Thou anew with thine fair ticket aloft (for the return trip)
Tidying everything before I’m gone
Something to remember me by (I thought)
And now it seems they remember me by
The endearing sobriquet of “the tidy guy.”
Picked up all the papers
Piled them up in tidy mounts
Picked up even all the discarded underwear
From the secretary girls dirty after their parties
And saintly debaucheries.
Now I was loaded with my goodbye packages
The street a bit slippery
The metro station the wrong one
The corridors dark
Some of my little suitcases misplaced
The funfair underground labyrinthine
Its shops darkening and almost deserted
And the criers not even bothering with the shadow of me.
Luckily I met a friend of old
Who hadn’t given up
He was back at work hard as nails
And he put everything to rights
With a sad face though
Because I was surrendering to pressure again
Bailing out retiring to pastures green
Alone and naked and empty-pocketed and so on.
Little consolation he gave me a few mementoes
For my collection of trifles and worthless trinkets
From the city back at home in the sticks.
Took from his pocket a few electioneering badges
And match boxes (three or four)
That he’d found on the floor
As he was walking today and he’d thought
For which I was very
We said goodbye there at the dark platform
I see still his hand waving goodbye
And gesturing showing which way the right way
To get to the good station that would carry me
To the station
Where the train would carry me home.
Such perfection of organization the world
I was so touched
My fingers still smelled of the girls’ crotches
The train was lulling me to sleep
I had a slight erection
Peaceful pastoral home beckoned
And my trinkets joyfully tinkled
What a perfect world indeed.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
Angular walls of the fortress hotel checked for clues
Ah yes the hotel
Well it was full and we were bound to stay by the window
Looking at the snow
The hall was teeming thick with breaths and smoke
I told my son as soon as you see snow anywhere
Scan the landscape
Wherever you are in a train a plane a coach a hotel
And be light-footed enough so that you take your place
Near the nicest available girl
The more well endowed with chest material
And ass substance the better
For the hours shall be long
And nothing warms a heart or a body as a nice big chested big assed woman
Son at your side.
Keep your ears pealed she’ll tell you soon such intimate details
As about the time she pissed herself and had to hang her underwear
Well wrung on the racks of the communal bathroom
Or... But you get my drift – as I was saying substantial stuff indeed.
The wind was blowing outside
The snow afloat
The trees surrendering
The bears hungry.
Scheming or running
The runners and the cheaters were scurrying in and out of doors.
I told my son never you fret
Morning comes always soon enough
Often your are caught by its light even in the middle of your endeavors
And you are puzzled and amazed
And you scream to the forces unseen that hey you weren’t even half finished
With you secret delicate nocturnal chores
For only in hypnagogic vision one guesses enlightened
That there is truth and that there touches one reality.
I remember now in the tundra
When we were stationed in the abandoned mine
The frozen torrent had to be dug up in order to find some of the soldiers
That had died during the previous war
And had been buried in there though nobody knew exactly where
At which point all along the intricacies of the stream
Buried in sewage buried in which type of taxidermic reptilian sands
Or in which sludge I mean or slurry rather
That their moving corpses shriveled to weirder shapes
Than when they were just tidy dudes aching for action
In the dancing floor of the massacring grounds.
There then where the fortification at one of its banks ran in zigzag
Arbitrarily letting in inlets or contrariwise encroaching on the trench itself
The immemorial water had drawn into the rock
There we dug and well look never mind
The conditions were infinitely worse than now.
In fact of course everything evolves always to a better stratum
As stuff adds its modifying thrust
The outlook improves
And the definite glory you know what it is?
Dying when your work has then been done
Once and for all – ah then yeah the sighing the blessed letting go...
Meanwhile though our hands were so frozen our arms so stiff
That we had to feed each other
We soldiers paired face to face with our stiff arms clumsily fishing
Into the gritty pond of frozen food
On a plate all told in front of us
And then we lifted our arms and the fellow in front
Of you fed you with his stiff arm as you fed him with yours
The frozen muddy dollop of incongruous potato at the end of your glove...
And then almost of a sudden
Wouldn’t you know!
The Sun would always explode
The torrent flew the dead exited disguised and unstuck
Their lids unclung our arms jumped alive
The flowers popped all over the field
The birds were ubiquitously heard they had resuscitated
We started to sing songs much as oarsmen do
We joked we slapped our reciprocating backs
The cook danced a jig with his ladle aloft.
I never forgot those days
How could I and how could you now son
Look the snow is the page where all is written
Indelibly don’t you agree?
Forever extant and the Sun explodes only in order
That the page be renewed
Where another episode of our epic should appear
Splashed in such magnificent clarity
Our eyes at the beginning smarting
And we rubbing in consequence our lids with some alacrity
So that the phosphenes should add a few more protagonists
Disfigured and all to the queer proceedings on the stage.
Then the snow outside turned red
Arson is the fulcrum where snow finds its leverage
Is also the setting in where the incubi delve
They are blushing as their alibis are shot
They are accused to be accessories to asphyxiation.
Beneath the old soldiers smolderingly slumber
But do they fume? Only when the Sun’s too keen
Its explosion unwarrantedly muscular
The processes meanwhile push on the landscapes puff on
The rampant smuts offer their syllabic gambits against the eroded walls
The ramparts become flatly synthetic if bizarrely stained
With a language I don’t understand.
Every entity this side and that of the glass gets imbued
With the fiery madness
Macabresquely prostrates itself.
It’s too cold again
The son’s trying to disentomb the father from the snow
The father unfound
Unfound as yet and surely for evermore.
Useless frostbitten undertaking son
Scan rather the apparatus that suddenly takes off
A revival of sorts
At it then courageously.
Virtuous after such debauchery wallowing
My eyes not clinging unclogged
Under masses of snow.
But why the elegiac tone?
Scan scan the landscapes
The protruding forms behind the wondrous
Do though take care it doesn’t pay to scrape one’s shin.
The green limpid waters of the African isle. An airplane rests with its wheels on the shore, bathed by the pellucid wavelets – the hovels are bunched together along the coast – smokes from the cooking that takes place here and there waft the way of the walker – voices galore in prandial chitchat and fun.
He thinks: Language is for whoever uses it, and how he sees fit to use it – the point is: are you being understood – or at least half understood – can anyone hope for aught better than that...?
He peeps inside a hut that has a “door” like a tent. He bends up a corner of the flap and peers through the murk. Across the floor of the low-ceilinged hut a cactus at its sharpest. He coughs. His bothering lung again, irritated by the smokes. Pelts and then a few small, dead, as yet unskinned animals hang along the side aisles allowed by the cactus. He is cautious now. A parrot once did its best to rip his nose off his face. And he’s heard a whimper – as of a parrot itching to attack, mayhap? Is the word “mayhap” more sailor-like than perhaps? Well, maybe.
He runs toward the shingle on the shore, a dead end. He relives how the wreckage came about. He was afraid of falling from the tempest-tossed ship into the sea – unclaimed forever. Two brothers were fighting, one had a heavy leather bag of letters with him, the other one wanted to grab it but he only got the blows of it for his pains. That second brother was blinded by a bloody band across his eyes – he never really knew (though he could always try and intuit it) where the blows were coming from... Were the letters their last treasure...? Was the wounded mariner (wounded at the eyes no less) trying to save himself with the last reason for living – a bag of letters of identity which at the same time could have served as a saving raft...? Were the letters from the missing girl, now presumed dead...? She’d fallen from the gunwale’s rim as the ship first got snagged by the craggy shallows.
Crimes of the wife, he thought, that someone still might read about – betraying also your last hope of persisting even if only as a specter: a damaged memory, or a ridiculed name, or just another cuckolded and poisoned figment. In spidery retreat, the laden brother left the blind brother who slowly, realizing he was now alone, unwound. He breathed down, dumped among some unclamped cans, sprawling, slowly falling asleep. The peonies of his daydream were blossoming like blots of blood upon the band above his eyes. “Ere the man Eimeric Despuig arrived, all was well...” – he muttered, and the man, Eimeric Despuig, suffered a fit of coughing – he’d been disgustingly retching all day; he had gagged with a bunch of hairs ensconced in a glass of water that he had tried to gobble up just as he had waken as the ship kept now more loudly sliding to one side.
With the voice disguised, pretending to be one rough sailor, Eimeric Despuig started to sing a hearty shanty. “Ah, those poor bastards for me to hove to... Hey, and blow me to the birdcage where the five-gallon jar a-mourns...” He said, and seeing he knew no more about the song, he started now with a martial ballad, more terrestrial than briny stuff, but what the hell, the point being only that the blind guy wouldn’t recognize his cough and feel further aggrieved. Bad enough as it was for him already, poor doomed mate, and the boat all but ready to capsize.
“Admit it and that’s it, a clean slate...” – the blind guy said.
Eimeric Despuig looked ashore. The lie of the land, bereft now of warriors, looked itself like the corpse of a corpulent woman, all those glutei and tits, a hairless squaw loosened in repose, after all those long hours of drudgery.
He heard his general again. “Clean slate.”
