-toe feet & a curly mandarin smile, like a treacherous Sheik moustache & secret eyes behind peep-holes, in a perfect white jade mask & cute wild dirty sex & a manicured little pudding mound & deep penetrative doggiestyle neck sucking on the money mama-spot cry-moans & hot lingering swells & stimulated troth-proposals & unleashed spurges & cheek maroon flushes & eyes of semblance & a beating heart of subsidence & a sweaty molten aura & yummy edible lips & a safe calm embrace; finds me wanting her stuff even more, to make me forget about me and my shitty human race.

OPEN AIR (3)

The delinquent son, with a swarm of pleasures in himself, is bodyguard of the master-passion, all his dreams unleashed, to the soul-draining influence, of being a sacrificial-bulldozer with absolute conviction - unlike the many other little plastic-soul superficial-kidnappers.

All major spiritual crime pays you in great kicks & eternal damnation.

The delinquent son, by magical spell imbued & narcotic vapour hued, explores the things which are under the earth & in the sky, exacting a road only he knows, back to the punished land that borne & bred him.

the end

Alley Poster

PART ONE

Drugs are not life.
Drugs are just a version Of life

THE BLISS GROWS BUT BECOMES A TARIFF

I cannot laugh hard enough to die, as blissed out & spilled over in the mock horror of a deep romantic comedy, mad & vibrant, full-on & hyper real, I cliché out that cowboy macho song:

DRAW OR DIE

 

Every little progress is the freedom from fear

 

MOVING MOVING MOVING

 

PART TWO

 

From zero tomb to zenith plume, the sentiment of boyhood zooms

 

DREAMS ARE BUILT TO BE BROKEN DOWN & SAVOURED SLOWLY

 

And porched on my mouth, my smile welcomes a new vice of over-assured knowledge - the exact embodiment of:

 

SUBLIME

 

To move as an audience of oneself, to cheer greatness, that is the goal

 

EARN IT IN ORDER TO POSSESS IT ~ end

The Last Poem of The Last Poet

READ: A war within a war
A parasite within the passion, The base & infamous angel: Deadly, but for ancient memory,

Holy.

Tyranny echoes up dust on the Trail of relatives and men, For we suffer to conclude The dream,
Stolen from the burden
Of the royal garden.

THE TORCH: The seas vanish,
The green withers,
The glare of the moon no longer is seen.

Time ceases and releases,
Histories dictate,
Futures relate,
But remain mathematic.
Religions torture & waste their stifling breath, Occult invocations
Draw up power beyond the grave,
The bones of valiant fallen gods
Stir under stones of dormant millenniums, Their rolled back eyes magic with their moans, Raised under millions of miles of rebellion, To overthrow the earth, at the signalling of a New Dawn of Sin, when:

The Killer King having been welcomed into all purged-lands, will finally be left to reveal to us, his true angelic/demonic form.

Get ready for the arch-outrider (Satan in bloom). ENERGY: We share holy fire And tiger bright nights.

 

We recite poems

 

In the fields of our homelands.

 

We make love

 

In the graveyards of our ancestors.

 

We drink traditional liquor

 

In the parks of our neighbourhoods.

 

We hitchhike

 

In the dangerous cars of our country.

 

We sleep

 

In the strange beds of our women.

 

We share holy fire

 

In the tiger bright nights of our wild Africa.

WHAT?: The scribbled contagion,
a poet’s picture:
is an important catalogue of our time

The poet, a painter,
mixes fire and brimstone on his pallet

& in his flight to touch the sun,

 

burns out his wings

 

with the stroke of his trade;

 

The crossroads a deal with the greedy darkness.

SLEEPLESS: Prayers go up for me, But put me down, For their answers I cannot See.

Birds flock
Mocking the air With foul laughter.

To defy the light of God Is more madness,
Than the making of Crooked angles.

MYTH: In search of
Strange hemispheres, Surrounded by
Forests
Mountains
Anchors
Oars
Angelic winds
Lakes
Lions and herons,
We sunset on,
Down on hands and knees Drowning in parched Reason,
In search of
Strange heinous fears.

TIME: Dying into A dance, An agony of Trance,
Spirits leave And revisit My soul, Passing
Through you
And your sister my Brother.

Superhuman: my Complexities cryptic, The music hypnotic:

Death in life.

 

Life in death.

BARE: Happy morning How-do-you-do, I love your hay corn, Your honeycomb And the stone
Sitting in your
Light,
Which is so
Delightfully
Warm.

COOL-BURN: My perfume cup Burning the breath On my lip,
Weeps a veil Of eyes,
Quenching the Thirst of my Mysterious
Surroundings.

FINGER ME: Blighted by study’s light, The nameless young man Idolizing the rudder of life, Answers the answer to the Meaning

Young captain, all aflame you Crash,
The sparks of revolt,
Spitting from your armour.

Death is certain.

 

The constellations maintaining The straight line:

 

High latitudes, Cool equators.

Man from a distant country, Noble Shepherd,
Old father of visions,
Harpoon the great white whale And hang on tight
Rolling with the snow.

NEAR VULGAR: I love your Tears,
Footprints of Ambiguity. Your pleasure Is my master.

ENTER: A new sewer Every
Whorish-day, Power poisons My
Immortal sin.

I blaspheme the whole globe, But then again
Love its foolish tomorrow:

Wallowing in knowledge, Travelling in an oasis of rarity, Hungering for the
Language of
Angels and Fireflies.

DROWNED: Glided and guided,
I cluster down
The liquid wilderness: Moved and soothed, As the fun that never sets is The sister-joy I feel, Her wavering legs and Floating odours
Crawling into my
Big bed head.

PERFECTING MANNA: Bold attraction

 

Plague me day and night.

I understand your plan Your joke
Your teardrop
Your aimless joy.

Consider my intimacy A fine woman’s fruit, Consider my salad A glad man’s heart.

GREEN WORDS: Butt-ends crowd my ash Bed
Limbs glittering
From my dried up sea, Rest.
I love you not,
I love you: because My strength
Of poor words
Obeys your
Shaken desire.

I love you not,
I love you:
For made as simple as Fire;
I burn.

FORTRESS: Despite the decrepit Caricature of boyhood, I am Prince Hamlet.

I play the pipe
the madman
the playwright
the poet’s tamer
the Bloat King’s slayer the man with his love-thousands
for Ophelia.

I smoke the pipe of magic canvas and dig my own grave, defending it from
an array of enemies;

for this grave,
it is my sacred trench,
a ditch that I lay quenched in and treasured
like chest full of gold.

And he shouted in bright agony: ‘Go,
Speak
Loudly, For
Memory In
This
Kingdom Invents Heads.

Do it,
for the sake of new lands.’

SHOW DOWN: Run rum Down my Sailor’s hurry For sail.

Meat and drink
Are my
Mirror,
The angel of light
My closet photograph.

Fellow-wanderers, Ourselves, we have Out lived melancholy And doubt.

Battle on for
Sweet laughter,
Which hold promise
And influential whispers, Which touch the heart.

Messengers and pilots, Battle on towards The country of The Living.

LONG: Art and song Best this
Night, is the Parts of our Love making.

LOON: Smoking wicked nature I live or die.
Drinking to inspirations vigour I am of higher land.

ON THE BENCH: Fragile after last night, Feeling like a maggot, After drinking beer: The devil’s cool drink.

MAGNUS: I slumber: Numbers and signs In Dionysian-chains ghost and Wheel

I age according to my sweet succubus (my scarlet queen, wicked & independent) Her love raping my home,
my whom, my how

And I am unman
an undone cagey villain, a rogue fermentation for the highest pecking order.

blood. blood. blood.

Piano sticks drop a tune: a sunny day, a dune. KUNG-FU DANCING: Crazy tracers Luminous spaces Bodies glowing Constantly Rip and rave.

THE DRIVE: Arriving at
Deep Space Mad, I lost
The aviation Of
My craft.

Disciple most vile, I pant visitation Upon my
Unassuming host.

WALKING: Lesson too soon,
Lesson too wide,
I can’t illustrate
Too much,
The Evening
Which let us aspire to feel Up its skirt
& whisper in its ear, & give its heart up, to our undiluted desire.

BLAM!: Pop! I pressed the fire controls. To strike the distant heart, Was click and cliché full of Colour.

SERIAL: Come to the sun god, The terror of the desert,

 

The jackal has called your heart out. And the one bitch who cared told him:

 

Don’t die too young. Don’t be over wicked.

ALL’S WELL: Drown that octopods Tongue down my Neck and suck my Moan from the Depths of the
Coral.

LOVER: Easily shaped
Cupid’s arrow,
Affecting everything, Affectionate to everyone, Draw your sword
and love me down.

