SEQUIN
A youthful bandit
this forest--
faltering eyelids in mud troughs
& puddles like
brisk lies
woven thru deception.
Stealing autumn into
its colours,
leaves in birchbark rustle
a full mauraude stealth
across every breeze.
Thief, thief
elf with a key,
a thousand rasping angels
their throaty javelins
hurled from branch's edge,
brief pageant robbing
summer's pantry.
Offal of the fall,
the lake a sequined glove
tossed from a careless hand;
a rowboat as a buckle
chromatic foam
for a finger's fan.
[45]
this forest--
faltering eyelids in mud troughs
& puddles like
brisk lies
woven thru deception.
Stealing autumn into
its colours,
leaves in birchbark rustle
a full mauraude stealth
across every breeze.
Thief, thief
elf with a key,
a thousand rasping angels
their throaty javelins
hurled from branch's edge,
brief pageant robbing
summer's pantry.
Offal of the fall,
the lake a sequined glove
tossed from a careless hand;
a rowboat as a buckle
chromatic foam
for a finger's fan.
[45]
YELLOW HAIR
With that lime green hairnet
commonly used by butterfly dispatchers--
something your aunt might have commandeered
to put her hair up donkey's years ago,
I unjarred the bottle of air &
with a pair of forceps
tried to wrangle the life juices
from a Polyphemeus[1] in a manner akin to Ulysses
in that cave three millenia ago;
his gentle bleating like the whine
of the net across the gelatin fabric
of air or the flash of a tomahawk gliding
across Custer's golden hair.
[1] Large buff silk-moth with two eyespots on the hind wings named for
the giant Polyphemeus in the Odyssey. Ulysses had the giant blinded
with a sharpened pole.
[46]
commonly used by butterfly dispatchers--
something your aunt might have commandeered
to put her hair up donkey's years ago,
I unjarred the bottle of air &
with a pair of forceps
tried to wrangle the life juices
from a Polyphemeus[1] in a manner akin to Ulysses
in that cave three millenia ago;
his gentle bleating like the whine
of the net across the gelatin fabric
of air or the flash of a tomahawk gliding
across Custer's golden hair.
[1] Large buff silk-moth with two eyespots on the hind wings named for
the giant Polyphemeus in the Odyssey. Ulysses had the giant blinded
with a sharpened pole.
[46]
PILTDOWN MAN
Popping out of the dark
reddish "Merry Christmas" haze
twinking blinking land of Nod (or
rather it's Ned, the hefty trucker);
eyes, steel-belted radials,
in a rig big like Santa Claus;
a Stegosaurus
swinging sabre-toothed tail
& flexing padded paws
to gobble night.
Loads so dreary-weary their chrome-plated
swamps are debris after a tank battle
for troglodyte trilobites &
chocolate coloured ooze
belching brown down funnel flaps
to carve deep bellows inside earth.
Such energetic slaves
to cough & sound their
wheezing sandy blasts make for
breaks in a clearing
for I see our trucker,
eons from now,
wedded to sentiment and rock
perfectly preserved (to the dismay
of future inhabitants), a fossilized
remnant complete with
steering wheel embedded in his chest
(forlorn and anatomically correct much as
dolls used in assault cases).
In a vision,
envisage his life
replete to the last Raggetty-Anne detail
--straw-coloured hair, for one,
looms like binder-twine or
horse-hair thread tugged from a dirty mattress
which props a toque or baseball cap,
tobacco staining the resident
gum chewing Neanderthal
with tartan lumberjack shirt.
Contact with Piltdown Man,
soggy Homo Erectus
given to gunning engines,
churning rubber as cavemen
might in the
La Brera tarpits.
Consider a farmer
brief centuries ago
stumbling onto a similar scene
pocketing no cloverleafs
of his own pasture's making
but concrete expressways
looming thru the fog
& damp, then
coming to his senses,
hard-pressed as I.
[47]
reddish "Merry Christmas" haze
twinking blinking land of Nod (or
rather it's Ned, the hefty trucker);
eyes, steel-belted radials,
in a rig big like Santa Claus;
a Stegosaurus
swinging sabre-toothed tail
& flexing padded paws
to gobble night.
Loads so dreary-weary their chrome-plated
swamps are debris after a tank battle
for troglodyte trilobites &
chocolate coloured ooze
belching brown down funnel flaps
to carve deep bellows inside earth.
Such energetic slaves
to cough & sound their
wheezing sandy blasts make for
breaks in a clearing
for I see our trucker,
eons from now,
wedded to sentiment and rock
perfectly preserved (to the dismay
of future inhabitants), a fossilized
remnant complete with
steering wheel embedded in his chest
(forlorn and anatomically correct much as
dolls used in assault cases).
In a vision,
envisage his life
replete to the last Raggetty-Anne detail
--straw-coloured hair, for one,
looms like binder-twine or
horse-hair thread tugged from a dirty mattress
which props a toque or baseball cap,
tobacco staining the resident
gum chewing Neanderthal
with tartan lumberjack shirt.
Contact with Piltdown Man,
soggy Homo Erectus
given to gunning engines,
churning rubber as cavemen
might in the
La Brera tarpits.
Consider a farmer
brief centuries ago
stumbling onto a similar scene
pocketing no cloverleafs
of his own pasture's making
but concrete expressways
looming thru the fog
& damp, then
coming to his senses,
hard-pressed as I.
[47]
SPANKED
Buying up egg rolls at 50¢ a kick,
they royally entered our bloodstream
--a riot of sensation
akin to dynamite caps
kicked off in the brain.
Later, sitting in the booth
a chocolate brown wall
to aid the digestion;
a frumpy waitress
plunks water down
to complete the feast.
Taken back, the surcharge
at such festivities exorbitant,
we squander in exact change
the full price to do it again.
[49]
they royally entered our bloodstream
--a riot of sensation
akin to dynamite caps
kicked off in the brain.
Later, sitting in the booth
a chocolate brown wall
to aid the digestion;
a frumpy waitress
plunks water down
to complete the feast.
Taken back, the surcharge
at such festivities exorbitant,
we squander in exact change
the full price to do it again.
[49]
THE CROWKEEPER
"she gallops night by night through lovers' brains...."
I see grindstones in the sky,
pots of tulips overturned
--big tug of the reins
and chestnut hair
is seen before the windowpane
with chance & more chance lost to
frost or hungry bees
this still autumn eve.
Darling,
walls that division us
are envelopes of passion
bridging trust, seal it
lest it rust.
Skeletal scrapings
make for poor bedding
(this poor rhinoceros of lies)
the devil gliding about so disguised
on his tentacle and toenail chair
(inviting lair) or is it
hiccup and bandaged prayer
yet stalwart wall is a rosary bead
thick ale and bread to hungry snail
or, better, lips to Romeo's blushing pilgrims.
Then, sudden, I'm old--
on a bench counting stars
where each is a radiant patch of energy
leased to the dark,
an emblem burst mailed from eternity,
spark to cigaret's flame
to burn these little suns
as cupid tails; your "bright eye, scarlet lip,
fine foot, straight leg
and quivering thigh."