“Shit happens, my friend. You won’t pull me into this asshole theory – ok? About me being bad luck. Death comes to the best of them. No albatros me – fuck you.”
He left the blind witling raving. He decided to slip away tonight. Bound for the African island. And if he should be eaten by sharks on the way so be it.
Now he heard the general admonishing, rebuking, but with the same breath granting a modicum of reprieve, his own fault (the general’s) at the carnage bigger than Eimeric Despuig’s: “I don’t want you to feel sorry, ever, for any of your actions. Actions undertaken under the heat of battle can’t ever be gainsaid, regretted, deplored, taken back... What was done was the best under the circumstances. Always. Ever. Forever. That this particular action caused such mortality with the troops, such mountains of fatalities, is only a sad accident, an aside of little consequence... Grieving is for shits. Crying is for bragging catamites. We martial types are never guilty of a fidgety conscience. Vanish the jitters, man. Loyalty, tenacity, to these we cling... The rest’s flabby turds’ pluckless weaving and embroidering. Under the more fiendish of tortures, we adduce amnesia – same here with the fucking press. All those coffins, we’ll claim, are fraudulent. On the podium we’ll screw our eyes in order to see, not a farty stuffy chamber with a few assholes with recording machines in their hands instead of their tired pricks for a change, but a horizon of knights, a worthy scene of heroic proportions, hordes on the march, wonderstruck, due for glory...! Forget that bundle of silly puppets, whining for our condescension, shitty yokels, a swamp of cosseted clerisy toiling after their cute articles, trying to put in a harsh nutshell how much they hate the military. You won’t be my scapegoat, you hear me...!”
He stirred at last, like dough stirs if it wants to grow. He said: “I’ll do whatever you command, my general.”
“We’ll put on their whachamacallit, sepulchers, whatever the tricky epitaph that our propaganda corps can come up best with by shredding their noggins, all sticky with tacky ruses... Don’t we know them, scumbag scalawags. Nonsense, brittle forgeries, exaggerating the pathos, the camp, the kitschy froth, though not too much of it either, all done with a certain style – beware of blunders – that it not be a strain after all, too much cream and foam cloying the palate. With velvety fingers, not full of the corrupt muck of the grave-plunderers, Christians and Jews and A-rabs with angels and scythes and torches and shits, no, copying instead from the more inferred, taciturn, strict Romans, plus the Etruscans, the Stoics, the Spartans, the Soviets... All those great fearless ancestors. Tapping the ancient layers of epic discourse, and baroque flim-flam. Or even something less obvious. Something on the order of the famous shorthand myths written on the spare tombs of the nastier crazier saints; nothing Egyptian, pyramidal, in unreadable spiral steles, no, fuck, something Homeric: He died flayed..., something like this, when in fact everybody but the chaste, inane rabble knows he died flaying my prick...! Reap and you’ll sow, the dentistry of holy-grailty, the host, the holy ghost, tawdry unkempt billowings from the abyss, howling tombstones, stifled by the coquetry of hate, you can’t wean the populace from the joys and orgasms of their split mind: We want blood but tears too. You can’t bilk them of one or the other, they got to have them both, steady doses... Tears – blood – blood – tears... Nothing else diddles their minds’ clitorises as zealously. Know what I mean...?”
“Sir, I do, with a thud.” Eimeric Despuig answered, irksomely perplexed. He wanted to ask: “What about secretions of the semen-y type...?” But abstained. Enough rubbish already as it was.
Already gone underground the lewd grubs themselves who had been busy under the burel antimacassars that covered the corpses, once the corpses themselves had been removed to the charnel house. And now imagine all those clandestine sinewy goings-on that must be going on underneath...
“Grylli and the rest of the callow patsies engraved over the vortices on the armpits at the columns of the mausoleums: bah, the quick inveigled into carrying the load for the deceased... Not in my watch!”
The man dismissed himself from the presence of his phantoms terrestrial and briny. With the pouts of the waves hissed at his feet the angry glue of the sea. Lugubrious stew, he thought, hungry.
Perhaps he ought to retrace his steps – go back to the huts and tents where the cooking went on. Those savages looked all like flakes and weirdoes. Their ruffled feathers, their organized religion, their fucking devils to whom the food had to be consecrated – the zinger being that whoever touched the offered viands became sacrificial prey instantly. Eimeric Despuig had seen an owl immediately plucked. And a ruminative large animal clocked with a rock and skinned. Its skull smitten, its brains added to some soup in an ebullient caldron.
An apish runt of a fairy godmother was approaching – her invincible drool speckled with dots of tar from the fires. Eimeric Despuig felt cowardly – abruptly, looking awestruck, almost sunk in gloom, he unplugged himself – suasive enough, he leaked out a slapdash apology. The ape caught not a word aright. Her features, of a dumb rapist of a predator gone seedy, turned greedy.
Eimeric Despuig saw himself part of an instant raw meal. Burning with anticipatory grief, he struck at the witch. She must have been seriously flawed someplace about her skeleton for she dismally fell sprawled over the grit. Overweight Eimeric Despuig, whom nobody would have any longer pegged as an old warrior, shrugged diffidently toward the gallery. He had bated but a slight push, he seemed to say, steeped in itching and flabby virtue.
But the people at the village were mildly cheering him. A steed whinnied in what sounded like an elongated fit of weeping; a goat sneezed. Afloat, a case succeeded in landing. Under a broken slab, Eimeric Despuig picked across the foil that lined the objects the case held – a row of twisted arrowheads used to replace those busted at the tips of the harpoons the whaling crew threw at the backs of the frenzied monsters.
Eimeric Despuig’s mind flew back to those gleeful fights that with forks and knives for all parafernalia took often place both among the soldiers in the field and then among the fishers aboard when it was time to cut and share the bacon. All quarreling bastards being akin, no matter the spot of contention. Dislodged underlings besmirched in their severed soul by the searing sparks of the myriad possibilities of a too spacious horizon, where no beacon of constriction flames nonetheless strongly enough.
Always, when the stars were too appalling in number and depth, a convenient brawl ensued. Once even captain Eimeric Despuig got knocked down.
A riddle to his minions, now he erupted in wrath as an dynosaur embryo upset from his egg a little too soon. Incontinently, on the sly, he slunk away, and disappeared behind the latrines, where the thrones were fancifully decorated with art not worth a fart, and where one usually reigns, total master of his body for once, he surreptitiously wrote a poem with a few alien turds.
The man was deteriorating fast. A bitterly bickering retired general of his acquaintance mugged him good at the hospital – the indecently whittled edge of the retired worthy’s crutch wedged itself nothing benignly in the feckless captain’s shorn nape.
Then captain Eimeric Despuig appeared mesmerized by his words of wisdom. The sage Savin Covershame, the reputed, revered abortionist. He tarried for an instant, no doubt gobsmacked by the clarity of the old fellow’s thinking. After such a murderous personal defeat, and now the compassionate old soldier trying to put a spotless shroud on it, and with such keen skill too... It was understandable.
“Sir, I’m sick.” He said.
“Okay, dismissed.” Said the general. And in his mind he started plotting Eimeric Despuig’s court-marshalling, flimsy demoiselle, a dud.
In town the water, though rationed, was free for all. It was a beautiful town, sunny, whitewashed, where the youth were all so clean. The general endeavored to throw in a lecture or two to encourage them to enlist. Brother, the mistrust, though. It was dawn next day before that swarm of rogues hexagonally ensconced in the luxuries the mayoralty afforded at the long last yielded.
“Our civilization,” he had said in his speech, “is a bulwark, epitome of the flawless kernel of excellence, and yet, alas, a last monument about to be demolished by the barbarians. The harbingers, the scourge, the plague, the ash... The complacency clogging the arteries of progress, the flaccidity ripened into a blob of disgusting slimy stinky fried fat... The aim of youth being zilch... The phantom of Armageddon stalking the stodgy, ponderous bourgeois... Too much weight meaning a deeper crumbling...”
All the truisms were there... The scant public seemed well fucking terrorized.
“Our enemy expects from us an immediate unconditional surrender. And we can’t dodge them rescuers, they want to carry us willy-nilly – en bloc – to their tarry and inflamed heaven. As a youth I also swore: Never give an inch. We have a tryst with the succouring devil, soon we’ll we welded to a keener rock in hell, hail of carbons falling on our flayed twisted bodies, our naked thews and peeled sinews briskly pulled until they snap. We are lost. Look everywhere. Afterimages of fear on every marquee.”
Eimeric Despuig, the convalescing captain, was crumpled in the very last row, in a corner, his half-dead lurking; his sickness so apparent, a ghoul now. The wardens in the prison a chorus of witches praying, in crumpled unison, for his recovery.
Suddenly the general barked an order: “Captain Eimeric Despuig, stand up!”
He rose, tottering. His wife, his daughters were there. So pretty, so unnerving, so unmanning.
