Through the dances to the stillness
Walking in a park adjoining my home
I’ve found some stamps
That now abruptly somebody deems valuable
For with his son he is obdurate on recovering
Them from me, though I maintain that I never
Found the fuckers.
They say they’ll fight me to death
They’ll burn the house down
Kill all my plants and birds
Unless the stamps are handed over.
Which stamps…? I walk along the park
With my stick and I try to keep the path
Clean by sweeping under the brush the unseemly
Garbage, what do I care about little squares
Of gaudy images…, and I’m armed anyway.
The dance, I say, shall be jolly if ever undergone
Once underway a hoot no doubt
I see it already: such hilarity.
And last year’s wash is still hanging outside.
After I’ve tried as well as I could
To hang up the long wet carpet
Today I retrieve last year’s washing on the line –
Your lingerie, my suspenders, and so on…
Roils the cold still air the passing tramway
Where our last trip shall commence
I can make up words of rhyming verses
With the rhythm of its claptrap-claptrap advance…
The jerky witty dance indeed
Is underway in my head.
After the eviction
Following the crisp roads
Toward the mountains yonder.
With my sky blue motorcycle and a mattress
And some deep blue pillows
I’m trying to make it across the country home.
As I’ve stopped to replenish the bike’s tank
And with a quick sandwich maybe my stomach
I can’t keep an eye both onto the mattress
And onto the bike itself.
After a moment, as I’m chewing and looking
At the sunny courtyard
I notice that the bedding of the mattress
Is all gone: the topaz sheets, the pillows
The thin brown blankets.
There are customers on pillows, true
There are resting workers
Lazily stretched along the shadows
The building provides
But I’m gaffing continuously
None of the deep blue pillows
Upon which they lean are really mine
I’ve got to apologize every time after my query
And in a good-humored way.
Sounds of the same music again.
Again the joyful but ludicrous dancing on the court.
On with the farce
And the arrival again postponed.
caught in a tangled web of estrus, menstruums, and the murderous impulse
got stranded elsewhere – after a few years of sundry alienated haunts
can’t bark, can’t bark
here, projected, is my body…
what a roaring scent,
what a roaring scent it lets fly…!
is dead and rotting…
in its murkiness,
a sparkling maggot
scoffs at my swift
calls me a rustic,
a no class churl,
no finesse whatever
in the liquefying arts;
such a crying, such a bore,
such a boor, such a crying
inability to render oneself,
or at least to render
back to the clean humus,
such as one always
and now in her smugness,
a corpse beetle
lands in her field.
the sparkling maggot
bristles most aggrieved.
fetid quills are crossed,
the fierce adversaries
disregard the juicy meal
of my body…
lugubrious, the victor
the vanquished devours
as any mother would
her gutsy abortion.
as the sparkling beetle
now flies away,
my body, a derelict,
a sinking deserted wreck,
melts with the sea.
the sea, a juicy…,
a juicy meal
from a bigger corpse yet.
the sea harmonious,
the warring oceans cacophonous,
the blue, the blue…