Daily Archives: August 11, 2022

Tap Shoes for Malaguena

Ceiling above my skull
beyond the clouds
above the space and time
as silk moire, wand of ivory,
shadows of memories
as God watches the cupboard,
angels preparing breakfast
for universal morning
cherubs poke and squitter
original English of young
glutton | cap of moire,
pecker ivory, gut strings
of a guitar whose wardrobe
projects a lovely tongue
of pears she prepares
her tap shoes for Malaguena
and all the night’s fair!

:: 08.07.2022 ::

Three Disembodied Heads

The three disembodied heads on top of a heap of dolls of whom only one is recognizable as a face have very curiously looking deep-set eyes, on fire with curiosity and intent on finding out what’s to be discovered in this tub.

—Rinsing off, three children wash themselves—that’s the noise made by two old men who don’t know each other— As they creep out of the stall and escape from the flood of hot water. They strip off their white night clothes, and don’t know why that their naked breasts seem to glow.

So the clear pale skin, broken by narrow white slits, folds into the two white globes so that they’re held un a most pleasing manner; the dark nipples become large and pendulous, and in a flash the scarlet eyes—the one about five and one on top of the other—Snap open, and fill with intelligence and a glint of laughter and mischief. The other has a slightly different appearance—large white globe with a dark under eye—and his neck is bent, and his throat is thinner and shorter
and his nostrils a bit flatter—in a flash the tiny face golds a curious thing, and then, suddenly, the nose us curled up—and you can see something on the top of his head—

The last victim, the youngest, I’m sure, is best described: A pale pink globe, pale ivory, transparent, lashes like silver wings, loose curls of dark hair around her face; and, whilst the mother is resting, playing with the child, the little lady looks at you with a real face like a child and wants to play.

You will have the impression that the facial skin is loose and very clear.

:: 08.07.2022 ::

Life & Love is Precious

is a precious d r e a m t o d a y / and ALL the
time is never time at all
that you could ever leave
when inside yourself dreaming
how wonderful time is while
you realize you must leave a
piece of you tic-tock believe
The life can change when you
look away ~~ tonight
or over roofs of days while
the sun smiles above

are the best of friends
Both crave for your Soul
and all your Friends
so believe me | love and forgive
| allow everyone to Live the way
they Are and Time tocks and
ticks off stubborn rabbits who
never crawl down into Alice’s
burrowed Hole so believe!
Life can Change your Life
TONIGHT TO-NOW and while you
pick up shattered thoughts
time tics-toc eternal walk
so believe in you
so believe in me
so believe in us
so believe in all

Nothing matters but

:: 08.08.2022 ::

Slaughtered Animals

FROM upon the top of anguished heads
the red lining of pink throats SCREAM
in dark secret the monster cries

I am devoured.

And the ancient earth’s rocks cry
singing, “Scream! Scream!”

While I wait for the effect of Life
the moment’s scent of poison
is destroying my heart as a demon
spits bile out by the slaughtered

:: 08.09.2022 ::

Placed Into a Box

I sat and wept at a brightness that was you: an autumn sun forlornly pouring
light on the corpses of the flowers — a thousand blossoms dead, with no roots.

Grave to decay, and no dreams.

I saw the artist paint his portrait, and wished to know how your eyes
grew clear and darkened at sight of his canvas, and how, at each stroke,
they searched for the clear water of your eye: were you thinking of me?

Or what?

Your poverty brought many, many gifts, which the artist and I,
having explored together that barren wasteland, as tourists through one dead spring,
took to Bali, for a holiday, that morning.

The darkness of the vacant land was covered with blossoms and yellow fruits.
The blackbirds that flew from tree to tree folded like aprons.
The birds all looked, above, like spiders’ threads.

I tried to imagine the inside of that bee, searching for the flower
with a tail, that flew away from him, yet who with it had already disappeared:
from which dark was a fire (Light in front, fire in back)

Or was it an illusion that would be blown away by the wind?
The honey-like fruit of the wild apple, turning dark
as the bee drank, or was devoured.

We all died that day, one after the other, and how they died, I can never know:
like the drop of water that is misted up and creates a sea of salt in the skies.

I saw it, and wept, for you were killed, and I thought of how much
you’d longed to go to the honey.
But how it must have been for you to die:

As the bee, all writhing,
Eaten away.

The bee, is what I remember most.
The bees were only like us.

They were trying to do the same thing as we did:
to make it all better.

Like me.

So I put you into a box, and wrote on the lid:

I shall go now, it is time.

:: 08.10.2022 ::