“You were recently responsible for the death of a whole regiment of our cream shock troops, three hundred thousand of them blown to pieces thanks to your error in assessing the strength and proficiency of the piddling enemy. You were caught eating shit. Was that some type of a worthless pitch at attonement...? Who cares? No dice. Those images of extreme horror can’t ever be erased, not with shit, not with faked folly, not with more blood. Not quite, not for me. I know about those deleted stuffs you dirty parodies of a soldier in the rearguard try to pass to a stupid public for the genuine dirt. I’ve been recently hobnobbing with the less addled of the famous and influential, the cream; talking with them with all frankness; they acknowledge to me their fears, their ills, their hidden cancers... There’s often a party later in the courtyard... I have no hose to freshen the dirt; I only need, though, to take out my prick and sprinkle the whole yard, the rush and push of my piss covering at least twenty yards all round, and the night approaches and the tables are being laid, and my piss serves immense purposes... Well, anyhow, they are confessing their inability to understand how a man such as you yourself, guilty of such an inconceivably large massacre of our own and finest, are, I mean, is still able to go freely about town, with you decorative family on tow, the dainty daughters, the flashy wife, the heinous nauseating monkey-like critters that pass as your venomous dogs... You ought to be shot forthwith, sir; you ought to be made an example of here and now, in front of all those clean youngsters who know the value of rationing... If you’d be a man and a superman, ergo, a soldier, you’d shoot yourself with glee, in front of everybody, so that something you’ve done in your wasted life could at last be applauded by the dignified, commendable masses, witnesses to vastness and greatness – as modestly typified by myself – but also to meanness, mischief and depravation, of which you, alas, are the uppermost representative... You goof, you gaff, you fugging specter of mischance!”
Eimeric Despuig was at a loss, obviously. Under his breath he chewed this loaded word: “Bully...!”
Then, under the sudden ramming-horn of some sort of epileptic fit, he lifted a tiny scarecrow, the garish ungainly diminutive body of her youngest daughter.
“Gladness, yes!” He shouted. “That I’m no longer a bloody soldier. That I’m not a licensed murderer, suffered, ney, encouraged to act crazy, even rewarded for it, and sent abroad, and far and wide to terrify pell-mell, armed to the teeth, dressed as a ferocious clown, in some childish tacky make-believe disguise, unhinged by your reasons for the wars of unreason you wage at all time, just for a fart, or for an imagined fart, suffocating armies, full of carnivorous zombies, all a bunch of ravaging, ravishing vandals and outlaws pretending to righteousness, fucking filthy word you’ve made of it, warty crawlers all over the cratered earth, whacking at terrifying phantoms with the faces of the innocent... But now I’m alive, and she’s my source of vitality. She wants to go potty, yes! I’m going potty, and her eyes are filled with yearning... I shall yield to her needs! For I am human! She’d been bullied, like a soldier, humiliated, put down, horribly hazed all those days at nursery school... I reviewed the little movie the school had provided – and you know what? I noticed immediately that it had been tinkered with – at least cut in several places, and spliced; but I could reconstruct it; and now the phantom images betray the young teacher, prancing, naked, cruel, laughing at my daughter as she tries to go potty in her empty receptacle of a drink carried from home...! She’s being tortured, like a soldier unto a soldier: no quarter, no pity! But she’s just a tyke, a timorous infant... She can’t go potty in public; she needs her privacy... But, ah! She’s been discovered trying to be herself by the young, irremediably indoctrinated teacher, and now she’s being betrayed, ridiculed... Gutted. The lying images of my daughter happy, and at ease, hide the images of my daughter stressed, anxious, in agony... Caught, ashamed, indicted, insulted, mortified, branded, laughed at by the whole cruel class... That’s not what life could be. I’m a military poet: strong, disciplined, understanding, helpful, running nights in long fields full of snakes... My calling would be aiding the others... The famous moribund in particular... Deferentially admired by the young girls as I do my deeds of beauty...”
He remembers with a wince of spiritual pain how he went on and on, rhapsodizing. They had him on tape now, ranting, crazy, antipatriotic... A few erasures here and there and lo, la-la, lo – another basket case for the firing squad.
Like a pokerfaced jar, akimbo, the general at the lectern let the slime of the young captain’s craven words flow on the slippery slip of his shiny surface. Indeed, the old general’s skin outshone even those on the thighs of Eimeric Despuig’s blowsy younger daughters, from whose bewildering groins bizarre whispers grew. Like the shimmering but straightlaced figments spawned by the general’s martial will, those whispers talked of opalescent eggs about to be smitten like the crania of foes or like the sparkling dishes with the faces of a dumb pope and his wife, ornate with a garland of Victorian ribbons and flowers and a chunk of hairy raw monkey meat to be dumped on top. All girls by nature are fascistic – their vaginas lathery, sweating like lingering toadstools for the neat, straight-backed, tough-talking, uniformed commander, so provident, such a prospective suitor of a trump card up one’s sleeve, an unfailingly brutal protector, who wouldn’t need one just right now...?
With a fell swoop of his comet-like hand the old general wiped from his eyes the paradise where all those little girls were so vehement about his masculinity. Due to some internecine long-nailed fights, some of the houris had been lately limping coming down the grassy slopes to meet his aspersing thurible or, more pugnaciously, his shedding rapier whose clout indeed, though long in the tooth, which in itself who says that that’s a downer, still was no trifle.
“At the foot of the spartan chimneys ricochets the scarred gore, and the smoldering tendrils of flesh grow around the sudden orchids of benzene... We laid waste the land of inconspicuous swarms of people whose main concerns before we attacqued were perhaps how to stem the seductive younger rascals from catching charwomen’s gonorrhea, and of course how to knot down the burgeoning prongs of the cocoon of dearth. Now what have we done...? The girlish girls won’t again skip over the snaggled flagstones of the discouraging graves, full of purpose after their freckled sleek idylls, past the rusting fences. Heartbroken, they won’t again have any of those sweet blatant rueful insights as soon as, after they’d been the prettier half of one those loathsome pairs of newlyweds, the fleeting tearjerker of their farther trajectory had billowed and echoed in the bedraggled tangles of the jungle like the cries of the spurned hyena. As we slobs slog through that new hellish desert, in the midst of the whimpers the prosthetic weeds of our bogged down machinery of death send to the deaf heavens, let’s realized that if we had to act, it had rather be against the invincible specter of our own image. Hatted and popular, we belong in the middle of the road, joking and bragging and pushing away any interloper, alas, always undislodgeable, at least until the earth itself has not been charred and eroded into an unlivable no man’s land. For we can’t stomach anything foreign, eager perhaps to partake, lurking at our imaginary borders.”
He remembers, yes, how he looked up now. Nobody placidly loitering behind the balusters of a non-existent round-the-ceiling row of chairs for the audience – no telepathic redhead nicely commiserating, not belting obscenities in a tantrum, not stymied either, but clinging to the banister, her glossy luscious mouth mouthing the magic word “acquittal, acquittal...”
“...for we are nothing but churls and bullies, harnessed in pitiful self denial, striving to botch, wicked lousy faltering mammoths incapable to recant our past crimes, full of chicanery, hiding the old crimes with the new ones, always new ones, always some enemy at the door, always a victim to kill, always an atomic bomb to hurl at..., always ready to rearm, rely only on profit, and the paltry-padding conning sanctimonious evangelical thurifers backing you – ah, so much worthless pablum to burn...”
A younger general, till now seated behind the old one, jumped up, as who wouldn’t, and said: “Enough! Are we just the flunkies of another kakistocracy or rather the buffer zone spooks of a racy taboo state strewn with miscreants? I say bequeath and be one on whom of the bequeathal is bequeathed. I say that there is room for rosy idylls beneath the never niggardly orgies where whips run rampant and the imprimatur of purulent wounds are plastered by ditto bishops on the fleshes of virgin boys whose specter sphincters splinter as did the plumper of my comrades in captivity. I say, and to repeat, that there’s always room enough for hope! We only need to redeem ourselves by casting the rabid shifty pusillanimous apostles from our midst. Let the slanderous slugs harmful to the flock be smashed like splattering sputtering scumbags. That the nauseous splash be the branding of the beast. For they threaten to blow the whole concern to smithereens, do they not?”
I heard nobody objecting, the wrecked sailor silently opines, a finger up his nostril, as the surf splatters on the rock he rests on and the spray rains on his moustaches.
“Am I lying...? They indict and finger-point, and suck the more velvety of the piano keys, and blow our tops and whistle-blow, and murmur of, and yell at, the servitors of the state, and impinge into their endeavors, precisely at the dutiful servitors of the state as they go about accomplishing their tasks, fulfilling their sacred blood-drenched chores... Aloof, as encrusted chiggers, they mutter amongst the interstices of the ruins. Enormous holes, full not of real soldiers now, but of substitutes, of wooden Indians, of dummies full of enormous holes again, created by the underground grubs, empowered by mistake, temporary, provisional, as if wrongly imprisoned, amateurs playing ball, a disgrace to see... Our colossal works now sabotaged... Enormous holes, enormous busted-sphincter holes... In between a horrendous shambles... And then, endemic, those gigantic snakes, a few small ones, asps, eavesdropping asps, twisted, dry, butt-ugly, trying to bite the big ones... The big ones, who erst could’ve swallowed an elephant... Isn’t it ludicrous? You are not going anywhere but to the shooting wall, Eimeric Despuig boy. Awesome glamorous cellophane enveloping a stale tinderbox, you creep, ready to be lanced, due to be cleansed... Damned arrogance. Trying to swallow an elephant indeed!”
