le clochard (the pimp)
What floaters splash they drop as leaded balls to blast the crusted hearts so crushed they muddy deep to melt in dirt and din the stone the earth they do not fall but only anchor dust below the shale and shire then rise by wisps of light they spangle overhead the night of tears all tangled webbed and -weaving waving forms to lie in sleep and dust beneath the ancient crooked rocks.
Oh to see again the stars they hurl themselves until they pass the shadowed spheres of spinning orbs they blister dawn with phaeton’s might. From the morning of the world I waited and watched the roaring thundering turning seas that washed into my veins and flushed my sleep so do they burn my eyes deep and nothing, ever seen or ever more that goes away before the dawn that creeps above the tree-lined streets. Weeping I cried aloud: “What madness this modern art.” I burn. I burn. I burned my eyes twice staring at the sun in the middle of the dark when it was not there for anyone but me. Radio waves spill like rays washing past the city towers singing far beyond the horse high clouds that list the sky and on to the blacking space where the moon grins back at me. I turn I turn and then at last, I return. The voices, the floaters, the sun of too many days, all boiling raging bubble seas. I swallowed hard but couldn’t swallow. I fell down here along the cobbled walk that lines the walks along the river’s bank. I begged them all for wine and water, a host to feed the night again. A nail a nail nailed thrice for sheol and mercy’s aging gift kissed me soft upon my cheek dripping against my heaving breast.
A clochard stabbed me in the street. I’d hopped the lines of midnight trains deep from the station of the North where I found myself lost beyond the wreckage of the Bastille – balls all clawed and warped beyond my line of sight. There I wandered into the Arab quarter. As I crossed the street, a man blood in his eyes rushed my face whipping out a dull long knife broken rusted and serrated in places from spilling eggs of a dying fish. Open sliced my chest heaving out screaming at me, le clochard, that I would pay for this madness modern art and would, and would with my wound until the last star drops and falls from the night. Kept hidden deep is a secret in the place where Charon never sleeps but rows endlessly between the shores.
The sun passed high overhead. Groaning now so loud so low I ached with thirst for quenching water.
Scratch pat a max fill up the gun again and shoot me past the tree-lined walks where blood rivers rush red past to drench the dining drinkers sitting eating the evening air and stars winking stars from all the cars blinked back and out but no one could even see them. I saw them. The shops, the bars, the smell of coffee and tabac. The sights and sounds drizzled on my eyes and ears and dazzled my wounded eggs for eyes eyes all round me watching me stagger past there along the river walk. In secret I sang that song of myself. Sinning, I then smiled. I peed on the railway tracks.
The doom in my heart deepened by love and despair pushed me along the crypted tombs to the outside edge. I staggered and dropped again by the river’s kiss to banking land. I dangled there in the broken grass and bushes and wept my whispered songs of pain. No one heard me. I lost my nerves. I saw the people, the nations, races of all tongues and watched the empires rise to fall and crush all of those who soon would follow swiveling down the swirling tide ever after searching the centuries for heirs to bleed the feeding babies greeding needing grinding always wanting more. I saw Augustine revenge himself upon them by his weeping. The damaged ones still hung still on trees and dangled stretched out one two three hundreds more heaving raving strung and nailed on crosses hammered crosses all along the ancient ruined road. I came to Carthage late. Nothing left to do after leaving Rome and Athens so late so cold the vacant grassy rocks grow deep and old between the crooked cracks the empty tracks and fallen souls that line the sorrow via.
I found the province humming beneath the bustling trails of tears and when I entered the Holy City I had no ass to ride nor palms to wave. All round me hissed the angry cauldrons kissing hissing foam the boiling boiling boiling love I’d lost. I was hungry; so I ate. In the state my stomach I never tasted. What offspring arrived, I sent thee away.
In those darkened spaces of the rules that rules the night, it was he who fanged me with his wine and words. So deep the fall I fell and finally fell I came upon my sleep.