Monday, 10 November 2008

In Korova

8 arms & I must be high
Half-naked in bed
The high-tide wind comes in
And in the darkness I've taken
You all in my hand ...

All this time the taste of tea and blood
And ticking weather sound in my head
Of clocks and car engines resting their bodies
In cold starry wet grit,

Buddah is more reasurring
Because he hardly speaks;
In an instant before he speaks
There is the soft mellow of reality
Sandwiched together between my hands ...
Lying in bed ... Bare skin my blanket ...

4 brothers at one time,
Firing echoes of words no one hears
(2 half-brothers), heaving a coffin on our shoulders,
Don't let it drop,
Don't let one teardrop fall I mistakenly thought
He believed in whiskey and nothing else.

Most sick of death
When death becomes you -
Or that taste of blood;
Stalking your 70 year old feet,
Stood under the bulky trunk
The stink of shit and antiseptic
Like hospital wards of moaning croners
Wishing for whiskey
Like the Irish and the Indians.

Thinking I was great after I turned
To the blood cut-up into
Voicless pieces of meat
Where am not a man: a boy
Miles away from monday
Mother of hatred;
I do not hate you
Suicidal modern city is drunk again,
You'll rot in your grave for that.

2 friends drinking themselves to life;
We cannot be left to our own faint shiver of reason
Found shallow breathing at 3 O' Clock tables
Such specific nights at the tip of the world
Leaking neon and hydrogen and music sweet music
Made me a man to act this way.

And general music zombie from beyond the grave,
Farewell to the flesh
Crows their falsetto following
Buddah with his own problems ...

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