He remembered. Was that what? A play in a prison about a hospital. A play in a hospital about a prison? This play with Sade and Marat. Murders justified through plenty arguments.
“Killing – good at nothing else...!” Captain Eimeric Despuig broke in, as well he might. “Slaughtering, and then lovelorn, nancy strong boys, nestling and cooing, and pampering and petting, as scruffy warmongering albatrosses comfy inside a pile of usurped weapons that shall bring doom upon those soulless simples held already in vassalage. Slaying, and then lecherous after ordinance, all those duplicate discombobulated pieces of jagged virtu, you ruefully, so maudlin, engage in sex with! Your murderous sexual exploits etched in brimstone; there you are: imprinted in hellish tones, your cap flew off, its fringes a mess of meaninglessness, your breasts carved with incandescent lungs boiling with rancor, and your iron pricks an anomaly of never properly pistoning machinery. Are your right arms raised in perpetuity? Raucous cries, noisy rallies, choruses of equine viruses squirming in painful unease – you’ve been ridden all the way to your horrid little place of burial. Yes, sir, and who rode you, now gets rid of you, you corroding inconvenience: you killed for him, and he wantonly, even grudgingly, disposes of your by now mostly metallic (and rusted) carcass. He’s made it prune it by some other flunky like erst yourself lest some piece of equipment should still be echt and prolong its time: maybe transformed into bullets with which to mete out injustice into the blameless natives of all those foreign wars...”
“All that sickening hub of lies!” The young general, apparently beside himself, came charging like an impudent behemoth. Neither wry, nor self-effacing, nor cohesive at all (like who would in a fucking court-martial,) he pounded upon the easel. “Heroically circumventing the hail of bullets indeed! Overcoming the charge of dynamite bursting inside your guts. Like Hercules in the guts of the whale: to explode it from within...! Heroically, and unrewarded, unguerdoned, for it is impossible to repay such prowess, we know, and yet here we are, heroic enough, more than enough, superbly heroic! Unacceptable whilst unrepentant, and unrepaired, and yet hard at it... In the bowels of the inimical beast. The miraculous spate of overwhelming resurrections from so many sham suicides, of course. The bereaved, the distraught survivors, like untongued and blinded chameleons, melting in the mud. The excruciating wounds, the insurmountable jitters, the rat-filled stomachs, the constant weepings... All sanitized wimpy fables, all grotesque decoys, this is how it seems, but not a smidgeon of how it was, all gaunt pallid fabrications of poet historians – and not two of them – what’s the likelihood – coming up with the same concept or the just word to define the same fact – rapidly waning – on the contrary, like car racers, each of them trying to outdo the remainder with their worthless inventions and characterizations of what really transpired, not even the carrion stink of it approached within a mile of approximative truth... I was there! All those small pretty towns spared in spite of such sorrow as can’t be measured against a horizon of never-ending skeletons. How quaint!”
“Talking about the nice little unscathed toy towns indeed!” Eimeric Despuig remonstrated, and tried to start anew. “If I could embolden myself into a few auspicious phrasings...”
“Shut up!” The old general said (and every one present cheerfully concurred,) for the disgraced captain was overstepping the boundaries of decency.
Now some of the sharps tips of a few of those hooks intended to replace the wrecked ones at the end of the harpoons, were piercing his palms. For a second, Eimeric Despuig came back to the scene of his last refuge. An empty feeling... Most of the savages had returned inland, to the fields, or who knew, wherever they went to gather, or hunt, or till... He would not have been able to recognize one of them for the life of him – afflicted with acute prosopagnosia in anything having to do at all with the inferior races.
Maybe the crone he had stunned or killed...? Mm. Was the witch still there, asprawl on the shingle, in such a style as to bring to mind a whiff of cryptic artistry...? A touch of garnishry dangling from the neck of a buxom anchorite...? Yep, a lambkin’s dainty reptilian skin wouldn’t improve on it. With the head of a medusa, a harpy, an angry gargoyle, a disturbed naiad...? And indubitably dead.
He had staggered overboard, as erst – but is the word “erst” more maritime than earlier or formerly? Probably not – as had before the flirting girl for whom, or at least for whose bag of letters, the brothers fought, to serve the span of his natural life (how did the formula state if?) in this forsaken African isle full of dangerous nobodies. After he’d survived the execution squad whose wild shots had miraculously misfired – the rifles too old or the shooters, or both, and unsteady to boot with the diseases and the sickening pills. The dalliance of the pretty girl a pain in the posthumous ass of the cuckolded brother, namely who of the both of them...? The blind fellow in regard to whom nothing good could be said, or the other one, the cruel one who always ran such a tight ship, as the old general did with his drumhead court martial high jinks in the subterranean holding halls of the hospital..., until everything went bust, as all has to too eventually.
The nasty brother would had been wondrous in those off-putting slums where the harridans seemed to run the show. With his heinous catchpoll soul he would pinprick their spheres of pride as with his truncheon he would also no doubt their no less rounded croups. He wouldn’t came a cropper as I would, captain Eimeric Despuig thought, shamefully bespattered by the collapse of my former career, shunned by my own family, always erroneous in the lurking witless eyes of the blameless shit-headed lunks, my neighbors and other wounded compatriots. But he, the good nasty brother, must have perished with his bag and his vessel. Swallowed by the ocean beasts.
He had lifted, hadn’t he, a corner of the veil (it felt morbid, like a thick slice of cartilage) at the entrance of the tent of the sacred maniacal parrot. His reception ominous even here, unfortunate, boding but further shit. He had known previously about ambassador parrots – representatives of their simple-spirited lands in the sanctioned international venues. They wore their hair – their plumage or tufts or crests – when in official business, tied neatly at the nape of their necks. No flounces or headscarfs or colored bows like other representatives of the inferior races. Parrots are a lot smarter than that. Was the parrot I met on my arrival the chief here...? I had staggered overboard, he thought, went off in a little dinghy loaded with stolen trinkets...
He came back at the loathful scene of the evening of his disgrace. The death sentence was about to be pronounced. A few of the stalled putty bystanders crumbled in a puff of fetor. Not me, thought he. Before farting mouthwise with the stench of his crippled opinion, the presiding judge, the old general, with his court of younger asslicking ones in tow, aped the close-knit jury, which had gotten up as a weak hirsute wicked man to hie itself with due permission back to the privy. Eimeric Despuig took his totemic cigar out and soaked up smoke until the knobs of his knees reached their goal, which was to bleat like blisters pouring out oodles of balm. He felt dandy all told.
Next his testimony postponed, the proceedings adjourned...? Not a chance. He’d turn into a dead man today, true enough, soon enough, no delays, that’s the stark healthy military way.
Now, again, wrecked sailor Eimeric Despuig took in, squinting, the seared horizon, inwards. Rere the dire shrubs down there, there were mingled beasts and men, the men behind the beasts, in acts of buggery, it appeared in the clearer distance; with a frenzy, there they were, plowing. A squadron of plowing peasants. Atoning, as all peasants, for their misdeeds of past lives. Such fucks!
Eimeric Despuig tried to renew then his brilliant impugnation. He perorated as follows: “It coheres when society’s pretty towns and other soothing accomplishments are by the good and virtuous weapon-tottingly safeguarded... About that I’m in agreement. But then with stupor I witnessed, for I was (secretly) stalking the bumbler commander, how he threw caution to the foul winds of defeatism and handled things as bad as you could. Where I was for caution and letting things rot by themselves (they always do,) he next took the brakes off and assaulted the enemy. I was horrified. What in bloody hell is he doing? He was indeed demolishing our own army by intercession of the self-implicit counterattack...”
How shallow sanity! What’s the point of arguing any point...? All’s predetermined.
There’s no telling them apart – they all look like stinking females full of tacky secretions, some more bulbous than others – a few sick and scrawny, with faces yet of deeper horror. His hands were all sharp shiny hooks.
Who am I? And where am I landing? That’s not the isle promised by my Faria. Wasn’t the name Faria that the count of Montecristo...? Eimeric Despuig looked askance at the whole topography. A mistake of nature, surely.
He sang the song. “The river flows under the bridge, and our loves, let me remember: after the pain always came the joy. Here’s the night, the hour strikes, the days flee, I persevere. Our hands entwined, our faces facing each other, let’s remain so, while under the bridge of our arms flows the wave so heavy and weary of crossed gazes. Here’s the night, the hour strikes, the days flee, I persevere. Love flees as flows the water, loves flow, ah how slow living is and how fierce is hope. Here’s the night, the hour strikes, the days flee, I persevere. Gone are the days, the weeks, nothing returns neither time itself nor the loves, as under the bridge the river flows. Here’s the night, the hour strikes, the days flee, I persevere.”