AT LEAST: Drugged near suicide In this flowery maze, I am not yet born.

My shy smile has left Behind the family of trust;

The rust sets,
Like an orange clock with its numbers bled.

I am open to discussion, But have forgotten
The Great Philosophers Or the words of other idiots.

Leave me to stew, Otherwise kill me. Help my paperweight words Inform your delicious mind. Help my mess tidy your shelf.

Who knew I would die so young,
But live to tell the tale.
Who knew to walk with dead men Would comfort my road into a fresh new progression.

O love me, Otherwise kill me.

GREAT INKER: ‘Blood eh?’ Running down These legs The
Red skin shouts.

The
Indian fire
Embarking on its Ritual cleansing.

Fainter
And fainter
The cries blow Behind me.

I scrabble
And dabble My brains out, Blazing like Flash,
Rolling like
Mercury,
Determined To reach
The
Bull’s eye.
INCOMPREHENSIBLE: Lost in the fog:

Cleopatra’s Needle in my Vein,
My unbuttoned Shirt
Against the wall, My sweaty Breastwork Beating, My savage Skin
The devil’s Matter now.

Sucked-in,
I ride my
Black horse, Up to that
Dark place In the corner.

THE TELESCOPE: It is always silent in the Temple of Midnight The Herculean labour The energy source.

Never too old to resent to rebel

The bewilderment in Your head,
The rapid movement in Your ears.

TWO: Lazarus-Cain,
Overlord
Of the silent siege, Your self-murdered heart Hangs side by side Your brother
And the thief
Of your soul.

On a paradise tree
You crucify your wounds, So the visions
Of the tormented can be seen.

And the heart of Man, A hopeless breed Of
Dark vegetation,

It still falls
To
The feet
Of the
Hammers beat.

Fleeing among the ruins of worship, I escaped my church & its belief system, only to be received by The World with a cold shoulder,

But I persisted with my design, because I know that

 

‘Divine are the strong-minded, for their path will always be celebrated

 

And their names etched, into the identity of the universe.’

FOUR: Half choir,
Die I slow,
Or is what
I hear the
Prospect of morning? The fix of temptations beauty, Is no longer a woman’s face But addictive-sex.

I kiss her hand
But my eyelids
Distil the vision
And frame her with my puberty heart, as
The Naked Queen of my masturbations,
Pumped-up like a cheerleader, cheering for my deep 8, To penetrate her bubblegum bear claw.

It must be stricken
From my motto:
That everything works out, Except relationships.

But I am rascal to foaming At the mouth and shall hurt, For women,
I fucking love.

Break the signals,
Kick down the tents,
I am moving on with intent.

WAY OUT: By a Highboy standard, Violent or civil,
I am blessed.

Mankind,
The place where I
Do my thinking and drinking, Is my business.

What fear will
Counsel my clownish Turbulence?
What bold axe command Will chop off my design?

Highboy outset grand Highboy danger stout Highboy truest gonad Highboy rotund stage Highboy ranted gusto Highboy tongued star Highboy turned goat.

By a Highboy standard, Violent or civil,
I am snake bitten.

PREACH: A pillow of thorns for my bubble Head.
A Saturn skull for my frisbee Brain.
A Jupiter heart for my pastry Frame.

This is all. This is said.

ELEGY: Idolatry thorn,
Wooden fame,
The wayward maim Was by the Son worn.

Raised healer, Misery solver,
Your sincere tears Gained us
The Palace.

On an angry throne Slaughter was
Your gate,
Your crime confirmed Was the
Rebellion of logic:
The Way of The Truth.

Gentle muse
Meek and mild,
Look upon the inevitable hour, when you will return to
reclaim your Kingdom,

And lay a flattery of sighs
And shake your head,
In memorial
Of this Bright Eyed World, That was curious to know the secret behind good and evil,

And what a true burden it must be, to be God.

 

CHAINS: The force that wants to be King, Assumes the radiance of the sun.

 

Has the angel of distraction won the cause?

 

Has entertainment sucked strength from The good fight?

Purple spray rises
From pleasures pipes, While sunset flames sink.

Let’s solve the mystery

 

Pleasure after pain,

Heaven after earth. TURKISH TOBACCO: Appreciate the Mirage.
The exotic vista. Live with nomads And
Appreciate the

Ancient art Of fire:

 

Tobacco:

The marrow of the God fire,
The pacifier’s heat, A version of Hell Fondled.

SUMMON US: Pavilioned high, He sits in darkness From excessive Splendour born.

See the witch-fires Where once I painted Her, killing.

Steel flash

 

Ruby tear

 

Cadaverous cut.

 

I am a trespasser. Soon to be punished

A prince of no certain land, The moon may as well get Me,
While I am still
In the image of Sweet Jesus.

DISCUS: The sleep of the last poet.

Dying bird of Morpheus,
Sensitive flowing hyacinth,
That catalogue more sacred than Music, is the great wine, poetry: An affliction as seductive as dreams.

Watery dreamer,
Disillusioned lion,
The dogmas are nothing But the vanity
Of the proud,
Just as it is normal
Of the thinker,
Who sees the cosmos tremble Every time a swan dies.

Posture most verse,
Correct your sad beating drum
With good power
And transfuse your blood into
the counterfeit world of man,
And make it yours, make it by far a better realm And praise the songless morning
Waiting on your
Silvery windpipe.

THE END

Sardonic Script
c

PART ONE

His rural head pulled back by a muscled neck, rests on the brim of the sky. An alchemy roll-up drools from the corner of his powerful lips, as like an Alexandrian planet or a bust in taut torment, he occupies his own space, hovering like a word that has not yet found its meaning - waiting to pronounce his mind.

Alongside the diameter of blue, the flare falls and the worship of it closes. Out of ancient carvings and significant structures, paintings and monuments, the double darkness stories its archetypal voice, into the new star of the new century, where again a famed madness, copied over from the Ancient Egyptians, Greeks & Romans, is heard and acted out in the attitude of the raving damned.

The sun - the moon - the day - the night - the whole part, on this side of our time, is a lesson of the world we live in and a grand restart. It is good to be around in these contagious times. Take notes and paint - take photographs and create. Sing and perform. Capture your generation and be true to its voice.

Yet of man and woman
that is not known,
Is the ravaging inker,
who inhabits this lewd
love lust body,
stabbing and grabbing
Its words,
from detour angst
episodes, galvanised with colour.

To smoke, to jot smoke, to brush smoke, to have it, to inhale it, to contain it, to brain it, to elegantly ride it; smoke to love it.

If it were up to me I would not write. I would instead replace my skull with a transparent head, so that everyone can see my thoughts in full view:
I wish to display the perfect massacre of the mind.

As a consolation to his shiny past, in a desire to alter his mental balance, he solved the rigmarole and constructed an intersection, to the bounteous system of solar-stone.

To be thoughtful of the destination, is already a sign of awakening.

Golden vine
Golden snake
Golden bow
Golden continuum Golden strike
Golden territory Golden company Golden poison Golden codex.

Wrap me slowly in your hungry waltz. Inflict me with bolts of lighting from your sundry eyes. Teach me broken scripts and attend me to make me mend the incantation, to give it organs of flight and a bright height.

The alphabet
A deadpan rouIette, Wields through the Captive imagination.

The hushed letters defending Off dead rational thought,

Because
A war of words need
To fight for their ground
In a field of hope and meaning. Aaah - to exist in a non-believing day. To live in enormous dimension. To be able to be the keeper of the rich harvest. To research the remarkable discoveries of every day life. To be the god and goddess of love. To see God’s shock horror graffiti, on the wall.

The gecko-tongued cat And the moth-eyed worm Can be found in the amber Of the Dragonfly’s sun.

To spend a term in its Quiescence,
Is to easily be
Snowed in, by the
Wealth of its gifts
And beauties and myths.

Like a small edible Jelly-like ball,
It is ravenously, Irresistibly,
A thousand and One nights,
In a magical land, created from the imagination of a stupendous child.

In the turquoise mosaic sky A rabbit is held by the Crescent moon.

Regular stars that are eyes In heaven, look out from Their burning circles,

As down a tightrope spider’s web The gods walk in Symbolic steps.

In quest of ruined cities, we were cleverly tricked enchanted barriers, protecting the silent country. But in our determination, through the impenetrable jungle, we painfully stripped away at the significance of our new evidences, in our thrilling involvement, to step into the forgotten.

Savant Guru or avant-garde Soothsayer? In explaining all,
I decipher the blank wall.

Unlocked ornament;
Agonized in gazing
At its weight in knowledge, The secrets given by
The Old World I translate,

For the benefit of the
Next guardian spirit,
Of a future poetic sanctuary.

