A Poem Where The Words Are Mostly

A Poem Where The Words Are Mostly
Made Up But the Meaning Is Not


Gutterhollow roll of the last of the day
when every silence
is permissible,
when words are timberladen thistlebombs
carried on the breath, I am without a cart for dreams.
It seems I've hoboed high
this day, and slurred the
razorridges: blurry as a curd
inside the whey and dropped an eiderdown
too soon, and fleece-eyed- lazy as a gentleman's dog in help
yourself sun- I've slept
the ransom through. What's left, a G clef
major chord of whored remembrance with hardly
a half-donned haversack
to pack it in, a Pilated hand-washed heliotrope
of shuttered, moping light. I am a sight
for sorest soul. I am the magpie and the mole swept up
and gone to SleepyTown.

welcome back to the cyberpoetric space!

Taking the brim or cleaning the desk of old texts, polishing until they shine as statues of alabaster.I am reading T.S.Elliott again, Wasteland.
Waste as the sand of the desert I crossed with the Palestinian driver who drove me all the way from Jerusalem until the bridge to Jordan. The way through desert, a wasteland of derelict dreams and unwritten poems, traces in the sand of the lost army of Cambyses, who sent into the war 50000 men who were swallowed by the sand.
In my inner wasted landscape people gather around small fires and warm themselves, the fire is good, they say, you must burn to grow.
Ana

On Holiday Intro

Our friends remember good and bad. This is the text of a song intro I wrote and that I had forgotten. With a nudge I was able to recreate it:


Home is where the ponies lie
and marjorie is standing for her portrait
little alfie had his milk
and wandered off to buy a dig for ruin

Hold your head, salute and wag
the burglar in the bottle in the basement,
the basement...

On Holiday, lovely Holiday...

slave

it is raining sweet
where my mind almost melted again
the sun has mingled too
for a marriage of sorts
we are forever saved
we are forever wounded

Billy Jno Hope

Sensational

Now I lay me

on a bed of nails

and each point
holds
the bud
of a flower, stab of a knife,
the power
of every vision: a strife,
a strafe of what
is poignant, perfumed, pungent--unguent

unto me

whose numbness
welcomes it.

Shaman Of Ambient Light

Face
like an old sack. Haggard
about the eyes. Flesh in inverted 'V's
that hang down
nearly covering
them, until something springs them awake
and pulls
the 'v' up
to reveal blue truth serum,
sharp and observant. It's
an elephant eye. Eye
of something ancient. Long
patrician nose, long face, long form,
and the kindest, softest voice with Germanic accent: soothing, piercing
all reserve that trembles when he is full of exaltation
or pain. Nothing vain about
the man. A weary,
watchful, sympathetic
giant
is Werner Herzog, who reads
souls on film like other men
read X-rays, deep into the underneath of us
so what is
hidden
is brought to light, yet he is
celebrant of the human spirit: self-deluded, nearly
crazy,
spinning
in the starry, starry night,
the wise
men, madmen, pulling their hearts
grown mammoth, too huge for breasts, and dragging
them up the mountain
toward their gods.

Irrepressible

I tried to
curb my joy. I practiced
sighing

practiced
studying
the threads

but I find my head too light
too
full of light- the night
as beautiful as a thousand owls cooing, cooing

not the
predator
I hear, but doves in love with moon
and me besides. See how that tree attaches to me

bark
on bark.

sleeping

sleeping on grates
surviving on handouts
saying have a nice day
to everyone who walks by
what was that about pennies from heaven?
who fed Paul to starve Peter

do

do you see this


O night?

all

Rue Hippolyte-Maindron #46


all these words are on parole


Tu m'hai con disiderio il cor disposto
sì al venir con le parole tue,
ch'i' son tornato nel primo proposto .

You, with your words, have so disposed my heart
to longing for this journey-I return
to what I was at first prepared to do.


have so disposed. got rid of the heart?
what vowel precedes the name the debt of the name . the word
n'ame contains ame _soul

so then
as he steps into
and out of
the
inferno.


lets not pretend
more than we know.
but knowing our pretence is soul
we can say we've seen all things
bearing on the dead


./


do you speak Italian?
of course.






hardly remember the tea

sonatas|this is my studio if you dont like

oh well
its really quite dirty in hereu aint seen nothing.

did U think this was a book? it


dummiesss're born each second
nice gyroscope
palindromes



im not saying anything
what are you saying?
id hardly call this a sonnet .u mean a sonatao/ sonnnetto?






there must teea boilin by nowyou and yer tea
c ome over here and kiss me
will ya?
kiss me kate
kiss me kiss me kiss me Miss me kate
old song
shakespeare.... ? maybe

ask Ben



Sartre dropped by. sometimes
te other guy comes with him, Genet, the poet.
Clifford Duffy came over. later.
or with them. i cant remember he smy lover


grow
in the dark





DELEUZE / SPINOZA

"je disais après tout, l’intuition intellectuelle – ce que Spinoza présentera comme l’intuition du troisième genre de connaissance, – c’est bien une espèce de pensée comme éclair. C’est bien une pensée à vitesse absolue. "

sonatas




t' spare