Apollinaire had been his guide to hell from where the sage Savin Covershame would then help him off. Thus is how it happened. Eimeric Despuig had been a wittol in a previous life – such it seemed.
A wittol, a skimmington, acknowledges that his wife is preeminent. She’s the one fucks away, the one brings the bacon home – she’s the man. Eimeric Despuig, the poet-soldier, had no trouble with the arrangement. He’d been a night-shift armed guard in a weapons factory. Now, with some of his wife’s savings, he’d been able to open a little shop. He was selling cheap regalia for fetishists.
The tropical Sun enlightens his memories. Marguerite Despuig, what a woman! My wife, she’s somebody, she travels the world, she appears, and highly praised too, in the Herald Tribune; with some of her savings, yes, I’m able to open a little nostalgia shop, where nazi memorabilia and such items, like war-dilapidated objects, militaristic paraphernalia, and army accoutrements... – true, such shit as this gets easily sold to creeps and crazies. I only sell the genuine article, though. I’ve been in Amsterdam recently, only to acquire a nazi helmet, a general’s, spiked and all. For secret displays and sadistic court-martials. Mock trials. Unfortunately, upon arriving home and researching the item, I realize it’s a fake. Oh, well. I’ve destroyed it. A helmet made in Hong Kong. The helmet proved a dud, but who isn’t fond of nazi memorabilia...? Plenty of lords and ladies selling big chunks of their posh British states only to fill covert rooms with the forbidden objects – ah, martyring implements of torture – chambers of horrors, why not, nothing posher. I had trouble keeping the little shop open, correct. People not tolerant at all – smashing it with bricks and cobbles; hooligans with gasoline and matches, with home-fashioned little bombs having their whims... It was fun for them, it was fun for me.
After Eimeric Despuig’s convenient trip to Amsterdam, once Pompeu Kigolla, the Lithuanian professor to whom his Marguerite was so devoted, had already gone back to his soviet paradise, the wittol asked, drivel at the ready, “And how did it go that time?”
She’s still dreamy. “He brought me roses – a huge bunch.”
The thoughtful professor, a huge bunch of roses, a huge shlong, and an eminence in the field of economics. Shit, I’m awed, you bet, such a luminary, and pleasing the wife and making her a puppet of complacency and obedience, and...
“Did he ask about me at all?”
“No. You are nobody for him.”
For whom is he anybody...? Captain Eimeric Despuig contemplated the sea whose half-closed red eye was the Sun, a churning as of tears concerted made red mountains on the horizon. He thought he saw a man-bird: was it an incarnation of the sacred parrot...?
Such regalia – couldn’t sell it in his little shop of twenty years ago. The clients, the customers so lame, most of them. Looking for the bloody wrappings from the war wound on Apollinaire’s head – more valued and valuable even than the sudarium of so-called Christ, the Milan shroud, and as bogus too. He flew over with ease – found fake “classical” nazi helmet – destroyed it – made in Hong Kong – not worth to sell – don’t sell fakes – only originals. Shop’s doors always tittering – difficult to prop open – or close – the barbaric “antinazies” always aggressing it. Non-fucking dames the dames that came to buy the trinkets. They never paid any attention to him – as inexistent, not there... He’s got to vacate his matrimonial bed every time the knight-lover, the economics warrior, comes back from the arid fields of monetary wars in the restricted hedonic area where the soviets wallow. Who ever cared at all for him? Ah, yes, his little daughter, Eunice. Just three yesterday.
Marguerite said: “Oh, Pompeu and Eunice became such close pals! He gave her a bath every morning. They went together to buy the croissants. She astride on his bull’s neck. Such domestic bliss! Who would’ve have thought! Your daughter will not recognize you either. Tough luck, meek lackey.”
Or something to that effect.
Have you found the yellow sign yet?
of course that’s the deal
if the dream is feasible and plausible enough
I’ll make it happen and the hell with it
alternate realities or what have you
the point it is a pleasant enough pursuit.
but if it is too ugly or impossible then what
nothing I’ll skip it.
I dreamed last night that my coffin was yellow
all yellow – a burnished shiny keen yellow
well and why not
and now I had to think hard
either I had already the coffin and then I would paint it the same sort of yellow
or as it proved that among my scant belongings I owned no coffin
I had first to buy or make me one
and then paint it yellow
that was the deal
and a welcome one too.
but I also dreamed that then two thugs
while I was unawares cleaning something
some weeds and burned candles
at the corner of my office
two thugs had been been busy at my back
clearing my coffin
stealing my appurtenances therein...
as I confronted them and saw their nonchalance
their hated indifference to my questioning
their malicious matter-of-factness as to what pertained
to their hideous activities
and in my anger I punched one of the thugs
the fattest and thickest
in his fucking gut
and the other
his hands loaded with my stuff
had this frightened face...
well all that I couldn’t make it happen
unless two thugs really materialized thereabouts
and proceeded to rob me
that’s to say the contents of my spanking new yellow coffin
while I was employed on tidying the corner of my office
which effectively held a profusion of burned candles and tiny nascent weeds
as I realized when I kneeled down and started sprucing up
the up till now indeed too neglected corner
of my office
which is all so apposite
for who would’ve thought
that ancient ceremonies would still be represented as relics
or what have you archeological vestiges
oozing up to the floor of my humble office and then even
imprinting themselves as acid effluvia
on the palimpsests of my dreaming machine
thugs be warned though
I punch thugs’ guts easily enough
when so provoked and instructed by the oneiric shamans
of my archaic memory
and never cowed neither
for I know that the consequences are already written
in the simmering histories of the skies.
Palimpsests on the nuns’ tummies
I’ve seen the iron-willed pencil
with which my busy umbrella striates
its delirium tremens on the tarnished buttocks
of all those clouds so pregnant with malice
– all of them rostrums embellished
with twee tackiness and average abjection
from where stultified heads of preachers preach
their claustrophobia into spirals of pocks
that rain on earth and roam the men’s-rooms
where mopey moan the moraines.
Pocky are the morbid buttocks
every pock a stemma that oozes semens
as if it were another Roman nun’s navel.
Ah the semens – nemeses of my mama!
Would she pester against the establishment!
An establishment that allows the demeaning of the female
(like the podophthalmic antennae of the crabs that haunt the merkins
the stilted gems whose meaningful wet samaras fall
like omens on the ludicrous wobbly cobbles
where the manhoods of men trot larval and writhing)
an establishment vile enough to wallow
on the ruins of the vulnerable female made then as labile
as the dry striated semens the nuns umbilically store
stunning sluts seen from a distance...
Wiry by the wayside
sheltered by some rusty eaves from the slums
tried as an awkward obstetrician to read the new wisdom written
by the pencil of my umbrella on the bankrupted marrow of the sky...
It was like trying to read luggies and snot
collapsed on the hilt of my hand
a semen cru of a dispirited vintage gone to pot.
My mom was right
musclemen emboss with their fist the welkins
as if the welkins were the walls of their dens
where they mate and sputter
and scatter the entrails and whittle the skulls.
And the morbid clouds are the foolhardy buttocks
where the fists collided
the teasing asses
harnessed in poisonous chill where the noses snooped
and later the mops erased the names of the mimes that came to cry
their semens entanglements of resented writings done
with pricks that were fists.
Pops like a van carrying fireworks and exploding midway
a bolt of lightning.
(my eyes on stilts burning like squibs)
to nil comes my cavil
I only know that
the sky’s the puppet ass of a worthless fat whore also.
How hard again the transit
Caretaker in a girls’ boarding school
I took care of the feminine bodies
With hand unnoticed.
I washed their dirty clothes
I cleaned their bedrooms and bathrooms
I counted every item of clothing – checked carefully
That the tags stuck – counted holes in the meshes
At the barriers on the boundaries explicitly surrounding
Our hallowed ground.
I appreciated them being always ‘round.
There were no dead
There were no strikers
No internecine becrippling of the sweet-smelling troops.
Gravely I used to fondle the mud
How well I remember now the mud
The soft malleable mud where their buttocks and their piss had lain
Evocatively dreaming of creation.
How well the tasty mud
Now that the ground is unyielding
Now that the dead and the strikers sinisterly come sidling to our side
Sick snarling brutes
With evil intentions of mayhem wreckage thorough extermination
Now that the pillows are nails
Now that the eager sores are never asleep
Now that the torment lingers
Now that the plague rules the roost
Now that famine is ubiquitous.
There’s no clean water
The mines are crumbling on our very heads
And the strikers don’t strike with the paltry sticks and the makeshift flint shovels
At the stony marbled coal that hides maybe the pure torrents underneath.
We are trapped in those galleries
Dive into whichever side and the sharp griddle of raw bord cuts at your wrists
The hard strata of ore surly draw farther prisons on your scalp
Shines the blood on the shiny carbuncles.
We are all in transit
Make fucking do!
I shout to the strikers whose baseless uproar threatens our work
We are husks borne by the draft of the revolving doors of renewal
Don’t you fucking understand?