And dipping the tip of his pen into the coal miner’s pit, he pulls it out, scribbling up the page in gold.

Mired in the
Great-tar-pool of
Harrowing torpor,
The sabre-toothed tiger The great extinct condor And the imperial mammoth Mixed in inexorable doom, Sink in a motionless
Dance of death,
Into the stronghold
Of the Ship of Fools
Their skeletons
Luring the powerless
To the deceptive waters of Futile trifles.

A row of tiered turtles, oaring across the galaxy, pass by a green light glowing in my bedroom window.

 

‘Little evening yet sinless, keep this godlike food alive, by its own loveliness - truly.’

 

PART TWO

And the words of the poet became the guide to the inner journey, the burning words rising like a magical bird, carrying the sympathetic magical advice, in its broadest sense: Let everything speak to you.

So deep is the mud
That the sundown partridge Lasts the night
Of the good hunt.

So thick is the forest screen That the gateway
To the royal road is rarely pierced By the yellow stroke of sunlight.

In the darkness fireflies Float and the night howling Monkeys roar.

And a voice speaks:

The Broken King - perhaps You would want to see the Broken King.
The labyrinth is there for those who dare to probe Follow-on, donned in a peacock coat and low heels.

PART THREE

 

A Ceremonial Dance At The Sacred Tree

In the native camp We scatter, looking for All the world, in the Blue bush, the
Sage brush, the
‘Water tree’.

Around the red trunk of the Serious tree, we
Make little speeches
Safe from profanation
And the punishment of spying, Which upon this sacred
Ground is death.

Nude and decorated With paint and feathers, We progress in the
Built fire,
In the all dry country Of the digging stick.

From The Journal Of Travel

I met a well-to-do-citizen of
Modern Baghdad.
We had coffee in his two-storied house.
The hookah pipe steamed and the crimson fumes rose.

From the special room, we left to go into a sacred area of old tradition.
Up a tower of one million steps we rested and from the summit gazed over the immensity of the desert.

We watched wave after wave, the flocks pass towards new pastures; black goats and sheep were followed by their shepherds, who walked like kings.

At noon the wandering tribe passed and the desert became silent.

 

The wind swept unrestrained over the plain and the sands of the forefathers crumbled under our feet.

Looking back, I think no one going around the world, should miss out on stopping at the original or the earliest of hospitality’s evidence.

Remote Antiquity

Above the ignorant
Masses by a crafty
And self-seeking priesthood The Poet levitates.

CAUTION: Refrain from error in word or false intonation of the spell.

In massive stupors, the emotional satisfaction sweeps over The Poet, ardent but peacefully.

A riderless steed let loose Under the Poets spell, Shows the path of triumph, The burning horsemeat, In the sunny search,
Striking the Crusade.
Sea Of Vapours

Occulted by the moon, Celestial cinders burn
And the galaxy turns. Boiling dust-rock,
Under the vertical sun, Prevails with frost,
At the afternoons end. Inky black,
The lunar sky soars, With cows,
That have come out, To touch,
The vastness.
A magnificent grandeur
And ghostly beauty, In a state,
Of inconceivable cold, It rests quite dead,
But so alive.

Eyelash In The Palm Of My Hand

 

She stands richly robed in red, blue, pink and gold.

 

In her hands she holds a dove and an incense box, as two great vulture wings fold around her body.

 

As I look at her, I cannot think anything else, but that she is the finest thing handed down to me.

All alone with her, amongst the multitude of dull people, she permits me to think for an instant of the over-florid dreams of a life with her.

As Lord of Heat, my stratosphere is now set in place. THE SPRAWLING LION

Into the Valley of Idols and down six hundred and sixty six stone steps, in an agony of suspense, hardly able to believe my eyes, I entered the first doorway, then the second and the third and finally into the fourth doorway I went with great reverence.

The candle held in my trembling hand flickered, as hit by a warm air and then by strange shapes that loomed out of the darkness, I pushed-on into the hideaway.

Inside the creepy structure, fierce brushstrokes covered the walls and the ceiling in a self-taught frenzy, of what seemed like a mural, painted from a clearly psychotic & phantastic mind. Over in one corner on a table, laid books about art & medicine and on a chair, which seemed alive like a strange creature, sat a skull, comforted by a big black raven’s feather. On the far end of the room, stood what looked like an altar, chiselled out of harlequin opal rock, with three distinctive objects on top.

And so, this is how I managed to come to discover the Voodoo Scrolls, the Poets Dagger and the Sorcerers Jar; together all-powerful devices, found forgotten in the maw of the Delta Rift Chamber.

Now The Poets Dagger, with its gold hilt inlaid with various gemstones, when held is of a comfortable wielding weight and with a twelve inch blade cut from pure green jade, it is nevertheless a smooth doubled edged, sharp ceremonial tool and a deadly weapon if treasured in the wrong hands.

The Sorcerers Jar, with its spiral motifs painted on, is comprised of an ancient ceramic, once baked in the fires of old, when men lived over two hundred years in age and when things took time to grow; basically when all was well in the world and less distracted. Inside the sacred jar, is a content to be used sparingly, only to be taken for passage rites and special initiations: a content comprised of an ergot extract, which brings on powerful visions and allows the user to turn old knowledge into fresh advise.

The Voodoo Scrolls, four of them, carefully bound in a shroud, spun from the silk of four different types of deadly poisonous spiders, holds the secret voodoo texts, that existed from a time before The Great Fall of Mans Dream; before he gave into the reality others made for him. The texts written in the juice of a crushed extinct flower, named ‘The Sprawling Lion’ can be read only, when a special ceremony is performed, in order to obtain the message from the invisible text.

The ceremony goes along these lines. After having imbibed the ergot extract and after a good hour of waiting for the potion to start effecting behaviour and character, blood then needs to be drawn from the main-participant, by using the jade bladed Poets Dagger. Then with the blood still on the dagger blade, the dagger needs to be plunged into the heart of a living human specimen. The letters from the passages that the four Voodoo Scrolls contain, will then be made visible and out from the pages, the secret words inscribed in the colour of a deep fiery purple, may be recited.

Take Note: the day after the incantation & ritual has been completed, the main-participant will at first have a feeling of complete loss & disorientation and will find it difficult to fit into old routines. This is expected and for this the main-participant should refrain from interaction with friends, or family until they have fully grasped the full extent, of what lies ahead of them.

For some this ritual may lead to irrational behaviour afterwards, followed by insanity, this is due to the mind breaking down, as a result of the person knowing that their former self can and never will be rekindled; but for the true warrior spirit & evolutionary being, these steps are an essential and integral part, of rising above the meat, to associate with the stars.

the end

Oasis Newspaper

<This is just another poem,
just another self-portrait in code
>

c

ONE

 

And he taught the child to be a man at least and upon goods words to king and key-in the universe:

 

HAVE YOU EARNED YOUR BRUCE LEE STRIPES YET

 

Leaving the fantastic hanging gallery, he went forth in search for the key to the mystery of his pitfall ...

But in the eagerness of the pursuit, he unsuspectingly became trapped and in this loosened many tongues within, that weren’t his

And a voice questioned him:

 

Did you have a good journey

 

Did you arrive in one piece

 

And did you understand the things better, than anyone else in the world

But unable to answer the phantom voice, he fell further back into the fantasy, for finding an answer was as rare as getting milk from a drunk priests tit

Now far away from the response he so much needed, under a faculty of crows, he roams

 

TWO

Read in and red out The poet’s
Intoxicating hard blood Is preyed upon
The poet’s life:
A narcotic poem,
Under a narcissistic gloam In search for the
Inner child’s home

RIDE THE LOAD ABODE

 

And the troll-mare blisters along the sandpapered shores, changing the world and wire in its swear

 

ENDLESS IMITATION - ENDLESS LIBERTY

 

The object of being able to soar is the story

 

The object of the story is the quest

 

The object of the quest is the occupation

 

LET THE DRUMMERY ROLL

 

Move on easy, followed to a run-down sea

 

CINDER DEN - SYLVAN GUITAR

Sexually sonorous The music’s lyric Writhes between The entrails and Butterflies of
The spinning
Meadow

DAY IS TORN BETWEEN THE SWEETNESS OF NIGHT

Die if you tried Live if you did not The lesser leave
The great leave for the sake of leaving

PURITY, MUSIC, POETRY - THE LAGOON SUCKLES THE SEAS MILK

 

THREE

You’re my favourite idiot,
my latest gimmick
Sniffing glue for a political thought
And
Sucking petrol fumes for the committees’ approval