[50]
I see grindstones in the sky,
pots of tulips overturned
--big tug of the reins
and chestnut hair
is seen before the windowpane
with chance & more chance lost to
frost or hungry bees
this still autumn eve.
Darling,
walls that division us
are envelopes of passion
bridging trust, seal it
lest it rust.
Skeletal scrapings
make for poor bedding
(this poor rhinoceros of lies)
the devil gliding about so disguised
on his tentacle and toenail chair
(inviting lair) or is it
hiccup and bandaged prayer
yet stalwart wall is a rosary bead
thick ale and bread to hungry snail
or, better, lips to Romeo's blushing pilgrims.
Then, sudden, I'm old--
on a bench counting stars
where each is a radiant patch of energy
leased to the dark,
an emblem burst mailed from eternity,
spark to cigaret's flame
to burn these little suns
as cupid tails; your "bright eye, scarlet lip,
fine foot, straight leg
and quivering thigh."
[50]
CUANDO-CUBANGO
Moths, if they dream dusk,
sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings--
gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,
traverse caravans of colour
amid silk-routes
to dazzle Prester John,
cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.
2
Compte de la Mothe
escadrilles/flotillas
D'Entrecasteaux
with Bougainville discovering
well, Bougainvillaea and I,
latter day la Perouse,
cunningly amuck on coral
adoration and wine,
(red as scarlet leaves)
chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
of the flame-bitten tropics.
3
Let me scandalize why.
Watch the sea churn
to white bubbles then coat
your nostril with brine
to run a finger
down brown skin passing
for the Bronze Age.
4
Notice the invention of sun,
a cloak suspended
in a canopy-canoe profusion
(left over from the first dawn,)
oasis of calm,
patter of motes and beams.
Garden of Shalimar.
5
My sentiments exactly.
[51]
sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings--
gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,
traverse caravans of colour
amid silk-routes
to dazzle Prester John,
cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.
2
Compte de la Mothe
escadrilles/flotillas
D'Entrecasteaux
with Bougainville discovering
well, Bougainvillaea and I,
latter day la Perouse,
cunningly amuck on coral
adoration and wine,
(red as scarlet leaves)
chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
of the flame-bitten tropics.
3
Let me scandalize why.
Watch the sea churn
to white bubbles then coat
your nostril with brine
to run a finger
down brown skin passing
for the Bronze Age.
4
Notice the invention of sun,
a cloak suspended
in a canopy-canoe profusion
(left over from the first dawn,)
oasis of calm,
patter of motes and beams.
Garden of Shalimar.
5
My sentiments exactly.
[51]
ONOMATOPOEIA
One thing about this type of education, it certainly taught an
individual to be philosophical about death.
He could ruminate conversably on the ultimate fate of a Greek
shade or the Mesopotamian interpretation of the underworld.
Even contemplate figuratively what Achilles felt was his true
funeral abode.
Shoel. The grave. Romantic poetry might have little practical
application but it was great conversational stuff.
A book or two by obscure authors sure broke the ice at parties,
was unbeatable verbal jousting.
Too bad the joke was on him for majoring in it.
Few people really cared what onomatopoeia was or that
Presquile was in Maine. Worse, they acted like you were nuts
for studying the Aeneid. The Aeneid! It did, too, have
importance. Literature, that is.
Why it gave a man depth, a presence, a gracefulness that
transcended petty, material strivings. Too bad, one couldn't
show the white palms of one's hand for a living or revel in soft
flesh as the natural mark of a born aristocrat. O tempora, oh
mores: that the classics had fallen so low.
It was maddening that literary civilization was within a hair's
breadth at being snuffed by the ordinary convention of task
bearing.
Being a poet, so basic to everything, didn't even show up on
Manpower's computer scan.
The universities didn't care they were having the times of their
lives parsing verbs and conjugating declensions, telling
graduates "the pendulum will swing".
The best retort for that was the pithy epigram of the working
man toiling in honest sweat within the secure bounds of a trade.
[52]
individual to be philosophical about death.
He could ruminate conversably on the ultimate fate of a Greek
shade or the Mesopotamian interpretation of the underworld.
Even contemplate figuratively what Achilles felt was his true
funeral abode.
Shoel. The grave. Romantic poetry might have little practical
application but it was great conversational stuff.
A book or two by obscure authors sure broke the ice at parties,
was unbeatable verbal jousting.
Too bad the joke was on him for majoring in it.
Few people really cared what onomatopoeia was or that
Presquile was in Maine. Worse, they acted like you were nuts
for studying the Aeneid. The Aeneid! It did, too, have
importance. Literature, that is.
Why it gave a man depth, a presence, a gracefulness that
transcended petty, material strivings. Too bad, one couldn't
show the white palms of one's hand for a living or revel in soft
flesh as the natural mark of a born aristocrat. O tempora, oh
mores: that the classics had fallen so low.
It was maddening that literary civilization was within a hair's
breadth at being snuffed by the ordinary convention of task
bearing.
Being a poet, so basic to everything, didn't even show up on
Manpower's computer scan.
The universities didn't care they were having the times of their
lives parsing verbs and conjugating declensions, telling
graduates "the pendulum will swing".
The best retort for that was the pithy epigram of the working
man toiling in honest sweat within the secure bounds of a trade.
[52]
AT THE RED THROAT
In youth, Death was
a puny boy possessing but
wormy hands & fleshless fingers
as in Witch Hazel
or Scrooge's Future Ghost
--that insipid Evil One
Hansel so easily outwitted
in a gingerbread house.
Time brought increased notoriety.
Saucy times with a soupçon of respect
for the artful dodger.
Givens change, an armful of
orange lilies, limp & loathsome,
on a tombstone door
before trumpets of rain.
Graven images. Lifeless stone.
Death became stone.
Stone empty. The maggot emptiness
burrowing into chiselled easel and
the stone-cutter's savage magic.
Just a bitty stone
to herald a passing.
Night-jars.
Old straw-chairs with
a broom pronouncing
the wall base with its touch empty,
the empress of bandages
leaning to rags
on table scraps,
sorry gloom of an old building
by a pickled lake
leaking into ebb twilight.
The coronation of the nightmare,
the moon with her billowing robes and withered spoon
unfolding midstream ...
la cauchemar ou
dénudée soirée
to discover, with wonder, ices with sherbet
reek like nightsweats;
a windsail of pooled light
thru puddles of trees.
Brackish backwater--
thoughts of black ice
and huddled masses of silver
breaking thru the sun's
winter curtain as erupting coins.
[53]
a puny boy possessing but
wormy hands & fleshless fingers
as in Witch Hazel
or Scrooge's Future Ghost
--that insipid Evil One
Hansel so easily outwitted
in a gingerbread house.
Time brought increased notoriety.
Saucy times with a soupçon of respect
for the artful dodger.
Givens change, an armful of
orange lilies, limp & loathsome,
on a tombstone door
before trumpets of rain.
Graven images. Lifeless stone.
Death became stone.
Stone empty. The maggot emptiness
burrowing into chiselled easel and
the stone-cutter's savage magic.