Because they were appalled that I wouldn’t allow the dead to be properly buried
What the fuck would “properly” mean
It is the fucking same
It is the fucking same
It is the fucking same!
Buried or not a corpse is a fucking corpse
The rot is on either way
The flies the grubs the maggots and the bugs
The patches and splotches of liquid rot
It is the fucking same “properly” or not!
So nice that those girls were
The fuzz in my guts (grown ferocious
With extraneous eyes and fangs
Devouring each other – the more proximate the first)
Even the fuzz infallibly yearns
That buried or unburied
Rotting away all the same
The strikers and the dead were already one and the same
As the ugly and the beautiful were for me the same
Indiscriminate I in my attentions
To the scrumptious hulls they so carelessly and adorably left behind
Anonymous underwear which my wounds healingly did wrap
The counted items so deeply inspected before they went into the washing machines
The molted meltings so cherished
The abandoned themselves that they so blatantly forgot or even despised
In their transit to the paradise
Of a future sure promised
Yet so long to really come by to
Where promise gurglingly beckons indeed
Though indeed so very faintly now...
Cruets at the ready
Near the river
The quotidian fights and the ghastly torture
Pimps dogs servants whores
Harsh beatings swift murders...
How easy to turn one’s head toward the geometric gardens nearby
And peripatetically expound upon the landscape
With a friend who also wants to avoid trouble.
And how comforting to apply the cruets of Dalí
A few drops of olive oil over the wounds of pain
A few more drops of the wine vinegar of the sarcasm of his wit
To comment also on the uncouth happenings of the evening.
The heroism of the haggler
Who educes from the gaudy figment hell-bent on slaughter
A meager reduction of the fee
The whore made of sawdust who coaxes the devil
Into yielding some of his flame
So that she might explode with glee
The enchanter who to his tongue’s hilt emits
Those siren’s sounds of wasted velocity
The knots on the necks of the sorrowful lackeys and attendees
Who can’t rightly discern among the umbrages and the felonies
The indelible impact of the fact that we are not there
“Gotta be outside
Can’t be in
Could be in
Only if unseen.”
“Them the dapper and the known
They have the run of the place
We the unsightly and the wise
Are banned from the light.”
The night steadfastly impelled by the shrieks of the dying
Bestows its dark blessing
The river ekes out a reasonable current
Propelled by its recent affluents
The new bloods that the gutter brings.
The dumb chorus observes the utter darkness
And mumbles damp sentences among the boles of the trees
Vertices of the labyrinthine garden
Where dawn is bound to drip
Drop by drop
As from the cruets into the crudities.
Crawling gods hairy dark unkillable
Giddily slither the bugs
With their lily-like harpoons their beady eyes
Their many legs hairy and black
Their mottled glans
Their puce prepuces
Their bleating mouths
Their unctuous invocations
Their vicious hearts
Their wrinkled assholes from where volumes
Are shitted of quivering stinking platitudes...
I’ve been a secretary to a dentist
To a clumsy dentist I might add
I’ve seen pain
I’ve seen faces scorched and flayed
The faces you’d see when you opened the iron maiden’s door
And the fellow inside had been pierced through the nose
The eyes the mouth
His bowels topsy-turvy
His organs every which way
And burst you bet
Susurrant seeping garbledly gurgling
Telling one to pull the chain on it all
Once and for all
The deed done...
I’ve been smirking high on a booster seat
Fronting the circus
I’ve even had my courage briefly rubbed off
My heart lumbering
My blood whipping
My lungs yammering nonsense
When for pure pukka tiptop deterrence a beast jumped on the bleachers
We keen on aucupation
A hawk feeding on the filthy wealthy
Extracting its tithe on the eyes of the onlookers:
There is something as having too much fun...
But those bugs
Those bugs were unkillable
Did I try to stick up their asses a stick of dynamite...?
Did I ever!
No event so singular that could end them
Not even a nuclear bomb making a dent
Their atoms undetachable
Tightly bound with an inexpugnable glue
Are they gods...?
They must be
Probably the original ones
Or else the posthumous ones
The gods we left behind
For that’s the only way to kill them
To kill the unkillable bugs or gods
Shadowy presences nibbling gnawing
At the dusty corners under your bed
Corroding your corns your feet
Your soul – membranous tattered torn down...
By wiping your conscience clean
Die please die
And thus kill the gods.
He approaches - a fish out of water waving his filamentous fins
His breathing hands sifting the desert dust
And he’s got a knife he’s got a few sharper ones too stuck in his sash
Armed to the gills
After the gelding I’ll be much better than a man he assures me
I’ll be angelized.
Dove into the swamp
Swam until I became a riddle of slugs soft weeds bloodsuckers teeth
Ran through the jungle
The freezing reef I climbed like a skulking ascending glacier
Then I lost my foot and my alibi
Fell a wreck at their cataphracted feet
Blindfolded and gagged they had me quarantined
A luminescent amoeba now-defunct enkindled the bleak sojourn
She was a tiny parasite in one of my eyes
She saw my suffering
She remembered my childhood
When I was such a stud where all the old patricians croaked with envy
That I'd better be made better than a man soon
My prick showing the proud depravity
Of a lean never lame boomslang
Agreed agreed their jealous rusted voices croaked
And the amoeba clung
And made love to my eye
My all-seeing eye
My angel eye.
Crisscrossing lines of fate on alleys quite frenzied
Why the rapidity
Isn’t it better to stroll along the road?
The procession of cars with the rushing nuns crammed in
Shall collide with the procession of cars replete with the flushed heavy families
That speed on the contrary direction
And what a bother all it shall be
The shambles the smokes the conflagrations
The bodies the bloods
The sirens the hounds
My car was stolen long ago – by thieves one supposes
Never owned that damned annoyance a dog
Never had therefore an “accident” provoked by such a pesky overgrown bug
Now my friends’ house
The same I used to crash in up to the day before yesterday
Was also stolen – by the cops – or the state – (same thing)
Now I see them coming back on the opposite side (my friends)
Across the river of crazed vehicles
The friend in front waves the papers – it seems their legal or judicial
(Or whatever) steps in the city have been successful
Their efforts to reclaim the property paying at last off
The replevin papers in order – waved dangerously aloft where the current
From the accelerating vehicles gathers and eddies in little maelstroms
The friend behind looks more harried
He doesn’t rush with the same alacrity he lags he sags he staggers
He gestures to me that I ought to go back with the joyous friend
Than he is due behind
He has a more urgent matter now to take care of than the retrieval
Of one’s house
I signal that no way
That that’s my goodbye for now
There they go sweating and floundering up the side of the road
Me leisurely strolling down the other
The middle unassailably taken by the blur of hastening crisscrossing traffic
The nodding friend whose whole craving (gnawing yearning) is now
To touch back his house detaches himself
Hangs back the second one hassled disturbed
The opposite traffic darts against him
As my opposite traffic rips against me
That’s why I can’t get the gist of what he says or even gesticulates
That much I gather
That he’s seen some of his family on a train due incontinently out
And he’s conflicted
What the fuck to do
The house successfully reclaimed
The family going away forever
He must go back he’s indicating
He must catch the fucking train
The house be damned
That must be goodbye forever
He sweats he thrashes about he’s about to collapse
But he keeps on walking fast taking my direction now
Overpassing me by far all on the other side of the noisy track
He looks despaired
He fears he won’t make it
There he goes what a distressing marionette
What a discomfort for the eyes
What an embarrassment of a puppet disheveled frayed shabby moribund
He is madly rushing against traffic in the opposite side of the road
Where I’m also leisurely strolling on my way to the same station
Where sure I’ll catch a train
I’ll catch a train or other
That’s a given
Never you fret.
Dancing on the sward
From the aging mansion where the youngsters are wont to commit
The most horrific suicides – they
Electrocute themselves high in spiky towers
They hang themselves with chains at the end of which wolf traps snap
They disembowel themselves with kitchen knives
They sedulously maim and amputate themselves
They go at it always with a keen intent
And succeed in making such messes of their own corpses
That picking them up it seems – I’m told
It seems to be really disgusting.
From the crumbling sumptuous melancholic mansion
Where awed shamble the doomed
The manic fervidly set their complicated self-killing contraptions
The degenerate mechanically ensnare their own wasted bodies
It’s good to be just the gardener
Always outside – (never been in
Who’d be so crazy to want to?)
Always semi-busy and about trimming the paths
Always married to the deep green of the plants
And the deep blue of the sea that peeps up where the sward
And the turf gently slope
It’s good to be just the gardener
Occasionally musing at the pink rain while shacking
In my shack at the other end of the huge garden
My holy sylvan abode
And when the old woman of the house
Ancient survivor in the old rich mansion
Comes out to dance a few steps of a minuet on the vast lawn
It is good to be the gardener who reaches out his hand for she to hold
During her simple pirouette
Alas always before yet again she is summoned in front of another ghastly
Last of the bloody brood already – not many more left
House without youngsters house without angst.