You revere life so much
That you have made
It imperfect (with perfect stimuli), Preserving your dream
Through your,
Inward-growing
And
Emotional
Terrorism

POWER DELIGHTS TO TORTURE US

After all the abuse
and overuse,
How will we ever
Find an equal intoxication in life

SAMURAI JIG SAW PUZZLE

Within the theatrics of the activist, lies the guardian spirit of a culture, the birth of a new tolerance and the rhythm of participation

JUMP IT UP & CARRY IT BIGWISE Put the diamond On the corduroy And let the vibe Jeep,
Around the
Moody Lord
The broken eagles Creep

FORCE FIELDS WARM GLUTTONOUS AROUND BODIES IN ECSTASY

 

FOUR

 

The Base Clubs

 

DANCE & DRUM NIGHTS - RED LIGHTS & BLACK

 

The scene: (The Supreme Regime)

 

JOURNALIST:

 

The night - we need it

 

WITH LIGHT-SABRE VEINS & THE CHURN & THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE IN OUR STOMACHS

 

We think & say

 

& do our Thing

 

IN THE TWILIGHT OF SIN

 

The kind of stuff allowed

 

WHICH ONLY THE GODS NEED KNOWIN’ FIVE

The goddess of the bodice. Renaissance flesh, disgusting and cute, a real answer to the mute language of love. Ballerina fat; she will sing her coda, her voices soda, her la-di-da, her minute to meet bizarre

NAKED AMBITION

Clown on the trigger My neon angel
Black devil woman,

Come on and shine your Red belly dance
And rainbow dart
The luring night

I AM THE MAN WHO FELL IN LOVE WITH THE MOON ...

And the big eyed wing Which dreams of a Sutra cry

GARDEN SOUTH

 

And as God is loves slave, the power of my love for her, drives my secret heart to a higher grave

 

OH LOVE HOW WILL WE EVER GROW ...

 

If we keep on stealing each others hearts

 

NAKEDNESS IS A WOMAN’S GESTURE TO MAKE ALL YIELD TO HER FALL

 

Sex bleeds from holes. The City’s ill but talented sister, on my feather plucked caterpillar

 

SHE’S JUST GOT TO TROT - THAT SWEET LEATHER HOT

Writhing emeralds
Like a pit of snakes Strike my thriving heart, Falling into your eyes

My love, scrap your
Salacious lip on the
Crash heap of my body And drink the delicious drink In the covers

NEW PAINT

 

I love her more than my own future

My Tygerlily
She is tantrum-antic She is calm-climatic She is loves attic She is sex static

I love her more than my own future ...

 

MY TEACHER - MY TORCHED YEAR AFTER YEAR

 

SIX

 

Like a drift-ton, the fool gradually schooled his way through life, swift on sicko movies and bothering music

 

HOT STUFF - COOL MANNERISM

 

Cook up an atomic mind And stir with cartoon

THE WONDERS HIT MAN WONDERFUL I wasn’t kidding I can do anything,

Bimbo fever sends me,

 

Gets me level with the gravel

 

CHAMPION MOSS - FIRE SPOT

 

Plastic lungs Burger hot

 

Freak intelligence In a lordly car

 

LOAD THAT BASS BUMP

 

Tank-horse; the hysterical prank force bleed whips over the energy, the self-endorsed body. Play the child’s play

 

CITY OF STARS - SKY OF SPACE - NIGHT OF THE EMPIRE, CITY OF PACE

 

Life’s a trip train a terror plane

 

MESSY BOY AND MESSY GIRL - WALK THE XYLOPHONE FLOORBOARDS

It’s warm in the womb, See the light
Feel the bliss
The soap in its endless kiss

SLOW SOUL TRICKLE

 

And the fire-breathing steam-exhaling locomotive factory’s down the busy street, into the danger made party

 

SIRENZ

 

Fulfil the law of the great train heist:

 

LEAGUES OF INFINITY

 

SEVEN

 

And excavated by the tireless archaeology of dawn, the artifact of the sun, it rises:

 

ARE YOU WARM FOR THE SWARM

 

Enter the passageway to the farthest west, slaved in miniature tiles and white wash

 

ENDEAVOUR NOW - GREEN COPPER

Unbuttoning the gun silver hip flask, the sacred monster quickcharges down the Mexican-metal-polish, the Tequila dunes deserting the love away, from the broad and heavy deed

CREATE FROM THIS SCREAM A BEAUTIFUL DREAM

Spewed out from the Gods mouth, like a lukewarm whale, the detached mind beached on a cruising island, suns under a pagan umbrella, accommodated & listening-good to the foe add bark, to the temporary blaze at its feet

I LOVE YOUR MINGLE WITH MY MIND

Ride your high camel; it’s not the same Ride your high camel; it’s not the same Ride your high camel; it’s not the same

BRUTE NOSTRIL

And snoring over the hill, the train drops, its chin juddering on the crossties, its heels dragging in the boilers snort, its glass traction leaving the rail in shakes

SOGGY FIRE

 

Always remember the trackless moon and the sundials first shadow

 

BLACK IRIS

 

And with a pose, those outlaws in black and white photographs, they doze into the brain to affect & make us

 

THE CARNIVORE DARK EXHUMES THE LIGHT

On and on the
Amusement freckles The Tibetan sun

SECRET LOVE

And he was a lonely man given to wandering and although he did not wish this on his consciousness, it went far off into gloriously golden clouds, making him feel like a schoolboy, set free for the day. It was gold. Pure gold.

THE END

 

Conclusion

 

Lifting,

 

the raised

 

consiousness burns,

necking above the skyscrapers, like a giraffe peering out of the mirage, into the magic circle
of its own
shadow.

Young Man Mad With Words

<The Battle Scrolls>

Letters In Faded Ink

ONE

 

He hit his head and voilà: the dead flesh like a bag of dropsy fell to the bartering platform.

Sold to a galaxy of inspiration, he kneeled; croaked; howled; groaned; kicked and swallowed, but not even self-anointed death and humiliation, could turn him from the drastic feeling, of a lavish slavish life-style;

And the encounters between Sir Headshore and the smelted world were magic forever:

Damnedest revolt; savage desert; dreams drunk from ox bladders and from the hooves of mules; fragrant spice baths and sweet revival –

And the Raider of the litmus, the Knight to the east in Jupiter; with a red heart burning like an over used sexual organ and blue lungs livening like eyes opened for the first time, he scares the birds out of their yards, as rumour becomes gospel under god’s spell.

TWO

 

The amphibious blood in Judas on his ice chariot, spreads like radium through the nightmare.

 

The Cactus Christ hangs under a vinegar black sky and Judas swings silhouette, on an orange horizon.

 

THREE

‘Pack up your fat station boy.’ Is the command, as Monseigneur Bastardy with an alien curled up in his brain, returns to Urth - the words carried over from the Separate-Side, pulsing in his thoughts the motto:
POWER TO THE PEOPLE AND THE POETS THEY INVENT.

Landing in his favourite uniform, the dandy Bastardy hunts for his farewell, in a life set-up for a polished poet, with nothing more but memoir and poem aiming down at his strange energy: freedom.

FOUR

Do you have love for the prey eerie palace, where the Birds of Paradise flock around the nomadic pasture, in the chamber massive and continuous.

Do you tourist the rooms and doorways, obscure places and nod with satisfaction.

 

If not go deeper.

 

See moustaches and grins as you are swept up in a dance, surrounded by a crowd of naked young girls.

 

Festival climax or ancient religion?

And you convert, increasing your complications, lessened by the circle of dancers and dragon-like embers, adding to the joyous chaos.

And with fondness to wine, ancestors and graveyards, the goat ritual tribes a population to furniture at your celebration hooves.

And you are infidel and cousin, neighbour and outlaw, beckoned and offered baskets of berries, nuts and dried fruit in the harvest of the glowing spirit.

And as a slave, block-by-block you entertain the gods, playing a harsh journey, building up structure and evidence of your creative capture.
And it is all sunlight and turquoise, corn and stone as galaxies import plumage to help you fly further, into dark fields of ingenious darker destinies.

FIVE

 

Sun up easy, the boot-hill kicks down the liquors spill. He wears a cotton shirt, starched in devils ink and fight floor dirt.

 

Thick-ribbed, the bath water slips into the sheets of his twilight veins, the love drool bleeding from a gash on his forehead.

An ambitious clock hits in the moon stuck hour, as boldly, a sarcastic anger locks and loads in his grinning eyes. The selfindulgent atmosphere, now his for keeps.

From his opponents rabid readiness, a grim chuckle shovels red fuel into the hot-wheel, as suddenly with a horned-hippo leap, he climbs into his opponent, the restless vendetta between the two, a feel good hatred, a hurricane, a black coat of insult, a boorish stammer.