Just a bitty stone
to herald a passing.
Night-jars.
Old straw-chairs with
a broom pronouncing
the wall base with its touch empty,
the empress of bandages
leaning to rags
on table scraps,
sorry gloom of an old building
by a pickled lake
leaking into ebb twilight.
The coronation of the nightmare,
the moon with her billowing robes and withered spoon
unfolding midstream ...
la cauchemar ou
dénudée soirée
to discover, with wonder, ices with sherbet
reek like nightsweats;
a windsail of pooled light
thru puddles of trees.
Brackish backwater--
thoughts of black ice
and huddled masses of silver
breaking thru the sun's
winter curtain as erupting coins.
[53]
SHAMROCK
Is there anything prettier than that--
to stare into your manifold spaces
toward the hook & vine
of cathedral leaps,
the vaults & crypts
as go-betweens of an earthy worship,
the supine female form?
By quiet pools,
thrush in the thicket
with red berry behind its eye,
miniature sun
proceeding by the branch
to undress the bark
with leaves as
passionate culprits
kissing dark.
Clasped hands
upward lies the sky
my masterpiece angel,
I bite lush meadows,
tread spongy brooks,
endear daring small of back,
crevice taste nape and neck,
a beatific pilgrim nearing
a fleshy way-station,
first charting his compass,
fathoming a probe
to collect armfuls of starlight &
shade, hair, eye, lip like fragrant sea-grape
--pine & cedar bough in love-lorn resin smile.
[55]
to stare into your manifold spaces
toward the hook & vine
of cathedral leaps,
the vaults & crypts
as go-betweens of an earthy worship,
the supine female form?
By quiet pools,
thrush in the thicket
with red berry behind its eye,
miniature sun
proceeding by the branch
to undress the bark
with leaves as
passionate culprits
kissing dark.
Clasped hands
upward lies the sky
my masterpiece angel,
I bite lush meadows,
tread spongy brooks,
endear daring small of back,
crevice taste nape and neck,
a beatific pilgrim nearing
a fleshy way-station,
first charting his compass,
fathoming a probe
to collect armfuls of starlight &
shade, hair, eye, lip like fragrant sea-grape
--pine & cedar bough in love-lorn resin smile.
[55]
LOST PATROL
Blue walls were grottoes,
subterranean panels
for covert messages, the
occasional mot juste
squirrelled up thru paint & memory.
Something like guitar strings dangling
only you employed
tear sheets from Rolling Stone
(counter-culture fly paper
to catch the runny masses).
The blue walls existed as
firing ranges, gunpowder
plots for ideas scribbled
on pencil waves
like the movement
of snakes (or commandoes
on their bellies) thru
desert sand.
Blue walls. Blue grottoes.
Blue moods to temper finger oases
(tap-tap of skeletal tree on your window pane)
crawling thick with pregnant fruition
with the bayonet lull of words.
Snippets of that legacy (hobnailed like a
lost patrol)
forlorn as yellowing pages
or dusky petals unfolding.
[56]
subterranean panels
for covert messages, the
occasional mot juste
squirrelled up thru paint & memory.
Something like guitar strings dangling
only you employed
tear sheets from Rolling Stone
(counter-culture fly paper
to catch the runny masses).
The blue walls existed as
firing ranges, gunpowder
plots for ideas scribbled
on pencil waves
like the movement
of snakes (or commandoes
on their bellies) thru
desert sand.
Blue walls. Blue grottoes.
Blue moods to temper finger oases
(tap-tap of skeletal tree on your window pane)
crawling thick with pregnant fruition
with the bayonet lull of words.
Snippets of that legacy (hobnailed like a
lost patrol)
forlorn as yellowing pages
or dusky petals unfolding.
[56]
BLACKAMOOR
Breaking up--
as in the cloissoné jar you dropped. . .
little regard,
a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.
Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?
There's always another humidor tucked away in
the cranny of another antique shop; after all,
a woman is only a woman
although a fine, Cuban import
is a worthy smoke.
"What this country needs is a good 5¢ cigar".
Panatellas?
He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.
Nooks & crannies.
Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)
as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.
No season of regrets, rather
snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.
Who knows?
The sun nudging petals
at the close of another day.
Your eyelids casting shrouds (and shadows),
the long funeral walk of your hair across the pillow.
Then awakening. You gathering tresses much as a bird trilling
feathers.
Clandestine, these
rendez-vous' Clementines.
Air of mystery and melancholy street,
the moon up & poking
holes in my argument.
Tedious fingers,
no account
matter of factness
lasting eternities.
Imagine, you & this moon,
dowagers together crotchety,
decades hence, making tea.
Curls of black leaves, grumbling.
Blackamoor and sadness,
cult king of empty
transforming the bright & ruddy
complexion into barely honourable dishwater.
You can ask what this means.
A cough. Twirl of spoon
in a cup, deafening answers.
I prefer the lonely
wine bottle,
egret in flight & motion,
retaining dignity across
a crumpled, brown bag.
Listless, linoleum floor.
[57]
as in the cloissoné jar you dropped. . .
little regard,
a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.
Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?
There's always another humidor tucked away in
the cranny of another antique shop; after all,
a woman is only a woman
although a fine, Cuban import
is a worthy smoke.
"What this country needs is a good 5¢ cigar".
Panatellas?
He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.
Nooks & crannies.
Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)
as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.
No season of regrets, rather
snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.
Who knows?
The sun nudging petals
at the close of another day.
Your eyelids casting shrouds (and shadows),
the long funeral walk of your hair across the pillow.
Then awakening. You gathering tresses much as a bird trilling
feathers.
Clandestine, these
rendez-vous' Clementines.
Air of mystery and melancholy street,
the moon up & poking
holes in my argument.
Tedious fingers,
no account
matter of factness
lasting eternities.
Imagine, you & this moon,
dowagers together crotchety,
decades hence, making tea.
Curls of black leaves, grumbling.
Blackamoor and sadness,
cult king of empty
transforming the bright & ruddy
complexion into barely honourable dishwater.
You can ask what this means.
A cough. Twirl of spoon
in a cup, deafening answers.
I prefer the lonely
wine bottle,
egret in flight & motion,
retaining dignity across
a crumpled, brown bag.
Listless, linoleum floor.
[57]
UP FROM THE FLOOR
They sit in silence. In camera, around the table. Terrifyingly
stern, stares that grew antlers in my eyes.
It was as if thunder or bolts with electricity were being decreed.
The self-important, the pompous, well-fed and self-assured.
Here to hazard a fling of the dice--to decide whether another
should eat.
Employment. The interview. One with yellow tusks protruding
to his coffee cup. Eyes, some primordial forest cut for a
firebreak back of his soul. And I think of the desperate, those
lacking bus-fare to get to such a carnival. Valuable postage
money, photocopying, scrimped dollars for a suit to entertain
the pumpkins dicing for a worthless garment. A scavenger run,
piles of white applications heaped as bones in a graveyard made
careless after a violent storm.
