08-02-2013, 06:12 AM
It’s funny or a phenomenon to dendrologists
how as late as in May the firs would silhouette
in a light green and beige mix against the
whitish-bluish sky to finally demonstrate
they’re still alive. Not yet blooming,
but birds, insects, bugs, spiders may already settle down
and all the other small flesh that lives
from the nourishing flesh of the bark.
That music the firs make in the night
needs fine ears to hear: subdued swooshing
and creaking and rustling and an unexpected sigh
when the wind bends the twigs too roughly
but they refuse to break.
In the evening I sweep up
crumbs of unfinished thoughts.
I make plans for a walk tomorrow.
We sit, some smoke, on a bench
beneath the wind shelter.
Male voices, soft and subdued,
drown in a carpet of radio tunes.
Suddenly the girls return from supper.
They flock to the cooing
that grows into sharp accents
of semi-conscious desire.
A new patient with her
admirer in tow crowds me.
I leave – for his sake, and mine.
In the dark of my room
I make plans for tomorrow:
I need samples of gold and green,
ruby, yellow, shades of brown
leaves and bark and black mud
for my autumn collage in art therapy:
To reconnect to life through death.
I know, it’s really early in the day
but I have this to tell you:
the doc yesterday told me
that I should not feel guilty, if
I actually was full of rage.
Made me feel cozy, this doc,
she knows how.
Later for a mouthful of life
I headed far out
hungrily.
Well, in the joint, I got her eyes on me
and her mind simmered, but
our time was up
and on my way back home
I let the cab driver fuck my ears with his
blather.
paid him well for leaving me alone.
I think, that if i can make it,
I will see her again tomorrow
to flesh out our flaccid sex.
Did I mention she likes blues?
He sipped cheap coffee , inhaled tobacco, glanced
down and along a dusty boulevard
brimming from life impossible,
love nonsensical, tears sparkling
silvery and if licked off, of easy salt,
she was precious as cats’ moans and worth a
yesterday’s lover’s sigh; So he kissed burnt lips
like dead flamingoes , leaving a crush of sand
on his tongue. “May I leave you
a dime and a rose still bleeding her color
of love?”, he mutters, while strol-
ling on down. …
There’s a bit of rosy blood
in the first morning hour of the boulevard,
dashed with pencils white and blue,
but the colors are rehearsing still.
Out alone here he opens his eyes
to an unkind, hard world at first.
On the look-out for the wounded and the poor,
birds and babes are hungry for weak and loosely flesh,
nagging and yelling and biting ears.
His head is full of ache still, like it
would want to fight him, which is absurd
of course, but there’s a cure ; he has a
cruiskeen by his side, a booze-filled flask,
sparing him a sun rising sober.
She’s a witch of trouble in electric blue,
in her own mad mind she’s in love with you, with you.*
To be authentic: it hurts!
Sit now, unrelaxed though,
upright in front of a world murky.
At times like these I think
Pat Martino or similarly eloquent
Jazz guitar, to brush away
what infests malevolently
the seat of my happiness, my heart,
you know: ridding unhappy thoughts like these.
Swing two doves like Egyptian princesses,
circling each other around and again,
coo-coo-kissing life, blowing my mind off
to wander in and up and out and away far, far.
Farther! Ship of troubled clouds:
Swing my brain away! Sway. Let us dance once
for all!
But of course all gets better some
time.
Like soon later.
Mom’s a mess: I’m gonna make it without her
mostly. I’m singing mothers all day these days.
Mothers-Of you know … eMs of destruction, war, blood, hate ,
Hope, milk of consolation, peace and prayer and pain …
All there is, but not from your tits again, not again!
Instead let us paint a warmer, pastel fantasy:
Let me let you take me there , dream bluez.
Rhyme with wine, just feeling fairly fine.
Bourbonize me , hun, for fun. So I drink.
Squinting my eyes, saving vision. Triple shot of that stuff.
Still realize too much shit going on. As I knew.
So phallify, I mean: get it up, man if you still can.
Like life is boring but you must not say so, says mom,
You lack inner resources, says Berryman. God! Reasons for
Huff enough now? Cheers then and therefore!
