poem 25/10

Hardly ever managing
To process the energies we find,
The danger of humans come
To you; hard like a brick
With your face on,

I saw someone
Wrapped up in a towel,
And we sat around in a circle,
The smoke constricting my lungs
Like a Peruvian Boa –

A dead man with a whiskey in his hand
A coffin with a whiskey on top,
Remember sitting around drunk
Dressed up dead from feet swinging –
Flames flickering like an epileptic candle,
Death with its glasses on
Takes off its clothes
And professes in the Indian Groves.

In a glowing Ankor corridor
We surpass tone-deaf muses
Their manner dragging knuckles and feet
To some kind of god damn tree-worship.

I hope she soothes the weather soon,
A turban to dry, a hand begging for tears,
A quick body – shoe-shaped –
Lying around in light of electric storms.

The rival full of doubt like a priest,
The death has always been machinery –
It crackles and explodes.

New Draft of Poem 10/8

Impossible things
Like a baby whistling in the Arctic;
Crucified freaks in pinstripes screaming:
I want to die,
I want to live thru oceans
Of red and purple clouds
Of hot evening sunshine –

Black geometric shadows of houses
And priceless armies of women
Expanding like Lycra begin to sing
While batting eyelashes
Thru a concentration of rainbows;
World stops being soup of death
Becomes old veridian,

Love hung like rubies in a cave,
Upside-down like bats their faces
Odd like pumpkins –
I see above a mossy rock
Or an atom in the dust.