First I hate crowds
Second I hate lines
Third I hate bureaucrats
Trite trolls ensconced in their clotted quonset cabins.
Now the times presses
It is becoming too late
The runty fairy takes my passport
I make a few remarks
Notice that I could’ve move ahead with the notables
And the other shitty v.i.p.’s
But I’m one with the people..
Hate prerogatives and privileges you know...
Must be mightily pissed off by now the damned spook
Too tired with stamps labels countermarks that kind of garbage
Nonetheless he fucking takes his time with my passport
When the syrupy hours elapse my head collapses on the counter
I take a few exhausted winks
The mob thins
The din subsides
Somebody else – a lowly woman – elbows me
Hands me the passport He had not enough
Space (leaves) (pages) to affix his afflux of notes
My passport all smeared with multicolored provisos
And mainly with insults innuendoes questionings
Plain frontal assaults regarding the state of my sanity:
I’m not only crazy I’m also dangerous
I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere for a span
Of more than a couple
Of closely watched days – and at the least slip I should be committed
I’m frothing with anger
If I’m so crazy mayhap I’ve got a license to kill the turdy
Son of a bitch...
Only that he’s out to lunch.
I’m pacing outside at a loss now
I’m sizzling inside
I’ve got to destroy that fucking state (state of things) dares deny
My rights and moreover officially makes a walking disaster
Out of me.
I’m boiling mad
Roaming without a clue
Even bathed in the afternoon zephyr
I’ve been rumminating along that narrow street
A tub precariously balanced at the edge of the curb
Placed to be picked up by the garbage people soon due
Gets a furious rear kick out of me
It comes loose
It rolls down gathering speed
It will crash into traffic
It will cause chaos and mayhem at the crossroads
Against which the ally abuts
That’s why I’m running down some handy side street
I see the sea at its end
A marina where in floppy idleness the well-to-do
Use up their last one hundred sixty-two days allotted
How am I to mix unnoticed among them?
First let’s cross the torrent separates me from their tasteless luxury
The torrent skids down along the solid rim
I’m running on.
It’s all sham
Decoration put on
The open sewer goes to the sea
Near the sea it gets canalized it sinks into a culvert
Under the flat pier it seethes
Under the flat pier above which I’m walking nonchalantly
To mingle with my worthless peers.
Am I too conspicuous
Too conspicuously a branded crazy
A patently non-allowable...
Who’s to say?
Can’t I stroll also with a certain flair flaring my nostrils
Lifting my head tilting it so and pinching my lips
And tut-tutting myself
My image on the shop windows
Faking it maybe a mite too much
Not that anything ain’t faking
On the contrary all fakes in a fake setting
It’s all bunk all bogus
All show off...
The dying (and the living) taking place always elsewhere
I’ll melt all right
I’ll melt and wait for the coming smelting
Where I’m bound to fall also in a few
At last going in full consent with the current
With the current down down
Another dead smelt borne by the smelting.
Running to catch the last train
Always so hard to get into that last train
The annoying goodbyes the emptinesses the aloneness
The realization of nothingness implied in any broken packet from the past
And then the flight
The climbing of the iron steps full of piles of recent defecations
Over the old ones – and those last over what one might call already the coprolites
Your skill in avoiding the shits
And now the running along the decrepit ones’ sinister street
With all those coquettes of a few old women without teeth
That concomitantly laugh and defecate only lifting a little their wide
And now where would you put the emphasis
Of your slipping soles that add commas of shit or quotation marks
On the text of recent defecations on the gaudy street where the dying strut...?
For you’ve come to the brink of the cliff
And now but fast the big decision
About what to do then about that road that stops or ends abruptly
Whether you should jump for the ledge to the left
Or the ledge to the right
Both ledges so bloody narrow
The drop at the lip of them so steep and deep
The ledge at the left looking more worn out and greasy
From the steps and hands of previous passers...
The left it is then...
But the drop is so fierce
Your heart is dangerously faint
Oh and now here you fly down the precipice...
Your death before the last train’s arrival certainly certified...
What a pity
But wait that your hands have managed to grab the railing
Of a balcony belongs to an end shop of a lower rung ledge
Where the people are younger though maybe meaner...
The termagant of a shop owner wants you disengaged
She comes a-poking with her butcher’s knives
She wants you down she wants you dead
Hooligan! – she’s shouting – Damned hooligan!
But the lady customer imprecates in your favor?
Well maybe she does
She’s lifting her arms to heavens and reproving the boss
Telling her to mind the eyes of the hanger-on
Look at his terror look at his outrageous fright the man’s a wreck
And anyway the bump you complain of
The bump at your window it was made from the inside
Not by any outside hooligan but by one of ours it was...
So the miracle is on
The boss’ heart softens
She turns her back she allows you to climb up the railing
And walk down the gallery to the next floor...
From that flat deserted floor full of rain and ruins
Through the neck looking down toward the lower rung
At your peril you must now traverse
The gangs of younger and younger thugs...
And then the unending useless works
The works impassable
Where the workers look at you with irrepressible hate
And their gigantic machines of raw iron dressed in loose concrete
Would swallow you whole (are they even yearnig to?) with a gulp
So you better turn legal
You better turn into the normal way of access to the station
You better alas try to make it through the worse gang of them all:
The cops – they don’t need any excuse to harass and to murder
They are the fucking law...
How they poke at you with which haughty stupid loathing
How they pretend to look for drugs or who knows which other shit
Inside your gullet with their filthy monkey hands down your choking
Finally a cruel cultivated captain – a nasty fairy
Lets you go forward into the station per se
He recognizes a fellow skeptic
Only that down on his luck
He sees a kin after a fashion a kind of compatriot
One of them with the scarred hopeless disbelieved soul...
The trail trembles becomes white hot
The train is in abeyance sighing like a dragon in the last throes of sleep
You’ll make it yet
You’ll make it
Companionship of pullers
We tried to save his life
The boy was sick and in bed
The bed high on the hill
The bed his deathbed if nothing were done
Before to impede it
The bed his carapace of burning brimstone
Of red hot iron
His Nessus’ shirt.
Long ribbons white and red
Were brought down to the road’s rim
So that all that wished to could also pull
We tried to save the sick boy’s life
With long ribbons doggedly pulled
By all the stopped automobiles’ drivers
Striving toughly on the road at the foot
Of the hill.
All to no avail
Of the ah all so truthful saying
Everything comes to nothing
After the striving.
The sick unmovable
Soon apt pasture for the vultures and the rodents
Loving the morning
I love to belong into the early dawn circle
Even if only discussing
The earlier fires that ravaged
The small businesses
The big businesses wanted ravaged
In order for them to build on the ravaged
Love to belong among the pestering sobbers
And the blubbering complainers.
Love to belong for a while in the circle of humanity
If only commiserating with those that lost
heir earnings and their little businesses
If only cursing and railing against big business
And the big business thugs
That disguised as arsonist thugs
Burned down the whole row of little businesses.
I love to disengage myself from the depressing circle
Grab a friend
And walk together on the roofs
Munching toasted slices
I love to peer into the two windows
Where my old humorous drawings
Are exposed on the walls
My old humorous drawings
Funnily twisted little guys colored
With colors bright
And sensible nonetheless
I love to stand at the door of my house
When the rows burn.
Love to defend my property
And my friend
With a shotgun and a clean shot
Through the intruder’s
All by instinct ruled
Somebody wanted to kill him during his sleep
He had parried the blow with the hot brick
He had said to his wife
–One in your family tried last night to blow me with a whack out of the map
By instinct alone I grabbed the hot brick and smashed him
First before he fled.
Or she fled – she said.
–Anyway he must be sporting a nasty bruise
By now on the head
Or the face or the shoulder you know
Please be so kind as to in a discreet manner
Ascertain then who might it be.
–You are too friendly with the woman folk of the household
Commenting too favorably on the color of their dresses
And insinuating how healthy and appetizing their bodies look
The man folk don’t see it with such leniency as you’d hope for
And then there are the jealous hags
They feel spurned and affronted if the praise coming their way
Is deemed to be somewhat of less import than the one their rivals get
Or there are those that reckon that you are coming on too strong
–Me? On the contrary no way
Unfailingly too gentle
For instance can never approach the heteroclite spread
Or the blackening pile
Of any suddenly offered bargain
Never dare or care to push away the eager strangers
Vying to get a piece of the shitty loot
Truth is their touch alone repels me excruciatingly...
Soon the abode was in turmoil
His clothes were always wet
His cushions and his bed always wet
His pillows teemed with untamed oblique quirks
Burned films of horrors past
Soot swerved about from new prickly tiny craters
On ceilings and walls
Enigmatic sounds of fetters heavily drawn
Along narrow passages he surely heard
Filtered through the partitions that grew like mushrooms overnight
Lewd anchorites burgeoned from erst homely nooks
They frowned defiance upon the foreigner
He was heckled as any defective too ugly neophyte would...
He screwed up his courage and readied his suitcases
And started his journey at a break-neck pace
Endless vaults and new alleys appeared in the building
New crannies new stands new shops...
