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.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
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.
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