SIX

 

The pinkish-red-split-pungent-edible-juicy-pulp and the ovenpipe, the pigpen and that ol’ grease pump.

 

Tobacco like dung mud’s the room.

Her jigsaw jaw yaps away, her toxic teeth puzzling: neither of snake nor growling dog, cat or yellow-toothed owl, her busied talk all about:

Her oversexed pimp; delinquent boys; her idea of absolute love; her scoffing interpretation of marriage; her period; women who please women, in ways men could only wish; her kinky fantasies and what an old-fashioned girl she really is.
SEVEN

Tall dry grass hisses in the savannah wind, like a hot beetle zinging off his shiny train-line desert hoopla bicycle bell little tin song.

He’s a cartoon bug, a cheery & colourful fella, now squished like a tube of paint going ‘Aah!’ or ‘Owe!’ or ‘Ouchy, ouchy!’ splattered like a drop of comical-animated-rain, on my gross connection with the outback, track jacked, rider racked, unmapped-traveller-trap, raw indigenous rolling landscape windshield.

EIGHT

 

Electric fried chicken

 

chicks with dicks & hard-on’s

 

pussy punters & cock hunters,

 

neon blue on a sky of black

 

with stars

 

& red the style of blood in stripes, running.

 

NINE

 

Who knows what illness will overcome.

It is sure to be some new talented disease, performing tap dance, stand up comedy, or a deathly mime over the enthralled audience of the body.

Behind camouflage, is evil laying cards.

 

THE END ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST

 

One man maintains a fortune.

 

Where bees slumber and fry, the poppy-cool barbarians in the summer, like tigers die.

Skull and cyclone, ripple and replace, the psychic and his poet sidekick, calIed upon by their ancestors under the command of the Desperado prince, they deal with the relic and race of war, tied to a rogue & scoundrel hot stuff.

The cosmic storm and surprise-filled-drugs are keys to the vista outside of time, where both the psychic and his poet sidekick are prepared to die.

Sins bill has been paid for.

 

ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST:

Impregnated by my lathering food, the bitch grows bigger bigger in the nude. Her hymen bit the dust, her baby girl blood rhyming with the many other women bust. Magician, psychic and venereal poet, I am drunkard and prostitute, executed criminal and I know it.

DOG RAGEST:

 

Repetitious cow, the fragrant petite air, how it redecorates neat, the tangled lands escape.

 

ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST:

Dirt and cloaks. Bath not said the raven, for it is a ravaged Man’s hoax to be clean. Low and craven the artist wears his skins liquid breath: a haven for the reptile.

And as it is that stubborn fools finally always reach the top and the shortcomings of great men, is the starting point to building cult status, then indeed unable to stop, always wanting to fight the lion, great men prone to flying, they dare that awakening to come out of Orion.

ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST:

Paint murals; build memorials, dead men raised into lovers, no longer sit beneath melancholia’s covers. Alive, I tell you, we are as the first things in the world, a certain alienated majesty. Alive! Alive! Alive! In sweet aplomb.

DOG RAGEST:

 

From beneath the surface, the animal emerges, with just one purpose, to vent its fascinating anger verbose.

 

ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST:

And set off by the endless role of invisible attire in the form of his brand of drink, drug and desire, the Artist-General overseeing the open range, intoxicated by sin and the flash dream, he clambers higher and rapt like a debonair-Satan, heading to war, heading to the challenge, ready to make a name for himself.

TWO

 

DOLDAME VIRGEN:

Ohh! Ohh! My ointment finger presses the indent paradise where I linger. Ohh! He gives me the shivers, he gives me the rats and he brings me that “Yes! Yes! Yes!” my finger delivers.

ROXY HADY:

In a land named Phattle, where the cattle roam fat and where the foothills foam with flowers and the sun hats of young girls, the soft blossom soil awaits to be awakened.

DOLDAME VIRGEN:

Your tongue over my ass and in my thigh, your warm lung sigh over my nipple, hair and pie. Oh my love, ride and see me, come to me creamy, “Ohh!” my love, above.

ROXY HADY:

Like a raunchy pomegranate queen, the endless maiden weans herself, no more sucking and licking her thumb, but waiting with legs wide open & a fresh offence, for her man to be.

THREE

 

ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST:

 

The immortal bandit, I don’t think I could bare it, to see him release his last shot of smoke and hand it to God.

 

DOG RAGEST:

Persistence and extravagance, now there’s an existence. No fear to be evicted from this fleabag hotel, this second-hand shell. The soul has its own continuing story to tell.

ATOMIC BULLET ALCHEMIST:

Rome and jubilee; it is at this moment when we need take steps, to bow to our shape-shifting powers and line our meretricious drinks, with fine noise and poison.

The running Reb and the cunning Cherub, rolled into one they are the profound-prince-poet, sexy and ruined, rude and lewd, taking flight from a new end to win her, to pour his love, to prove his kisses and to adore that sacred woman, enchanted with sins hisses.

EARL HERB

 

EARL HERB:

Tie a scarf around my boot and shoot me down into a river root, my blood drying into a dilapidated moustache: this flute flower whistling the final loot.

SMUT PINK:

It’s a fiery hailstorm, it’s Revelations mail, or just plain hell. The salvation Iawnmower ripping up the nails, that hold down our water pails, or cutting us down like wheat. It is a story that never burns out, or must ever be witheld.

EARL HERB:

The old favourites, the high-strung rites, the vanguard adventure, they are all but a curious sensor, pressing the button, to release our state of weightlessness.

SMUT PINK:

All the marvellous things envisioned and promised, but instead you took the Impostor City; the stones made into bread and the chance to jump & fall, immune to the landing; all these apparitions and more you took.

EARL HERB:

A gamy drinking leg; a moldy lung; a hacked brain, look at what I have become: a marauderous drifter, made to wade through the world in explicit pain.

SMUT PINK:

 

There is a new dawn over the hill - go - seek and find it.

 

EL SENOR ELOQUENCE

 

DEVIANT BEHAVIOUR:

With a die-hardy fever and clammy daisy hands, El Senor Eloquence moved hazy like the soft frolic of a deathbed Caesar. Smouldering his smooching body into every smoky dive and flesh hole, one after the next, he would always stumble out alive and whole, only to plummet himself back into the void, until there was an altercation to the script.

BORDERING ON INSANITY:

So hopeless was he by the end of the night, that he couldn’t walk straight, or talk great and that is how he loved to be left, in a prim and proper mess; beaten-up by his own will and debauched by life.

DEVIANT BEHAVIOUR:

Lingual in his dress, like a fine recital, El Senor Eloquence: a fight till the very end, would address all life forms, paying them all the same courtesy, of a trip through his ignited imagination.

BORDERING ON INSANITY:

Weak from the spirit he carried, he lugged with him a rich carpet bag, stuffed with a zoo of pills; firing liquor; imported cigars; LSD & XTC; a deck of cards; a dead watch; a jar of magic-mushrooms; a brick of Malawi-gold; a bank bag of Transkei-red; letters from his one and only love; a Japanese newspaper and orders to proceed.

DEVIANT BEHAVIOUR:

Into the back room, with a buoyant libation in one hand, a fine piece of pussy cupped in the other and a big fat cigar clenched between smiling teeth, El Senor Eloquence would with a clairvoyant air and an above-average flair, seek non-other than the appealing facets in others and the tacit darkness within.

SENOR ELOQUENCE:

 

Don’t be sorry, just be yourself.

 

FLAIR

 

DRAM:

Over the intercom, the dusty voice of the sobbing aviator reads from the pencilled sheets of paper, torn from a pocket book, breaking the news in poetry:

DUSK:

 

I always thought the wine I gave, would sell out first; before the blood of an ordinary song, but I was wrong.

 

DRAM:

 

The self-exploration: the foolishness. The expression: the madness.

 

DUSK:

 

Proverb hell, proverb wisdom, Show and tell the road to capacities stardom.

 

DRAM:

And the tires roll like a non-stop boot on some vital road, leading toward that sky loaded with arson and rocket dye; throw the fire-bars into the oven-head and speed at break-neck speed.

DUSK:

 

I lit the sticks, I rode the river, I was alone, my thoughts be silent.

 

THE HONEY-COLOURED LIGHT

 

AMBROSE:

 

She enters the room, her fine calves encased in the smoothest of stockings.

 

AURORA:

 

Naked on the bed he lays, his manhood erect curling her towards him.

 

AMBROSE:

 

Moving onto the cool sheets, she takes his clean-shaven chin, pressing his lips to the red circle on her breast.

