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.
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