Or elephants in tow, trunks wrapped around the other waiting
for the ringmaster to signal the question important; whether
a neophyte new at sharpening his teeth at a daily wage should be
allowed presence onto such a hallowed ground.
And I think such things are the very matter of evil--that these
are vile intemperates with their accursed shortlists deigning to
be gracious, shaking hands after the fact. Mafioso manners, the
sickly grins back of the shovels used to bury another.
[59]
stern, stares that grew antlers in my eyes.
It was as if thunder or bolts with electricity were being decreed.
The self-important, the pompous, well-fed and self-assured.
Here to hazard a fling of the dice--to decide whether another
should eat.
Employment. The interview. One with yellow tusks protruding
to his coffee cup. Eyes, some primordial forest cut for a
firebreak back of his soul. And I think of the desperate, those
lacking bus-fare to get to such a carnival. Valuable postage
money, photocopying, scrimped dollars for a suit to entertain
the pumpkins dicing for a worthless garment. A scavenger run,
piles of white applications heaped as bones in a graveyard made
careless after a violent storm.
Or elephants in tow, trunks wrapped around the other waiting
for the ringmaster to signal the question important; whether
a neophyte new at sharpening his teeth at a daily wage should be
allowed presence onto such a hallowed ground.
And I think such things are the very matter of evil--that these
are vile intemperates with their accursed shortlists deigning to
be gracious, shaking hands after the fact. Mafioso manners, the
sickly grins back of the shovels used to bury another.
[59]
MEN OF SHADE
All the candles are passing out, one by one.
They have evaporated their brightness,
overpowered limpid cracks in their own flames, seized
the outpouring air with hesitant breath to brave
a flicker of new hearth while knocking holes against
the warm men decorating fireside shade.
[60]
They have evaporated their brightness,
overpowered limpid cracks in their own flames, seized
the outpouring air with hesitant breath to brave
a flicker of new hearth while knocking holes against
the warm men decorating fireside shade.
[60]
KNIGHT-ERRANT
A well-thumbed book
like a well-thumbed life,
"whilst you walk this earth"
yet nothing is "afoot",
as so many small boys
throwing stones through the funeral parlour
glass door.
A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting
across the face of the multitude is terrible
algebra running into unfathomable sums.
"Doing your sums", my grade school teacher
used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,
learning lessons in a strange stamina
sort of way.
One of the multitude died last night &
is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.
Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek
at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his
last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious
even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour
to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the
month to go packing. Finale.
"Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping
prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses
into the apparent.
One sees a lot by the moon.
Crisp, fall air and
leaves yellowing
frightened from their wits
to end their brief, balloon walk. Such
faraway faces of Eve and a boat
moored to a dock.
Crossing streets --
a gray, fusillade church,
knight-errant, breaks the night.
Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.
Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the
stained glass window I see her. She seems
to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through
at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?
Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating
are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy;
shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting
what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.
Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their
reward".
More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies
and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's
cork.
This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist
collecting,
watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a
glade.
The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that
makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black
funeral vestments for me.
Standing close to the clock and thinking.
A luxury bought with time,
in every evening weeping in the corner.
[61]
like a well-thumbed life,
"whilst you walk this earth"
yet nothing is "afoot",
as so many small boys
throwing stones through the funeral parlour
glass door.
A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting
across the face of the multitude is terrible
algebra running into unfathomable sums.
"Doing your sums", my grade school teacher
used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,
learning lessons in a strange stamina
sort of way.
One of the multitude died last night &
is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.
Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek
at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his
last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious
even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour
to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the
month to go packing. Finale.
"Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping
prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses
into the apparent.
One sees a lot by the moon.
Crisp, fall air and
leaves yellowing
frightened from their wits
to end their brief, balloon walk. Such
faraway faces of Eve and a boat
moored to a dock.
Crossing streets --
a gray, fusillade church,
knight-errant, breaks the night.
Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.
Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the
stained glass window I see her. She seems
to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through
at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?
Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating
are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy;
shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting
what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.
Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their
reward".
More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies
and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's
cork.
This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist
collecting,
watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a
glade.
The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that
makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black
funeral vestments for me.
Standing close to the clock and thinking.
A luxury bought with time,
in every evening weeping in the corner.
[61]
WATER FAST (THE PEARL FISHERS)
Shopping in their heads
--a man a pair of shoes
right colour (tan, off-white) shape--
only good physiques need apply,
degree, tall;
self-confidence a "must".
Not yuppie, really,
more consumerism as in
I made the grade (she really
thinks this; meanwhile, she's
plump, dull).
Standing in the showroom window,
she spies the mirror image of herself.
Your attitude is your altitude.
Of course, he's "polished"
(tho' not worn), urbane
witty--this goes without saying.
Well-travelled, maybe, though potential
liability, here, suggestive of footloose.
Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts
of hedonism--a dangerous portent.
Feel I've stumbled back in time,
holding court with Cesare Borgia,
Lorenzo the Magnificent significantly
transformed to a Renaissance courtier.
Harpsichord and madrigal in hand (& head,),
I recite my litany.
I pack a mean wallop--
humour, I mean,
for no one on this spic 'n span
planet wants somebody too droll.
Intensity is a ripple from the sixties.
"Relationship", kickback to the after-glow
on-glow seventies.
Eighties women love "feedback",
"interfacing". Its fashionable to
think chic. Restless troubadours
should be dyed in their own ilk.
Sporty chaps are in demand, ones
with visceral longing for babies &
the peroxide smell of Javex in
diaper pails wafting thru their nostrils.
Heady brew, Perrier & BMW types.
Chrome-plated men with the
razzle-dazzle of the Boardroom
tugging at their cufflinks.
Mutual funds equates with mutual interests.
The man's wishes?
A dollop of Dijon mustard on you!
Hitting the nail on the head.
Holding up her middle finger
to dry nail polish, I see
my future and, golly,
does it ever shine.
[63]
--a man a pair of shoes
right colour (tan, off-white) shape--
only good physiques need apply,
degree, tall;
self-confidence a "must".
Not yuppie, really,
more consumerism as in
I made the grade (she really
thinks this; meanwhile, she's
plump, dull).
Standing in the showroom window,
she spies the mirror image of herself.
Your attitude is your altitude.
Of course, he's "polished"
(tho' not worn), urbane
witty--this goes without saying.
Well-travelled, maybe, though potential
liability, here, suggestive of footloose.
Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts
of hedonism--a dangerous portent.
Feel I've stumbled back in time,
holding court with Cesare Borgia,
Lorenzo the Magnificent significantly
transformed to a Renaissance courtier.
Harpsichord and madrigal in hand (& head,),
I recite my litany.
I pack a mean wallop--
humour, I mean,
for no one on this spic 'n span
planet wants somebody too droll.
Intensity is a ripple from the sixties.
"Relationship", kickback to the after-glow
on-glow seventies.
Eighties women love "feedback",
"interfacing". Its fashionable to
think chic. Restless troubadours
should be dyed in their own ilk.
Sporty chaps are in demand, ones
with visceral longing for babies &
the peroxide smell of Javex in
diaper pails wafting thru their nostrils.