 

AURORA:

 

He parts his mouth, sucking with a devouring wetness, on her whorling nipple.

 

AMBROSE:

Spreading her legs, she lowers her mantle of oblivion over him, murmuring as she whets his rigid member, rubbing in and out of her.

AURORA:

Going straight to his brain, as the lava runs through his veins, she pushes his senses, his palms scorching her thighs with their fever-heat.

AMBROSE:

 

Her rosy cheeks, her glowing eyes, her craving breath, such delicious feeling fills her, as he penetrates the secret.

 

AURORA:

 

In a rapture of their own, their passion waxes, with his inflamed candle, gleaming within her hot lantern.

 

AMBROSE:

She gazes at him with a pleading glaze in her eyes; the power of his unbroken stride frightening her, but in the erotomania of the moment, both keep hungry almost burstingout, keeping it painfully-sweet, as she, dancing with a shimmer in her lip and a shudder in her body, she lets out a piercing shriek, as the phantasm vanishes, and she falls to earth, back into the arms of her inspiring lover.

SONJA

 

GROG:

Hear me strange, as I tell all over town, the story of Sonja: Sonja the girl who liberated the perfection of change. Sonja, the aloof recluse to her lairs carnival. Sonja the hallucination dabbler.

HAZEL:

My daughter to meticulous highs and photographic mutations. Oh jovial, comfort loving child, you ignored them all, as you allowed your fantastic monster free influence. Sonja; I love you, I love you, I love you.

GROG:

And as it turned out into a serious life of pubic hair and synthetic inventions, Sonja the carnal-girl, adopted a tempestuous super-reality to be her cosmos.

GLORIA:

Playful child, so much braver in her youth than the rest of us, oh Sonja where did you go. I recall that you enjoyed it-all rather more oddly, than we did. Oh Sonja, oh girl, oh girl, oh girl.

GROG:

Portrait of a misty miss in distress: Sonja, you were master of the playful spirit, on the stage of centuries of ghosts, all called in your name. Sonja, recreate us savagely and distort.

BOWN:

She was an angle-heart, that is all, an angel heart. She was cheerful, yet realistic, conventional, yet abstract, impressive, yet eliminated by her beauty, which we all saw as celestial.

GROG:

In the early days, spending much of her time, searching for her place in life, it became an aeon of strains and tensions, wild and menacing; and predicting her own fate, at the advent of her life, she described what her life was to be:

A universe of yearning, for something misplaced.

 

MAY:

A hypersensitive darling, with a ballet of delusions in her wonderful head, Sonja my light hearted harlequin, I miss telling you, how much I really love you; Sonja you were always the one.

ATLAS RAT HOLE - ATLAS APPLE

And so flags away;
I am throwing down the dice With Blood on its Dots,
To watch the Forked Tongue rise, Baptizing the square seas
In galactic maps,
And the soft motion
Of bizarre art,
Illustrated within the blood, That churns in the Tribal Climax.

Master of beautiful things limited; man of the boyish dream; amateur of the halo, at the top of an intense-Asia, you bore and score; the parabolas in my brains wail.

The sureness of touch is prime. The lidded gaze, sleeping the sleepless sleep.

 

VENOMOUS LAERTES

 

Venomous loose sufferer, it may be death, but still what is your weapon?

We are dead,
drowned in your work, our vital-reddening having fed the hanging fang.

There is something within us: it is not madness, but perhaps a bodiless creation, perhaps our pulse keeping time, perhaps the fighting soul of intricacy, perhaps a possession or perhaps nothing but madness.

We are dead,
our breath has been said; eaten by worms, our innocent past that we murdered has been avenged by a Holy Bible anger, which has now brought all our imperfections down, upon our Canopy of Pleasure.

We are dead,
having lived a full life in dangerous poetical glory. The blue murder on the highway, having turned our mind blown day, out onto the nether way, open to any road.

NEW BURNING SANDS

 

Train faced we advanced, confronting the Global Station.

 

I still remember it so well.

Everything new that passed, no matter how peculiar, we found familiarity within - which proved to us that the fight of our lives was still on.

I recall that it was our songs, the songs of free men, enduring the death of their fellow companions, that became our breath, as we piled on the memory and knowing that we live not for the dried earth, but for the victory of those who have died - who are strong enough to remain noble in our minds.

And next to me, a poet scratched with red brick, on a white wall:

AS DESPERATE AS THIS BLUE ONION IS, WE MUST REMAIN THE DAUGHTERS AND SONS BORNE OF LOVING CIRCLES.

Life is the bitch and we are merely the cool cats, roaming in the glitch.

 

LIFE ACCOUNT

 

Birth is such a funny thing, as is death, which is so peculiar.

And the cat stalked like a flightless hawk, into the Rosetta night, never to be seen again, never to return to the Island. Born by emotion, we caught a vivid bus ride, to the sunken space of conception and melting arctic.

By means of classical objects; aberrations; mementos; halation’s; the Great War; the swans reach in the pain of a nocturne; a good outfit to die in; dementia; comic sorcery; odd odes; space travel fare; loss; playful and candid binges; asphyxiating anxiety; barren paranoia; fruitful terror; breathtaking gardens; swampy pools; blowing leaves; the smell of stale bedrooms; subconscious paint; the beaten face of death; philosophic confessions and smoking in the rain, we caroused the line of life.

And as a person must eat to be who they are, we sat down at duration’s table, in front of champion fish; lobotomy bacon; rhinoceros-lipped peaches; climaxed potatoes; grey cabbage; cracked sugar; bourbon red coffee; sock juice vodka; creamy centred delights; motor oil fudge and rolled herbicide, while in our lapels shone a dead rose, as we validated and remained to die by our adipose.

MEAT AND DRINK ON THE SAME TREE

 

Running The Tongue up onto her filleted pallet and snuffing The Nose in amongst her stinky boobs, the light is turned out.

Her face disappears, all except for a wet shine in her eyes. Like onion mixed with fish saliva, the whiff of her groin is caught, as The Tongue is shoved into her sack of orgasms and rippling colours.

Moaning like an old toothless dog, with worms and fleabites on its balls, she tenses and releases.
Rasping The Taste Buds over her spare mouth, her little mound of burning ice cream, becomes thicker and raised with excitement, as all in one moment, unable to hold back her beauty, she pours out her delightful liquid;

The extremely warm and sweet taste, mingled with acid, flowing copiously down The Throat.

 

It is nectar. Perfect nectar.

 

THUMBNAIL

He was the direct image of talent without a master, genius without a victim, as he sat in the candle shifting room: ironic and ordinary, yet obscene and painfully psychological in his selfimposed intensity.

But, through all the attachments of second-thought placed on him, was reincarnated the virtuous air of purpose, which seemed to gush from the gash-like smirk on his face & a telling look that coolly shouted out:

“I am the greatest!”

But living for living sake, is enough to piss any gambling man off. No, for him there had to be a reason, a winning reason why the mission to launch him into existence was not aborted by the gods. And so for the question that haunts many, who may have misgivings about their very own existence:

Are we here for a special reason, or is it our duty to enforce our own special grounds on why we do exist & why we are indispensable.

Yes! There is an undertaking to fulfil & we have to fight hard at making it a life, that is a scintillating find - a life worthy of research & reckoning - a bomb of big heart.

And so ... The night approached restlessness. Cats straggled over the roofs of houses. Stars chirruped unremittingly. Sex flung moans, from that of brutes and morsels. Dogs oafed to the subsonics. And well under the breaking shell of morning, he wrote frightfully in unison to the beckoning blood-pure song of the early bird. And to this, frantic like a vampire terrified of the ever-encroaching light, he threw down his pen; to sag in syrupy shuteye and black vomit dream ...

LOBSTER

 

Detestable Man is comprised of slick fiction.

His mentality twirls with the invaluable compendium of decadence & deviance; conquest; terrible deaths; blind chasing lust; sexy women; heroes; sensational spectacles; egos and childish sentiment,

While his thermometer penis forages the atmosphere for any kind of hotness.

 

The detestable man in wedlock with risk and its perennial hemlock, is like a painted battle,

 

Always in the place where war stands. THE END

Devotion Exploratory
c

PARADOS - NOTE ONE

 

INTERPRETER OF NATURE:

Hand and wand over brains of discovery, mark-out your land and puff the cobra-hubbly-bubbly, to hit upon the mists of old tradition, in a fiery blast of comfort and admission.

MARJORAM PLAGIARISM:

And the percussion of flint and steel ignite the bubbling dung, ordering the oars of the dug out tree, to strike the seas sparkling lung.

INVESTIGATOR OF TRUTH:

Reap the green blade and search for knowledge in colossal burgeons and witness the flame that plays about the head and hair of young boys and virgins.

