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Posted to Poetry




how shall I forget my
dearest darling my
aching backside?

how long have I borne
this akward world
across tepid streams,
beyond the mincing mouths
of cities caves oceans?

how much further must I travel?
what word is worth the epic pursuit
of folly? must i become a mumbling
imbecile to reclaim an easy conscience,
to cheat the devil/angel that rides
on my shoulders, this word,
this world, Love?

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SUBJECTIVITY:

I am the blind-man whose King
is the one-eyed god, Odin/Balor/Joyce;
I am the Royal Cup-Bearer,
executioner of Socrates/Christ/Hamlet
and many other millions besides,
collateral damage, inadvertent
poisoning, in the accidents of war
and religion. I am the slave that toils
on the face of every coin, in the sense
of every word, bearing the burden of the void
of every mirror.

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sometimes it seems to me that all of poetry should
have attempted its expression in the idle tuneless
whistling
which the dreamer drops
from his drooling maw
without shame or pretension,
this merely being the form from which the spirit
wisely took flight in search of the more ammenable nonsense
of our soul at the bosom of the crest of the sea,
in the arms of our mother, "mimicking her mild
wonder in what she had brought forth in us",
whitman washing his hands of the blood
of christ himself oh captain, thar she blows,
molly bloom, poetry should have been
the humble evocation of her heaving
bosom, heave under ambon senorita
indonesia surreal
poem of the dreamer drooling his
idle expression, hands in pockets picking
daffodils and imbeciles and
silver chains of silver watches
and poetry, great groaning acts of poetry,
heave-o hey! stradavirus,
nero, won't you skiddle my fiddle young miss,
make me sing what you'll have of me,
what you'll have of poetry my muse,
all of rome burns before you, all of manhattan
burns beneath the ash of snow,
so seize the heart of me, pluck my tongue
and I'll sing the sense of you, my love,
of death the void and everything.