Heady brew, Perrier & BMW types.
Chrome-plated men with the
razzle-dazzle of the Boardroom
tugging at their cufflinks.
Mutual funds equates with mutual interests.
The man's wishes?
A dollop of Dijon mustard on you!
Hitting the nail on the head.
Holding up her middle finger
to dry nail polish, I see
my future and, golly,
does it ever shine.
[63]
TALES OF A BRAVE ULYSSES
Artists (astrologers never lie)
are birthed when
Venus is rising--
not against cat's whelp
(eye of newt, tongue of frog)
calamitous mist or London fog;
far, ferny forbidding fenn.
When Venus rises, yes
dons Botticelli's cloak
or was it her hair
gathered in tresses
long by lovely handfuls
parading it all
on a patty shell
--her twin oysters ambrosia
a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea,
purpling color of a robin's egg.
Artists are born
in something of Venus . . .
conceived along coral-corral
highway lariats, foam
of passion
modern cowgirl
lowering the drapes.
[65]
are birthed when
Venus is rising--
not against cat's whelp
(eye of newt, tongue of frog)
calamitous mist or London fog;
far, ferny forbidding fenn.
When Venus rises, yes
dons Botticelli's cloak
or was it her hair
gathered in tresses
long by lovely handfuls
parading it all
on a patty shell
--her twin oysters ambrosia
a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea,
purpling color of a robin's egg.
Artists are born
in something of Venus . . .
conceived along coral-corral
highway lariats, foam
of passion
modern cowgirl
lowering the drapes.
[65]
INSIDE SEAM
Having wilderness cracks
in emotional facades
chinks within
to let cabins in.
2
Porous wind
examining pavement,
foot-sore maybe loose
winding entrails
of our hearts
into lavatory paper;
would that it pleased
riddled trees
--more whistling,
poked holes
across oasis tracks
wandering spaces.
3
Blistering thought,
paint flecks
chipped in the mica-afraid
heat of wan-ton passion;
(acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine)
a wan smile
left from which
I pretend to remember all.
4
Love-smitten
to lend
the reach of your arm--
sighs,
droop to
hips heaving
a droll verandah
(like curtain's edge
across the exhausted wall).
5
Besmirched stain,
The lavender hoop
of your belt is a winding lizard's skin
or perspiring rope
to anchor the filmy edge
of letters written,
not sent.
The breeze,
quiet wind--
a chipmunk
with woodchips
poked into a grin.
[66]
in emotional facades
chinks within
to let cabins in.
2
Porous wind
examining pavement,
foot-sore maybe loose
winding entrails
of our hearts
into lavatory paper;
would that it pleased
riddled trees
--more whistling,
poked holes
across oasis tracks
wandering spaces.
3
Blistering thought,
paint flecks
chipped in the mica-afraid
heat of wan-ton passion;
(acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine)
a wan smile
left from which
I pretend to remember all.
4
Love-smitten
to lend
the reach of your arm--
sighs,
droop to
hips heaving
a droll verandah
(like curtain's edge
across the exhausted wall).
5
Besmirched stain,
The lavender hoop
of your belt is a winding lizard's skin
or perspiring rope
to anchor the filmy edge
of letters written,
not sent.
The breeze,
quiet wind--
a chipmunk
with woodchips
poked into a grin.
[66]
DEBRIEFING
I won't envy the heat this August.
The fall (English say autumn)
burrowing like urinating dogs
thru trees,
carrying winter woolies
with sniff of air
crisscrossing the lion's tamer's
path I must trod
when snow hits.
2
No, I won't envy searing blasts
be they inclement
weather or lost souls
bargaining with rain.
Acceptance . . . they say
is the key
and the word clangs like chimes
into my biology, a grandfather clock
to my own chamber music, a
little something to cheer and
serenade the buffeted spirit.
3
Think still thoughts in gloomy houses
when petals cry burst in springtime.
This is done in preparation
for brighter moments
ecstatically greeting
November chill,
devouring the last chestnut,
cursing wheat-cakes over
winter's fire.
4
A pleasant page
crammed in the tumbler briefcase
carrying my life's thimble,
rocketing toward
a brilliant destiny
all 4 seasonal planets
orchestrating mood;
the patch quilt procupine
quill emotion tapestry
working overtime like
a fish hook thru
brain's inner eye, ocular
hair shirt pulled on
at warning's glance
to trigger the way I boil eggs;
devour slivers of wood
on learning another day
kicks ass from
the horizontal pillow.
[68]
The fall (English say autumn)
burrowing like urinating dogs
thru trees,
carrying winter woolies
with sniff of air
crisscrossing the lion's tamer's
path I must trod
when snow hits.
2
No, I won't envy searing blasts
be they inclement
weather or lost souls
bargaining with rain.
Acceptance . . . they say
is the key
and the word clangs like chimes
into my biology, a grandfather clock
to my own chamber music, a
little something to cheer and
serenade the buffeted spirit.
3
Think still thoughts in gloomy houses
when petals cry burst in springtime.
This is done in preparation
for brighter moments
ecstatically greeting
November chill,
devouring the last chestnut,
cursing wheat-cakes over
winter's fire.
4
A pleasant page
crammed in the tumbler briefcase
carrying my life's thimble,
rocketing toward
a brilliant destiny
all 4 seasonal planets
orchestrating mood;
the patch quilt procupine
quill emotion tapestry
working overtime like
a fish hook thru
brain's inner eye, ocular
hair shirt pulled on
at warning's glance
to trigger the way I boil eggs;
devour slivers of wood
on learning another day
kicks ass from
the horizontal pillow.
[68]
NAIAD TRANCE
The leaves on their trumpet flames
Richter scale inside pulse stems--
into the gorge, la gorge
throat and crevice
of the canyon arroyo.
Walking the slit
into rheumatism earth
the twilight pain
of Paleozoic ice,
Jurassic Age
whence rupture
sculpted rock
River precipice
the afternoon dangling like shadow
beside taiga sun
lost to dark & rain
toward the water now,
ever, and chemical rushing sound.
Chameleon, I would swear
this journey was that,
worse, sorceress on my emotions;
I left pathways contoured with Merlin rock
& trees like Babbitt refugees
from the Nahanni,
fearful Dogrib aboriginals
swarming my imagination
their scalp-locks loaded for bear.
Arabesque boulder,
lavender curls of winter-wind swept moss and
berets of tiny, dead soldiers. The
moisture between
you and clearing.
Hushed forest
an envelope edge
of moisture patterns,
more leaves
in reindeer formation
asserting themselves
in beckoning sleighs and
trance of veined, elfin hand
skirting cracks & fissure gloom.
[70]
Richter scale inside pulse stems--
into the gorge, la gorge
throat and crevice
of the canyon arroyo.
Walking the slit
into rheumatism earth
the twilight pain
of Paleozoic ice,
Jurassic Age
whence rupture
sculpted rock
River precipice
the afternoon dangling like shadow
beside taiga sun
lost to dark & rain
toward the water now,
ever, and chemical rushing sound.