PARADOS - NOTE TWO

 

BALLAST:

The secrets of nature betray themselves further, when tormented by the open aperture, than when left to stray by their own fervour.

PRINCIPLE OF ARTS AND THINGS:

Ambassadors and Bastidos, Friends and Dividends, these summaries of prestigious token, are to swat away the errors of past ages, in a hope that the ink may be thickened, so as to stain without running down, these last pages.

FOOL:

The obvious I did not choose, and in this my ignorance did I severely abuse, with the swelling of the good and the bad news; and in my headway, I lift to the sky the ethereal spark divine, editing the deeply rooted habits of my scorched & frayed mind.

PARADOS - NOTE THREE

 

INQUISITION PRATTLER:

Visit the excellent treasure of your mind, and beset the strangeness and darkness of its tabernacle, to find the powerful tragic pleasure, of what is behind this comical, dramatic and horrific cocksure exposure.

PARADOS - NOTE FOUR

 

OBSERVANT EYE:

Innocence cannot hold a rich man who rides comets, for in a sense, he gives law unto himself, dependant on critical comment.

LAST POINT:

And as you go from place to place on your scholarly travel, remember my kid, that ambitious princes always turn into melancholy’s rabble and that monuments of wit and learning, are more durable than monuments built to honour The Rise of a kingdom;

And one last point my kid; never forget as you pass, to dock daily sacrifices and freewill offerings to the president of the muses and the god of the flocks, in homage to your terrible freedom.

FOOL:

Be it that you love your friend as your closest enemy and hate your enemy as your closest friend, but when worshipping, recognize that it is the fault of some gods, that in their feet are their ears, so be it that you shout at the gods, instead of having to bow down, like a grovelling dog.

TRUMPET NARCISSUS:

 

And fathomed in lifes naked scope, the subversive neck, reposes from a cursive rope.

 

FROM HERE TO THE END OF MAKING BOOKS

This is not a well-written tragedy by a tragic spectator - no - it is a natural explanation of independent nerves, or as a tragic prince once put it: w-o-r-d-s.

Typing on a typewriter of dry ice, the poet a writer of unhealthy songs, in a life of wry vice, he extracts the fools gold between the hammer and the anvil, working on the payroll of the devil, publishing the rebellious rains of secret language.

‘Immoral immortal love, accompany the stranger in our midst, on his revels, that he may improve his education by taking part in the festivals of the Gods and with their help, may he attain the pleasurable sense of harmony, in his search for his cry’s song and rhythm in his search for his movement’s dance.’

And when the big pin drops in onto your silence and paranoia, when the pattern is unchanging and when the mind drags your soul into confusion - return into yourself, into the other world: the region of purity and immortality - into the state of wisdom & serenity.

PROEM

He glided with languid and powerful strides, the silver coins in his pocket, making the sound of steel-spurs, illustrating the image of the Revenant Rider, well chosen by a past unborn. In his hand he kept a note book, which within was written words wailing: love; a young man’s anger; the neon carvings of drugs; creed; masks of passport; excellent wishes and totem pictures, convoking the ethnic earth to oversee.

Under the yawning of the night and the dawning of the light, the canopy pterodactyls would shelter him, circling the thermals high above.

A poor cursed life, he walked the earth alone, mortgaging his soul, for several moments of freedom.

 

What is a poem, but the signature of a name.

 

GOD SENDS MEAT, BUT THE DEVIL SENDS COOKS

At last, on this one beautiful day, The boat is lowered and leased, As away go the skeleton crew, On their first practical share of The wide-open ocean feast.

On the weather beaten deck,
The ancient pot-pipe is kept in check,
The flames of which are fed with cannabis-grip, Blazing brilliantly, throwing a big glare over all The ship.

And dealing in pawnshop doctrine, the thirteen Corpses pass-on in mutilated jargon,
Their comedy crowned in a tone shady & sullen.

And in an unlimited indulgence of debauchery, Limply happy, the lovable lazy
They convulse in their dying purity,
As out of the primeval deep,
They awaken to the blessed bewitching song of Sirens, Beckoning them into a world of dirt & sex-slavery And stabbing the sails into the mazarine, off onto more exploits on the flat blue marine
The Boat, rigged with impromptu
On an ocean voyage
Developing strange faculties
In each jolly sailor,
It is what has become to be
A boy’s tailored experience,
With his dead crewmen who salute him as their Captain Of the stout sober sea.

LIFE LEVELS

The earliest known evidence of the Stone Age was in Autumn, when the poet wrote out his heart in open poems: scrawled down & crowned and well prescribed; high up in his signal tower.

The earliest known evidence of the Bronze Age was in Spring, when the poet did sit in composition of the exit, which beat within the karmic thud.

The earliest known evidence of the Golden Age, was when ahead of all other poets, whipping the road and forcing the end, a slave to freedom, the poet escaped the rut of love, off the highroad and onto the open road, diluted by the wilderness sun and the mad-cool heroics by the go-devil spun.

AMBER WELL ONE

Reading the little book, brought Life Before his eyes very clearly,
Taking his remembrance back, to the day When he had seen it all,
Dancing in the early morning sunshine, On the green, with its back against the wall. His Life had been so beautiful in its youth And innocence
And so pathetic in its attempts
That all he had wanted,

Was to pick it up in his arms And take it into some bejewelled And spellbinding pit;

Which he did.

 

TWO

And the Rebel Minister, with triggered-clutch, a kicked-downpedal and dust for tyre tracks, he revs his engine and speeds out of the church grounds and looks into his rear-view mirror at the steeple crucifix, which is nothing to him but a telephone pole, with its communication lines cut.

And with its vertical grill grinning, the big metal car guns along the black streak, swaying with a heavy hipped momentum, like a hard-bodied dancer, leading one to the hole in the wall; and so through the hole with cool and focused steering, the Rebel Minister clock-wises the radio knob.

An announcement juts out: ‘News flash - Today, a wild madman left a congregation dumb struck, when delivering a message entitled: “The One and Only Truth” - we now return to our regular transmission, of out of this world music.’

And the Rebel Minister, reaching into his glove compartment, he pulls out a rag to wipe the expression of shatter-proof resistance on his face, as he turns up the volume, and leans his elbow out the window, breathing in a fresh new air, as he pulls up into the church grounds, of the congregation next on his hit list. THREE

NOMADIC INDEX - ONE

 

CHANDOO:

From the yawns that dug up the dawns fierce words to rend, here is by the grandest Migrator and trail-worn Newsman, a fresh limb of legend.

GUANO:

Painfully we graze our throats on blunt-cigars, and fill in the blank prophesy, under the audacity of our rank scars, with our quartz tipped pens veined with gold ink, bleeding into the pages of our pioneering faux pas,

NOMADIC INDEX - TWO

 

LAUDANUM:

Such an honoured fixture is the Backwoodsman, stoned erect, with not as much as a summation of fear, for the Headless-huntsman hot on his heels.

LACONIC:

 

To defy, or to deal jest with the fear of having to die, that is the quest.

 

NOMADIC INDEX - THREE

 

OPHITE:

In the white fire of the sky-light, in their marinated walled abodes, the Fahrenheit mauled Troubadours' disrobe & drink pop skull, basking in the brisk circulation, of helium baskets that mull above their heads, dropping sand bags of life altering, scorching hallucination & inventive vision.

PUR SANG:

And subsuming the simplicity and loftiness of nature, the doting Sun Bearer in gaudy ribbon and eagle plume, he pulls apart the earth’s suture, implanting a new lambent orb, to hearten the world with merriment and its long lost hope.

END

KillerProtector
c

SWITCHES

You keep going through
Switches,
I never know who
you are, or which day it is

You keep me putting on brakes

 

you make me funny in my head, uncertain in my skin,

 

goddamn-it man, how my heart aches to be me again.

 

I am questioning silence,

 

I am finding excitement

 

under your lies,

 

your eyes growing wild they would kill me to keep me

 

to keep me in the dark.

You are going through
Switches,
mine you turned off,
having sat a long time
with me on the bench
in the park when I was to
ashamed to go home,
when the world spun
17 yrs drunk, because, all I did that year
was write poetry & get up to junk

& all my school did then,

 

was stamp on my report card

 

a big fat F for flunk!

I will miss you
when I can
no longer pass out

& the flames & the insanity & the eternity of

hell keeps me up,
though not
like a child
eager to visit
his holiday
& play.

“How is it that grown-ups have to be such cunts. How is it that they don’t live in dreams with their imaginary friends.
How is it that they are so petrified?”

Why can’t I die, to see a child. Why can’t I die, to be me!

the end

The Red Letter
c

ONE

‘I doubt God will charge me with a misdemeanour, when I am guilty of something grand.’