Says me. And at three amen my barman sends me home.
As if, need more of it? Read Vaihinger then, dammit.
As if I as perfect alcoholic would rely on anyone else than myself!
Like lacking resources! Like as if I would! Like his Philosophie des Als ob
but have booze home. Fictitious beverage. Leveraging lose brains maybe.
At least I still cackle. Canticles. Of despair. Mommyfied.
Momma, I lack your female resources.
As long as the poison flows from bourbon nipples.
Mom
I
Thirst.
———–
inspired by:
- George Thorogood’s version of One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer
- Music by The Mothers of Invention, George Clinton, Red Hot Blues Sisters
- Berryman: Dream Songs
- German philosopher Hans Vaihinger (Philosophie des Als Ob)
- booze, mothers
Background singing (in America del Norte it must be a God-spell then)
[ “ if you get too cold / I’ll tax the heat. /If you take a walk – and this is often / I’ ll tax your feet”
Junior Parker: Taxman]
Back on the street, he ambulates,
circling a park , little park in shades to the
right hand side, humming Al Green self-soothingly
to himself, thinks again, he’s best alone,
best alone again. He’s
all smiles into the new day,
listening to background voices,
singing final harmonies,
to harmonize his soul with death.
VI.
Sitting in a bar down the boulevard he’s reminiscing good things to get the day going, possibly good.
[I don’t know if there is a way to reverse sarcasm into metaphors of deep loving, but I wanna try it out.
I met a gin soaked ball-room queen in Memphis …* ]
Rock’n Roll on your hair
Thank God it’s morning again, night been too long, baby,
because nights make me suicidal
and we rather not like that, do we?
But yesterday you sent me a pic that blew my mind away
with sun in your hair and wind fooling around with it.
I love those little strains of red-blonde hair kissing the air,
a celebration of life, and if life’s so sexy, I want to live some more.
So I met my queen of love in Miami,
she had to heave me right across the lovely shoulders [*]
of her mind to save me from the dark thoughts of my night.
Let me blow my thank-you’s in your hair.
You saved me from ultimate despair.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Jagger an cie
how as late as in May the firs would silhouette
in a light green and beige mix against the
whitish-bluish sky to finally demonstrate
they’re still alive. Not yet blooming,
but birds, insects, bugs, spiders may already settle down
and all the other small flesh that lives
from the nourishing flesh of the bark.
That music the firs make in the night
needs fine ears to hear: subdued swooshing
and creaking and rustling and an unexpected sigh
when the wind bends the twigs too roughly
but they refuse to break.
In the evening I sweep up
crumbs of unfinished thoughts.
I make plans for a walk tomorrow.
We sit, some smoke, on a bench
beneath the wind shelter.
Male voices, soft and subdued,
drown in a carpet of radio tunes.
Suddenly the girls return from supper.
They flock to the cooing
that grows into sharp accents
of semi-conscious desire.
A new patient with her
admirer in tow crowds me.
I leave – for his sake, and mine.
In the dark of my room
I make plans for tomorrow:
I need samples of gold and green,
ruby, yellow, shades of brown
leaves and bark and black mud
for my autumn collage in art therapy:
To reconnect to life through death.
I know, it’s really early in the day
but I have this to tell you:
the doc yesterday told me
that I should not feel guilty, if
I actually was full of rage.
Made me feel cozy, this doc,
she knows how.
Later for a mouthful of life
I headed far out
hungrily.
Well, in the joint, I got her eyes on me
and her mind simmered, but
our time was up
and on my way back home
I let the cab driver fuck my ears with his
blather.
paid him well for leaving me alone.
I think, that if i can make it,
I will see her again tomorrow
to flesh out our flaccid sex.
Did I mention she likes blues?
He sipped cheap coffee , inhaled tobacco, glanced
down and along a dusty boulevard
brimming from life impossible,
love nonsensical, tears sparkling
silvery and if licked off, of easy salt,
she was precious as cats’ moans and worth a
yesterday’s lover’s sigh; So he kissed burnt lips
like dead flamingoes , leaving a crush of sand
on his tongue. “May I leave you
a dime and a rose still bleeding her color
of love?”, he mutters, while strol-
ling on down. …
There’s a bit of rosy blood
in the first morning hour of the boulevard,
dashed with pencils white and blue,
but the colors are rehearsing still.