Chameleon, I would swear
this journey was that,
worse, sorceress on my emotions;
I left pathways contoured with Merlin rock
& trees like Babbitt refugees
from the Nahanni,
fearful Dogrib aboriginals
swarming my imagination
their scalp-locks loaded for bear.
Arabesque boulder,
lavender curls of winter-wind swept moss and
berets of tiny, dead soldiers. The
moisture between
you and clearing.
Hushed forest
an envelope edge
of moisture patterns,
more leaves
in reindeer formation
asserting themselves
in beckoning sleighs and
trance of veined, elfin hand
skirting cracks & fissure gloom.
[70]
PYROMANIA
She had a fireplace--
the sexual kiln
of her pyromaniac
desire,
a brick embedded in heat,
white hot coal to ember,
her lust flaring red,
soot to powder
dark as charcoal
smear, a walk
across shimmering mirror.
[72]
the sexual kiln
of her pyromaniac
desire,
a brick embedded in heat,
white hot coal to ember,
her lust flaring red,
soot to powder
dark as charcoal
smear, a walk
across shimmering mirror.
[72]
TIDE CHARTS
To create dream--
the pearl thru wine effect,
oil and vinegar viscidity
of giant salad leaves
basking on the
broken picnic table
like so many lemurs
taken to a
Malagasy forest.
Liverwurst on rye,
cuff-links drag
the hard, mica table;
so, why be afraid
'cause spume from waves
glows upward
in so many trails of
grey-laden smoke?
This island looks like a loaf,
a dot or mole on inviting cheeks,
to me; so wary, invariably, of land
(and perhaps the Sand Man)
amongst all those wandering eyes,
especially the sea-scape,
curl of snake
illuminated
in a sudden, tropic shower.
See the sudden bandanna of rock
squeezed so tight by
shore's edge that a
grim hammer of stones
intones a warning?
Its back from the wars
to dive, there, among
threads of water
where needle eyes of little
fish ("young fry of treachery")
are so scalpel-like
dunes and eddies
of living colour
shake you.
To slake a thirst.
For adventure.
For precision.
Try a lavender roll of water
curved in bite recess
much as a conch's outer shell
dons triple-ripple effect.
Up the stakes. Skillets off the
meandering edge are pounding
undertows and riptides resemble
porters in foreign airports
who simply smile. . .
Purple dye
on white toga,
water retches up
on land.
A necklace, this activity, in warm shallows.
Consciousness raising--reef life coming
into contact with the bumper edge to freedom.
Heavenly bodies
parry light from the moon,
wrath from a deeper bellows
cough up one hand
raised in silver mourning.
[73]
the pearl thru wine effect,
oil and vinegar viscidity
of giant salad leaves
basking on the
broken picnic table
like so many lemurs
taken to a
Malagasy forest.
Liverwurst on rye,
cuff-links drag
the hard, mica table;
so, why be afraid
'cause spume from waves
glows upward
in so many trails of
grey-laden smoke?
This island looks like a loaf,
a dot or mole on inviting cheeks,
to me; so wary, invariably, of land
(and perhaps the Sand Man)
amongst all those wandering eyes,
especially the sea-scape,
curl of snake
illuminated
in a sudden, tropic shower.
See the sudden bandanna of rock
squeezed so tight by
shore's edge that a
grim hammer of stones
intones a warning?
Its back from the wars
to dive, there, among
threads of water
where needle eyes of little
fish ("young fry of treachery")
are so scalpel-like
dunes and eddies
of living colour
shake you.
To slake a thirst.
For adventure.
For precision.
Try a lavender roll of water
curved in bite recess
much as a conch's outer shell
dons triple-ripple effect.
Up the stakes. Skillets off the
meandering edge are pounding
undertows and riptides resemble
porters in foreign airports
who simply smile. . .
Purple dye
on white toga,
water retches up
on land.
A necklace, this activity, in warm shallows.
Consciousness raising--reef life coming
into contact with the bumper edge to freedom.
Heavenly bodies
parry light from the moon,
wrath from a deeper bellows
cough up one hand
raised in silver mourning.
[73]
VILLAGE IDIOT
Dodder capitulates on his bum,
skulks under fence posts
a twitch of Timothy weed prying
apart his massive lips.
A strip of lavatory paper
his golden rule; the
merrie lad bakes ready made
surprises to the jowled response
of his parting brains.
The mastication of shoe laces
on tired leather jerkins akin
to grinding Michelin rubber--his
reedy voice in overbite haste
rounding corners like a club-footed
dog travelling edgewise
from his master's sight.
[75]
skulks under fence posts
a twitch of Timothy weed prying
apart his massive lips.
A strip of lavatory paper
his golden rule; the
merrie lad bakes ready made
surprises to the jowled response
of his parting brains.
The mastication of shoe laces
on tired leather jerkins akin
to grinding Michelin rubber--his
reedy voice in overbite haste
rounding corners like a club-footed
dog travelling edgewise
from his master's sight.
[75]
CLIPPERSHIP
Pausing to see
light thru chinks
the corner door
battered barn floor
musty webs and pebbled face
expect shadows from
flecked dust, yet
damsel flies
with doily edge
blanket the air
a throaty radiance
in angel hair
and stepping stones to
nearest crevice
and laddering place.
[76]
light thru chinks
the corner door
battered barn floor
musty webs and pebbled face
expect shadows from
flecked dust, yet
damsel flies
with doily edge
blanket the air
a throaty radiance
in angel hair
and stepping stones to
nearest crevice
and laddering place.
[76]
FLOOD
White ermine/white semen,
green eyes jade from the night.
Eternity falls in sparrow,
an inch-worm down
a pear-coloured leg,
within this droplet
lies coiled raptures
of a snake,
anointed coils
musky as in woolen handshake
where tributaries turn into socks
wrapped to the vertebrae clasp
of a teenager's leg.
My fingers are
frying skillets
slow-boiling water, with precision,
your rivers & chasms,
a vagina white knuckle rafting
across your enchantment.
[77]
green eyes jade from the night.
Eternity falls in sparrow,
an inch-worm down
a pear-coloured leg,
within this droplet
lies coiled raptures
of a snake,
anointed coils
musky as in woolen handshake
where tributaries turn into socks
wrapped to the vertebrae clasp
of a teenager's leg.
My fingers are
frying skillets
slow-boiling water, with precision,
your rivers & chasms,
a vagina white knuckle rafting
across your enchantment.
[77]
KIPPER, TEA AND ORANGES
Our lives evaporating as we talk,
flypaper from cosmic ceiling--
We gather stardust,
mnemonics, perhaps,
re-arrangers of mystic twigs
into a pattern.
Look to the sky,
les nuages, l'ombre
les arbres alla primavera
"magnificio", said I
with real relish &
snap of ring-encrusted fingers,
distant God, not quite Himself,
behind a podium exiting the band shell.
[78]
flypaper from cosmic ceiling--
We gather stardust,
mnemonics, perhaps,
re-arrangers of mystic twigs
into a pattern.