A vertigo was his that blatantly unsettled his wits
His reign he was relinquishing bit by bit
He was a pharaoh doomed
He had embarked in that druid business and now he was alone
His acolytes flagging
His vestals and nymphs swooning hither and thither
The unholy mirth of the enemy closing in...
He scratched and growled
Rent were the slimy curtains
Scruffily sighed the imps
Whoever dares impinge into our realm
Anyone who crosses the jinxed causeway in deadly earnest
The lost soul that strode over the unquelled worms of our corpses...
And so on.
He was worn off
In the throes of despair when he found the door
To heavenly outside.
He fell agroof over the flagstones.
Flabby scared on his soiled duff
No longer personable and smooth
He had been just zapped
By the clammy law.
The residual chaos of himself bemoans
Almost instinctively the unfairness of his luck.
Peers from a garret orifice
She seems to hold a parsnip in her bill.
The animals you bet
Animals always so busy
Their busyness dizzying.
I told my family I’d only come if carried
But when we arrived at the foot of the scalinata
They left me slumped in my wheelbarrow
Wrapped in my blankets
Not for lack of charity as sundry a tourist must’ve thought
But because they were fed up
With my childish attitude.
I got up to the dismay of the charitable ones
And took the little wheelbarrow where I erst was crammed
And filled it up with clayish mud
The result of last night pouring over the seven hills
Surrounding the city.
I brought the mud into the riverbank
And emptied it there on the scant strand
Then I gave away the quaint wheelbarrow to some ragamuffins
Who were elated with my gift
On the shingle of the shore its wheels rang
And its metallic body boomed.
Next I went to see my friend’s little gipsy dog
And took it for an eventful stroll along the rear
Of the row of the fairgrounds permanent shacks
Fronting the river.
Behind Madam Magician’s gaudy shed
We met a little witchy cat
Boozy and breezy and so cute
With whom my gipsy gray doggy
Both played and slightly fought
In a deep muddy puddle
They wallowed and frolicked
In the end both were dressed in slime.
We went up to a ramshackle badly leaning faucet
And washed away the muck
Luckily it was a warm afternoon.
Now we encountered a makeshift memorial
That had under the cross two tablets
One with solemn easy verses
The other with some cartoons by a skilled hand lovely made
About a soldier who in spite of having had
A quite ordinary youth
Had to go down in battle at such a tender age.
We went back a bit morose into my friend’s shop
He said I didn’t know you had taken the dog
I said You were so busy at the time
And now I went behind the counter
And prepared myself something to eat
For which I even paid
A client came in
He had a thick dog on a leash and on a little string
A painted rodent
I said to him Is that a rodent or a very small dog?
He said A rodent
A fashionable rodent if you please
Its pelt has been shampooed
Barbered and colored
As you see in orange and green
And do you know that I was asked by phone
(I said I know him!)
To write an article about that type of rodent
And its domesticity for his magazine?
I said He never pays
The client said He did though very little
I said This is how he became so rich
By not paying his flunkies
Didn’t I know!
The animals meanwhile were going hither and thither
The shop was alive with the movement of animals
The earth itself
The universe loved it.
Help from above
Who whispers foul play
Is awfully wrong.
The numbers he ratchets up
The beautiful stranger
At any game
Be it physical or intellectual
At strenuously jumping or sitting in thought!
He amazes the pants out of everyone
Myself not excluded
(Though himself excepted
I’m just a coach for little guys
I’m saying to all and sundry
What a great example
No longer dozed the giant
The roar of stardust
Was clawing back into his
He’ll fight the harder now!
May the public be prepared!
If I’m lying I’m dying
The fear upon the bunch.
Here they were again
The jolly mothers
With the ample flowery skirts
And the wide-opened umbrellas
Voluptuously splurging at the soon not so crowded
Arrived like a perfumed breeze
To pick up every eager and boisterous tyke...
Every happily puddle-churner of a tyke
Rain drops on their dripping
All cross the river (1)
Those that walking hug the side of the bridge
They peer from the balustrade
And down there are the waders
There are the bulges of those that drowned.
No parcels or belongings too big are saved
Just little stuff
The big items slowly flow away with the drowned.
On the train that running at the center of the bridge
Crosses the river
The cops are hard at it
They don’t want “nobody that don’t belong”
They wield the flat machines
Against which none is ever shielded enough
The machines that ascertain if...
If you then really belong
If you wouldn’t then be a damned stowaway
If you’d be then a passer of forbidden material
And then so on.
Here they come
They scan the blind man
“And what is this...?”
They snidely ask – (a thick sheaf of smuggled banknotes?)
(It rather looks like)
“Those, sirs, must be the observations on the beetles”
But no really
The blind man is an expert on beetles
He’s got them all carefully described
In them tightly packed sheets of rusting paper
He examines them (and damn the stings and acids)
Plus he has all the sounds they ever make down pat
Only missing are the colors
Every bug gray
And the cops are puzzled
“Should we kick him down as the train moves?”
“Do we ignore him also?”
“Is there gonna rain another blind man
On the sedulous
There are some rowdy youths
That divert attention
They are combating at twisting one’s limbs
Let those that twist farther without breaking
Be the winners
Ok but less loudly
The cops are against a woman now
“Smelling cunt and melting and molting and melding hard”
But a harmless joke amongst comrades
(Hey is she infected...?)
With a sudden strike of his talon
The cop scraps and snatches
A lentil of blood
That was stuck on her body
“That woman has lentils of blood!”
The cops get busy
Snapping at the lentils of blood
Scrambling like rats on a body that’s dying
The woman’s screaming
And now she is tossed down into the reddening river.
How agreeably though in the beds
The few that cram them
Seeing the combats developing afar
“It is all like a movie”
The wives touching the legs of the husbands of others
The husbands likewise
(Or widdershins rather)
And the warmth enveloping one
The warmth and the bodies
The windows so golden
In the crepuscular light.
Arena of creation the body
The body is a round enclosed house
That consists of a vast core
And a thin outer layer inside the rind.
The body as a round house includes
Under the skin an outer circle
(A single long narrow corridor
That lit only by dim lights
Runs around the core.)
On the upper rungs of some portable steps
The director of the movie of your lives
To the lot of them actors that ever touched
Or approached you.
Everyone listens with a certain nonchalance
Until alas the cops irrupt
And all of you and your (the authors’) directors flee
The essential ones (the brightest indeed)
Save themselves coming in.
Inside the core a circus
A vast school of art
A vast and luminous and colorful arena of creation.
All hues and tints and implements
(Pencils of flesh of gorgeous girths)
Are there for the taking by the artists
Whose objects shall shine
Summoned from the hallowed halls of
Joyfully one wallows in the sand
Of the circus where the footprints
Of the moving peoples and the moving cattle
Won’t ever be ascertained
By the cowered police
For the entrance and the exit into the arena
For every intimate flock
Is always unforeseeable and anyway
The cops have always been properly delayed
While the flocks disappear and melt into the crowd.
The arrival of the cops
Is always greeted with amused jeering
“Get thee back into the sewer!”
The more lenient shout
“Craven rats riddled with vermin!”
While the arduous dramatists
Are apt never niggardly in their histrionics
Even to send the worthless trespassers’ way
Torn tussocks of their tragic hair
Where poisoned needles are stuck.
The cops are nobodies
Getting smaller by the minute
Our joy of living affects their borrowed pride
Their defects bubble forth
Their crude tactics
For they realize that indeed they don’t belong
In our circus of love.
Bobby Lightbulb, sluthdom’s top mistress
“Lights out, Lightbulb!”
Barks the dog, the god, the cop.
“Hate bromides, you punk!”
And shoot and kill
The interloper cum awful punster.
Came the aggressor
Through my bedroom window
That with brutal effraction he busted (indeed!)
“Bring thy butt into the bed!”
He commanded while I knew
Exactly under which pillow my gun fretted.
“Bring thy butt into the bed
As my bud develops into the bloodiest of
The most gigantic flowers that be, babe!”
“Bad bid, Bud!”
I’m thinking and
“Bloodiest and stinkiest your flower
Like that lentous and fetid great orchid
With orchitis and sundry suppurating orchioceles to boot
Which flowers once in a blue moon
And the name of which I forget”
As I was making believe I was compliant enough
And therefore going to suck
His tacky flower like a degenerate bee
And my firm dry hand my fretting gun
Was feeling with glee.
The nib of his gun
On the knob of my nob
He notices some of my subtle shenanigans
“Lights out, Lightbulb...!”
“Hate bromides, you punk!
For which crime
- ► 2008 (22)
- ▼ de desembre (2)
- ► d’octubre (7)
- 20. such ugly remains
- 19. trouble at the cage
- 18. almost caught
- 17. taut ribbons
- 16. bullet through the intruder's head
- 15. parsnip in her narrow beak
- 14. you bet you animal
- 13. the roar of stardust
- 12. dripping cheeks: blenched
- 11. all cross the river [one]
- 10. body or luminous arena
- 9. lights out for you, rather, you jerk!
- ► 2006 (20)
- ► 2005 (39)