Out alone here he opens his eyes
to an unkind, hard world at first.
On the look-out for the wounded and the poor,
birds and babes are hungry for weak and loosely flesh,
nagging and yelling and biting ears.
His head is full of ache still, like it
would want to fight him, which is absurd
of course, but there’s a cure ; he has a
cruiskeen by his side, a booze-filled flask,
sparing him a sun rising sober.
She’s a witch of trouble in electric blue,
in her own mad mind she’s in love with you, with you.*
To be authentic: it hurts!
Sit now, unrelaxed though,
upright in front of a world murky.
At times like these I think
Pat Martino or similarly eloquent
Jazz guitar, to brush away
what infests malevolently
the seat of my happiness, my heart,
you know: ridding unhappy thoughts like these.
Swing two doves like Egyptian princesses,
circling each other around and again,
coo-coo-kissing life, blowing my mind off
to wander in and up and out and away far, far.
Farther! Ship of troubled clouds:
Swing my brain away! Sway. Let us dance once
for all!
But of course all gets better some
time.
Like soon later.
Mom’s a mess: I’m gonna make it without her
mostly. I’m singing mothers all day these days.
Mothers-Of you know … eMs of destruction, war, blood, hate ,
Hope, milk of consolation, peace and prayer and pain …
All there is, but not from your tits again, not again!
Instead let us paint a warmer, pastel fantasy:
Let me let you take me there , dream bluez.
Rhyme with wine, just feeling fairly fine.
Bourbonize me , hun, for fun. So I drink.
Squinting my eyes, saving vision. Triple shot of that stuff.
Still realize too much shit going on. As I knew.
So phallify, I mean: get it up, man if you still can.
Like life is boring but you must not say so, says mom,
You lack inner resources, says Berryman. God! Reasons for
Huff enough now? Cheers then and therefore!
Says me. And at three amen my barman sends me home.
As if, need more of it? Read Vaihinger then, dammit.
As if I as perfect alcoholic would rely on anyone else than myself!
Like lacking resources! Like as if I would! Like his Philosophie des Als ob
but have booze home. Fictitious beverage. Leveraging lose brains maybe.
At least I still cackle. Canticles. Of despair. Mommyfied.
Momma, I lack your female resources.
As long as the poison flows from bourbon nipples.
Mom
I
Thirst.
———–
inspired by:
- George Thorogood’s version of One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer
- Music by The Mothers of Invention, George Clinton, Red Hot Blues Sisters
- Berryman: Dream Songs
- German philosopher Hans Vaihinger (Philosophie des Als Ob)
- booze, mothers
Background singing (in America del Norte it must be a God-spell then)
[ “ if you get too cold / I’ll tax the heat. /If you take a walk – and this is often / I’ ll tax your feet”
Junior Parker: Taxman]
Back on the street, he ambulates,
circling a park , little park in shades to the
right hand side, humming Al Green self-soothingly
to himself, thinks again, he’s best alone,
best alone again. He’s
all smiles into the new day,
listening to background voices,
singing final harmonies,
to harmonize his soul with death.
VI.
Sitting in a bar down the boulevard he’s reminiscing good things to get the day going, possibly good.
[I don’t know if there is a way to reverse sarcasm into metaphors of deep loving, but I wanna try it out.
I met a gin soaked ball-room queen in Memphis …* ]
Rock’n Roll on your hair
Thank God it’s morning again, night been too long, baby,
because nights make me suicidal
and we rather not like that, do we?
But yesterday you sent me a pic that blew my mind away
with sun in your hair and wind fooling around with it.
I love those little strains of red-blonde hair kissing the air,
a celebration of life, and if life’s so sexy, I want to live some more.
So I met my queen of love in Miami,
she had to heave me right across the lovely shoulders [*]
of her mind to save me from the dark thoughts of my night.
Let me blow my thank-you’s in your hair.
You saved me from ultimate despair.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Jagger an cie
?