Look to the sky,
les nuages, l'ombre
les arbres alla primavera
"magnificio", said I
with real relish &
snap of ring-encrusted fingers,
distant God, not quite Himself,
behind a podium exiting the band shell.
[78]
TANK-TOP
I was playing sonatas on your skin--
no beauty & the beast scenario
though the Tower pulchritude was intact
with enough purple agape grape leaves
and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve
with wind wet at the windows
(and later the willows),
where gravelly, cloven hooves became party
to my thoughts; for you,
blessed with a triangular patch,
--and something like strawberry--
lay moist & woven into strict tapestry
like a mantle covering
abrupt oasis of skin
(the better to peer in).
I scaled the heights
not castle vaults, mind you,
but the elevator shaft and draw-bridge equivalent
of a white charger--
fierce visor in place
--armour gleaming--
a sabre rattling at my side
be-jewelled & twinkling
the key clinking
there, to corner distance
(time & space)
dragons to be dirked and slain.
Fiery eye, forked tails
donut-sized scales
plastered as a calendar
or shingler might a tiled roof
--the empty spell
Bellerophon spying his Lady in a belfry
on driving home.
[79]
no beauty & the beast scenario
though the Tower pulchritude was intact
with enough purple agape grape leaves
and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve
with wind wet at the windows
(and later the willows),
where gravelly, cloven hooves became party
to my thoughts; for you,
blessed with a triangular patch,
--and something like strawberry--
lay moist & woven into strict tapestry
like a mantle covering
abrupt oasis of skin
(the better to peer in).
I scaled the heights
not castle vaults, mind you,
but the elevator shaft and draw-bridge equivalent
of a white charger--
fierce visor in place
--armour gleaming--
a sabre rattling at my side
be-jewelled & twinkling
the key clinking
there, to corner distance
(time & space)
dragons to be dirked and slain.
Fiery eye, forked tails
donut-sized scales
plastered as a calendar
or shingler might a tiled roof
--the empty spell
Bellerophon spying his Lady in a belfry
on driving home.
[79]
VIEWER MAIL
The sky was
a ringed net of honeyed light,
(colours from peeled apples)
funnelling cloud ...
tumbler over dice
(the carrot throat
lemonade pie)
twin coins in a fountain
brief lantern spark amid
twittering noise.
The trees were awaiting giants
gathered to fumble about the river
noiseless bridge
and, I, skyscraper man
dangling a reflection,
(afternoon tea)
muddy me
Jimbob expression
water angling for dirt.
[80]
a ringed net of honeyed light,
(colours from peeled apples)
funnelling cloud ...
tumbler over dice
(the carrot throat
lemonade pie)
twin coins in a fountain
brief lantern spark amid
twittering noise.
The trees were awaiting giants
gathered to fumble about the river
noiseless bridge
and, I, skyscraper man
dangling a reflection,
(afternoon tea)
muddy me
Jimbob expression
water angling for dirt.
[80]
IMAGISTIC
There in the cosmos--
white dwarfs launch a black rooftop
imagistic, clean as a pantry,
the twilight roads with ledges lean
like raw openings.
And coming upon stars
in a country woodhouse
--cold, big as frozen pears,
each breath of light visible
thru chinks & clusters
of broken ceiling wood;
hands raw & nipped sawing logs--
breath menacing the depths
on inner space, something pale
and profoundly suggestive.
[82]
white dwarfs launch a black rooftop
imagistic, clean as a pantry,
the twilight roads with ledges lean
like raw openings.
And coming upon stars
in a country woodhouse
--cold, big as frozen pears,
each breath of light visible
thru chinks & clusters
of broken ceiling wood;
hands raw & nipped sawing logs--
breath menacing the depths
on inner space, something pale
and profoundly suggestive.
[82]
LIVING ROOM
If anatomy were a contact sport,
the stomach would be a football
éstomac, hammock
sagging . . . .
the container of riotous living
pried loose.
And the head--
a barrel of nails,
binder-twine
unravelled into knots;
the brain a cauliflower
for flavouring,
precious little else.
Spare the heart
its dagger pleasure
inveighed from the start.
[83]
the stomach would be a football
éstomac, hammock
sagging . . . .
the container of riotous living
pried loose.
And the head--
a barrel of nails,
binder-twine
unravelled into knots;
the brain a cauliflower
for flavouring,
precious little else.
Spare the heart
its dagger pleasure
inveighed from the start.
[83]
HIGH ROLLER
1
Terrorism--
left-wing nerd (twin
grapefruits in his hand
gives it away)
winging a stiletto shoe,
spitting on an ashcan
to bring up a bruise or two.
2
Visions are steadier--
I see in the shimmer
blue veins to target,
a silhouette of the rich,
fur wraps in their Bentleys
time to bring up tar,
kick ass in Knightsbridge
with my holiday bomb blast.
3
Bag snatching can be dangerous
let go if you don't want to be
dragged over cobbles behind a Vespa.
4
The Harrod's sign, "please keep
moving" meant business.
5
Pretoria calls as does Manila.
Later, perhaps, Jerusalem, Beirut,
Rawalpindi.
6
Closer to home (I am of the Red Army
faction) is the Bologna train station.
7
Counting hours down
my button line,
three less then
pay-off, squeakily clean.
8
London seems indifferent
to my destiny; even the
tube buskers and streeties
see not a harbinger
but another shuffling
cold-assed long hair.
9
The wired whisky bottle
in the airport locker
will make La Guardia look to
the Statue of Liberty for deliverance,
10
I'll send the Hotel Crillon
so far up the Eiffel
they'll have to sandblast
the sky.
11
My mentors
spic 'n span boys
no wild-eyed radicals
with socks that won't stay up,
rather gumless wizards
taking Confederate rain,
mainlining a little
to keep the nerves steady,
orders direct from Moscow
with money laundered a bit,
beats haphazard work and
petty contracts on local businessmen.
12
Cells (I like the word)
master-mind
co-ordinate and synchronize
revolutionary inter-cooperation.
A swine in Munich
is the same swine
without his leather jerkins
in Santiago.
13
Brains coming apart
on soles of shoes
a pantheon of causes to choose,
let's see, neo-revisionism
counter-revolutionary
criss-crosses with
degenerate bourgeoise
capitalist turncoat,
(both must die)
the urgency lies in
which commands my
holier dross.
14
Brothers in the struggle
need empathetic eyes
to square off
the titanic quarrel.
15
Cleanse the body politic,
reads one directive.
Rub not ointment but horse radish
over decomposed, societal skin,
a brisk cleansing with your strigal
but one revolutionary application.
16
"De-stabilize", the latest buzz word
flies to the manure heap
just kick in the door--
those planter's peanuts
know the score.
17
"Property is theft"
I'm lisping in the burning sun,
Ethiopia done
Tigré and Eritrea
key components
on the Horn's chessboard,
mere human paste
re-patched, re-worn.
18
Ditto, "take-out", liquidate.
Run a new poker thru the rubble. A good
anarchist's cathedral accomplishment
is the chicken coop's destruction.
19
Make the rich pay.
Squeeze the goose to the pips.