THROUGH INVENTION, IS THE DISCOVERY OF NEW EVILS A NECESSARY ABOMINATION

 

Cool recess Dismal hours

 

EDUCATED LUXURY:

 

In Felon libraries we slept, kept on edge with subterranean fires, the melody in our heads & the dictating lyric ...

 

FIXATING & TERRIFIC

Be the fire that penetrates the page the statue that permeates the bronze the vehicle of accurate communication

Be the monument of the moment

 

a masterpiece of life

 

AND RAGE AGAINST THE DRAG

 

Don’t want to be saved, Just want to be loved

 

MOVE-ON BY THE OLD SIGN OF FRACTURED PAINT

 

Scattered together we run as one ...

 

OUR MINDS PLAYED UPON BY THE CHANGE OF WIND AND DIRECTION

 

TWO

In my ambient ambulance I glide on track,
Passed the fermenting Traffic lights on
The wet black

AND I QUENCH THE KILLING SMILE

On my couch
As deep as
A velvet grave
I close my eyes
And soothe into
The journeys repose

AND I SINGE MY WINGS ON THE SYRINGE OF MIDNIGHT

Carried away
On my
High priced caravan, I draw the curtains
In the sky
And the sails
On my abandoned ship

THE ABYSS IS A MINE FILLED WITH PIRATE GOLD ...

 

Where you can buy your ...

 

MARVEL SOUL ...

 

Your deed demonic whole

 

AND I SAW & HELD THE NIGHT VISION THROUGH MY ANDROGYNOUS STARE UNDER HALLUCINATION THREE

 

And with a hit man stroll ...

 

I ROLL

 

I am the nipple emperor I am the grapeshot roarer ...

 

AS DRUNK AS ZEAL ...

 

And getting higher

 

BETTER FILL THE BOY WITH IDEAS - BETTER FILL THE GIRL WITH THE MAN

 

She’s the chill out queen

 

HER MANSION IS EMPTY BUT IS EASY TO FILL

 

With her ankles on your hips and her eyes wide with pills

 

BREAK INTO THE ROOM - PLAY INTO THE ROAM

 

See everything of what you heard ...

 

LET FREEDOM BE A DAILY ERECTION TO THE SUN ...

 

Keep the deep dream lit ...

 

FUCK BOTH ASSHOLE & PUSSY-HOLE ...

 

And live

 

LOVE IS THE STATUE CALLED PERFECT BLOOD ~ end

The Epic
c

PART ONE

 

I

On a blue oriental rug
The big wheat field in the sky
Rides & rides & rides
With wings from the golden scarab bug.

Off the Red Indian pipe
Chronicles describe the blow & the hype
Leaving signs & ensigns with opening passage ripe:

Register yourself to the Hotel of Expanse, Where the meeting place is a cigar bar & the rooms are perfumed with
Spermatozoon sozzled sheets
& delectable poon-tang ever so sweet.

Register your mind to the Safari of Lounge, Where the people are fully open
& the mystique & physique is wanton,

Here within, our unison is a salubrious font.

 

Deception of the senses, Is the pleasure of the senses.

 

II

 

And from a misty hill the silhouette voice patrols:

‘I have connived & plotted the events & the outcome of each empire to the world. I have wringed my hands & revelled in the pain & suffering I have caused the human race & have seen my infectious handy work grow, but I am still tired of nothing, except the revelation, that I am a doomed outcast, a defeated foe, a lightning bolt from God, whose game, is nearing its heady end.’ And unlike this Dark priest, Sable prince,
Raven angel,

There is a man,
A wise character,
One with the character of the Everyman, Who turns the key and unlocks the zodiacs of The universe;

He is out there, out there in love.

 

Ill

Out onto the Great Sand-Sea
Under the blue obelisk & fresh disk,
Men march off for war sworn into soldiery, Commandeered by The General into savage belief.

War: an Exodus to escape boredom. A chance for warlike men to blow-up the crooked road: a distraction cultivated under times of inactive service, when the blood is domesticated by peace.

And so in The General’s secret chamber, By act of a satanic & nightmarish mirth, The men drink to a good death in battle And to the blood of the enemy.

Every man’s ransom lies in his own back yard.

 

IV

 

A thief of pleasant stash:

 

A thief of new effects & bold experiment

A thief inditing his own light, never imitating The Divine Achievement.
A thief of simple natures, afforded access To the gears & the mystery.

A thief of ancient investigation & miscellaneous discovery.

 

V

Letters have no mature
But words,
words detain nature,
they make her into an island & root her with
true and exquisite touches.

VI

Deep green hieroglyphics in holographic motion Interpret strange customs & language, In this land of the super-sleep.
With Turkish-stone belly dancers &
Greek-stone concubines,
At the surrender of The Ceremony of The Mind, Our stay here is very welcome.

Partake from the thermogenic pipe-bowl and smoke the Insect raw, the sting from which eternal dreams, one can draw.

 

Lucky crooks are a virtue.

 

VII

 

Entrances & exits of delight

 

& blood like tea on a Moroccan patio.

 

Views & experiments of the furnace & brains like egg on a Sahara rock. VIII

See their dark ships,
On the rowdy crowd of wet salt, Travellers moving home,
Held back by the bell and the bolt.

See them capsize off the decks,
Into the wet flame of the Mediterranean black, Voyagers on trial,
Proven by the weight of their Pilgrim-sack.

See them pray thanks on the shores of sight, Men of muse once sheer
Men of passion once clear,
Now ready to receive the light.

The observed day is the portal of the Peregrine.

 

IX

Men
of
The World, where
ever
they are,

There their
Home is.

Drink the drink of The Incas,
And know
Civilisation.
PART TWO

I

Iridescent trip along the lane of summer’s spring, I by your opiated moon & sun
In this destruction of origin,
Own the riddling hormone of The Epic Passion:

The warmth is my audacity, The cool is my intellect, The hung jury is my genius The great host is I.

Obey the dream & be conscious of your own ignorance.

 

II

Fighting for a place in the bosom of the Atlas, The poet earned his Turban-crown, from the beaten Promethean prince of Asia.

Lifting the cause of the fearless, The paragon poet shoulders the world And as an enlightened despot,
He serves his God and his people well.

The challenge is yourself. The race is your growth. The destination is your life. The rest is your legacy.

Ill

Far from objecting, the poet gets close to his subject. A trusted stranger, he moves in
On the new lives he wishes to partake of
And by this encounter becomes
The leading mascot of their beliefs & outset, As he with his newfound partner in crime, shines on once again as the
Juvenile jewel of...

The hunt.

 

PART THREE

 

I

A smouldering ashtray like a smoky ruin Stoops amid empty bottles,
strewn like dead soldiers.

This may be the result of warlike action, Or just the end of debauchery.

 

He who burns in excess, burns the one Accompanied by him.

 

II

Listen to the World & know it is to become Heaven, Trapeze the gentle smoke of oblivion
& know we are on top of Hell.

A backfire of centuries has chased us here, Standing on the verge of God’s Second Coming.

 

Ill

Pursued by grief, we blot out our troubles, Engaged by marvellous medicines & soft voices in our romantic ears. At our head lies an open vision. At our feet lies the closed earth.

IV

You cannot dissuade A man with a mission, or A man with a staff,
For in his way
He is excellent.

And as all poets are princes, By birthright
They are chosen
By
Real danger.

PART FOUR

 

I

Dynamic auras bristle around glorified expressions, Beneath the absinthe stars of the charged country, Where ordinary people:
Switched on & rigged out,
Are lit up like shops filled with vibrant provisions.

Face them with a smile & prove the comfort within The erudite scarecrow.

 

II

 

To dance the dance of death, is to seize the power to burn.

 

To court the brotherhood of death, is to be both captive and lion.

 

To swallow the hard truth, is to be a beast bound to bloodlust. Under-go; and wear out the many bodies & minds of your craze.

 

Ill

Broad days & nights in clouds of Spain, Spent wild like seas that want a shore, Keep the blades chopping in the tornados core.

The uprooted ruby rose,

 

Pulled from the cheeks, of many dead-visionary-heroes, Is the heart under the bonnet, of the Quixotic machine.

 

PART FIVE

 

I

Soul kisses are nothing, compared to the feast of you. A luxurious lover of long-suffering climax,
Woman I am so much in love with you,

Your power & everything your heart lacks.

 

II

Confidants exposed in each other’s arms, In the dance with the performance to explode, Lovers clipped in the thirsty calm of kisses,

Together they banquet on each other’s carnal blisses.

 

Beauty is the destiny of the goddess. the end

Ode To Hell

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