All power to the people;
a gun run
is a good itch,
works up a powerful thirst
for Justice;
good mercy disguised
brother Lenin
as a simple dock worker,
the plague-bacillus quickens.
20
Orange filaments of smoke
are better than the factory whistle,
a good arsonist recruits
his own flames,
fans his own fire.
The crackle of desire
over hearth stones
is reward enough in itself.
[84]
Terrorism--
left-wing nerd (twin
grapefruits in his hand
gives it away)
winging a stiletto shoe,
spitting on an ashcan
to bring up a bruise or two.
2
Visions are steadier--
I see in the shimmer
blue veins to target,
a silhouette of the rich,
fur wraps in their Bentleys
time to bring up tar,
kick ass in Knightsbridge
with my holiday bomb blast.
3
Bag snatching can be dangerous
let go if you don't want to be
dragged over cobbles behind a Vespa.
4
The Harrod's sign, "please keep
moving" meant business.
5
Pretoria calls as does Manila.
Later, perhaps, Jerusalem, Beirut,
Rawalpindi.
6
Closer to home (I am of the Red Army
faction) is the Bologna train station.
7
Counting hours down
my button line,
three less then
pay-off, squeakily clean.
8
London seems indifferent
to my destiny; even the
tube buskers and streeties
see not a harbinger
but another shuffling
cold-assed long hair.
9
The wired whisky bottle
in the airport locker
will make La Guardia look to
the Statue of Liberty for deliverance,
10
I'll send the Hotel Crillon
so far up the Eiffel
they'll have to sandblast
the sky.
11
My mentors
spic 'n span boys
no wild-eyed radicals
with socks that won't stay up,
rather gumless wizards
taking Confederate rain,
mainlining a little
to keep the nerves steady,
orders direct from Moscow
with money laundered a bit,
beats haphazard work and
petty contracts on local businessmen.
12
Cells (I like the word)
master-mind
co-ordinate and synchronize
revolutionary inter-cooperation.
A swine in Munich
is the same swine
without his leather jerkins
in Santiago.
13
Brains coming apart
on soles of shoes
a pantheon of causes to choose,
let's see, neo-revisionism
counter-revolutionary
criss-crosses with
degenerate bourgeoise
capitalist turncoat,
(both must die)
the urgency lies in
which commands my
holier dross.
14
Brothers in the struggle
need empathetic eyes
to square off
the titanic quarrel.
15
Cleanse the body politic,
reads one directive.
Rub not ointment but horse radish
over decomposed, societal skin,
a brisk cleansing with your strigal
but one revolutionary application.
16
"De-stabilize", the latest buzz word
flies to the manure heap
just kick in the door--
those planter's peanuts
know the score.
17
"Property is theft"
I'm lisping in the burning sun,
Ethiopia done
Tigré and Eritrea
key components
on the Horn's chessboard,
mere human paste
re-patched, re-worn.
18
Ditto, "take-out", liquidate.
Run a new poker thru the rubble. A good
anarchist's cathedral accomplishment
is the chicken coop's destruction.
19
Make the rich pay.
Squeeze the goose to the pips.
All power to the people;
a gun run
is a good itch,
works up a powerful thirst
for Justice;
good mercy disguised
brother Lenin
as a simple dock worker,
the plague-bacillus quickens.
20
Orange filaments of smoke
are better than the factory whistle,
a good arsonist recruits
his own flames,
fans his own fire.
The crackle of desire
over hearth stones
is reward enough in itself.
[84]
THE GARDEN
And like a cobbler at a bench
I return to my musings
why Kensington Gardens
with its grand, theatrical entrance
is gateway to London's poor
--why the stiff Victoria and Albert
monument or grand canopy
to the Hemispheres
has a bison for the Americas
or sultry elephant of
Asia fame
(India being the brightest
jewel in the Empress' crown);
why other archetypal animals at their pleasure
are carved in gleaming milk white
when the rich at their
leisure, to and fro,
dine elegantly as tight
buds arranged on a stem.
2
I've not mentioned the poor
come to the Serpentine
a little ways up in Hyde Park
only to be chased out
of Kensington at closing--
the cobbler at his bench,
croupier at Whites,
the elephant as a hatchet beast
run amuck
in the stellar pool
of the eye's fixed poor.
[88]
I return to my musings
why Kensington Gardens
with its grand, theatrical entrance
is gateway to London's poor
--why the stiff Victoria and Albert
monument or grand canopy
to the Hemispheres
has a bison for the Americas
or sultry elephant of
Asia fame
(India being the brightest
jewel in the Empress' crown);
why other archetypal animals at their pleasure
are carved in gleaming milk white
when the rich at their
leisure, to and fro,
dine elegantly as tight
buds arranged on a stem.
2
I've not mentioned the poor
come to the Serpentine
a little ways up in Hyde Park
only to be chased out
of Kensington at closing--
the cobbler at his bench,
croupier at Whites,
the elephant as a hatchet beast
run amuck
in the stellar pool
of the eye's fixed poor.
[88]
CANVASSING
And I thought of things,
things that come in small clutches,
tiny memories,
thoughts evoking the
approach of time or
footsteps about to open graves.
More things than the troubled
single entities we attach to them;
things marbled with the elasticity of rain,
rumours of war, pitch black leaves in the
bottom of a pond where the whelp of a dog
tries to outrun night.
[89]
things that come in small clutches,
tiny memories,
thoughts evoking the
approach of time or
footsteps about to open graves.
More things than the troubled
single entities we attach to them;
things marbled with the elasticity of rain,
rumours of war, pitch black leaves in the
bottom of a pond where the whelp of a dog
tries to outrun night.
[89]
COMMENTS
...unrestrained, imaginative writing.
Brown's magic is the vibrating universe,
his sympathy is his ability to receive these vibrations.
Sympathetic Magic captures the movement of life in its intervals--
his poems resemble stopped action
photographs from a film.
THE TORONTO STAR
...the poetry is fine... rewarding reading...
Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic
boasts an admirable image or two.
Brown can write, without a doubt.
POETRY CANADA POESIE
...wry humour.
The poet revels in image and can use it well.
Paul Cameron Brown is capable of interesting,
even arresting work.
CANADIAN BOOK REVIEW ANNUAL 1985
Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique...
Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic", c' est
partir pour un autre monde oil Paul Cameron Brown
envoute par les mots et les images.
DIPLOMATIC OBSERVER
[90]
Brown's magic is the vibrating universe,
his sympathy is his ability to receive these vibrations.
Sympathetic Magic captures the movement of life in its intervals--
his poems resemble stopped action
photographs from a film.
THE TORONTO STAR
...the poetry is fine... rewarding reading...
Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic
boasts an admirable image or two.
Brown can write, without a doubt.
POETRY CANADA POESIE
...wry humour.
The poet revels in image and can use it well.
Paul Cameron Brown is capable of interesting,
even arresting work.
CANADIAN BOOK REVIEW ANNUAL 1985
Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique...
Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic", c' est
partir pour un autre monde oil Paul Cameron Brown
envoute par les mots et les images.
DIPLOMATIC OBSERVER
[90]