Thursday, October 27, 2016

Requiem for loneliness

I. {Mister Lonely}



You lapsed out of your lonely cell;
Bobby Vinton had been serenading you
nightly.

《Now I'm a soldier, a lonely soldier....》

You called me over air-waves
that have since been lost in time.
Your voice smoking like a cigarette,
working on getting well, getting better.

《....Away from home through no wish
of my own.....》

Across borders we telepathically
played at endearment. I was distracted
by loves, you, the prostitutes
across the street from your Mexican
haven.
Both of us so close....so close...

《....That's why I'm lonely, I'm mister
lonely....》

You had a new tune mixed with old
stale misery, and my horoscope misread
when it said I could lift such weights....

《...wish that I could go back home.》

Now it is Autumn and it truly feels like
death; with these thoughts of Mr. Lonely
in my head I sort through sordid visions
of hell.

II. {Miss Lonelyhearts}

In a strange sulking mold of a suburban house, as ill used as her body, bruises and punctures could be seen, on the walls, her porcelain skin.... In ancient times she would have been a nymph or a siren, now, Mammon made a hollow wind sound that is her name. Like a ghost she haunts. Guiltily.
     
I recalled the tender years, when my first love asked me to draw her; I hadn't drawn in years, fearful abuse from authority had made me sick. Yet I tried, and tried mostly to seem like I wasn't trying at all. The end result reflected my lack of practice and focus and was easily excused with a kiss.

Then, in a youthful mold of a suburban house, we laughed over my attempt, though it felt more like a mask of humor to hide the violent thought that she hated her own face. 


Yet in this queer structure, private property, this different vision of the same princess struck me with a kiss. She thrust it upon my lips. Because I had ridden in on a quicksilver stallion and saved her from a dragon that looked at me with dead eyes.

How unfortunate for him I'd long been in a staring contest with death.

In this void of grief, black hole of love, the room for love was quickly imploding; My only regret was that those crystal memories of childish curiosity were gone....so distant.......

This was after the violence, after the excavation of the mummified scream that bellowed out so ghastly; plagued, we drove for hours, dreaming like drifters, ready to feel...

She was a rattlesnake with a tail full of pills.

This one makes you smaller-

This one makes you shake-

And we all fall down....

She came into my room, a hip death goddess, and hid memories like Easter eggs for me to find once the damage was done.

Ashes to ashes....

All in all, she was a bad excuse for sex. Kindness became burdensome.

We all fall down...«I have this sickness inside me...»
And then, what was left but more bruised fruit for the winter to freeze?


III. {Alone, but not lonely}

Tragic tears tear at me,
And the world is sun.
Frogs hop to die in the tread
of bastard tires
and all the raccoons that sleep
on the shoulders of these vicious roads
Hum the cicada hymn of decay.

We should have been siblings,
in this life.

Before me, all I see is distance. 





Sunday, May 29, 2016

Anarchy enters this garden

Still missing Bosch, I awake in the evenings
and search the annals of specters for a lover.
My scars make for aimless maps as I
have become a traveler with no body on
cloud like wings.

All around me are designer brand lives.

The recluse abroad, in a sense there is such
drama, but when it is gone there will yet
be time for fear;
for coming back here, we who lived only
hours ago, find lady liberty guillotined;
from our windows on high, looking down
see her lost in the stormy sea.

Because life requires much time, it could
be called ‘patience’; because death scares
us- it is not.

For we must live and that is why death is
not called love
(despite what some would have you believe).
Love is a place to be
it is why the skull keeps its eyes open-
if only to catch a glimpse of it again,
and there is faith that skulls see it,
for they are always smiling.

Love in life, love in Christ, if it was once-
O, let it be again!
Yet the uncertain hesitate, we are all so uncertain,
if only we could go back,
get back to…

The world is round, it matters not what direction
one goes, if they stay straightforward they
will return to where they were.
Is it so with life?

Is life but a ball for the gods to bounce in court?

How dare these birds- birds, all around me!
Was it not a week ago I was in love with
all things that fly, now I condemn them!
What is terrible about them is they have wings,
yet they choose to be here and not there
let them be persecuted for choosing such
a toxic wasteland.

If only I could aspire to be such a bird, I would
be a bird thusly persecuted.

Let these feathered things be as trees marked for
felling- ever ready for an apocalypse.

The sky rubs on its rouge and I seek out my
dearest friend, the pharmacist, for her to take my
hand, pet it and tell me that all will be righted.
Everything will be okay.

Yet unbeknownst to her I am a bird marked for
felling and I’ve left my bloody flux upon her
hand; after I depart, when she goes to stifle a yawn
in the meaningless empty hour, she’ll contract
that disease which sickens me, all the more
now that I am back where it was founded.

Let her embrace her ennui and disintegrating
morality like a marked tree-
ever ready for the apocalypse.

So, after travel, when that one question, repeated
by different people, happens to come at sunset-
I would answer with a kiss.
It is, however, at every tired hour that I am asked:

“What of our former masters?”

Europe is a wonderful masquerade,
how I recall the girls in Spain, in the bookstores,
how lovely, in the ideology section
this pretty young lady squealed over Lenin
and was embarrassed when our eyes met-
acknowledging the red star on my hat
with such gravity, only to scamper off and be
beautiful and young.

Then the dark Spanish beauty, the kind
that one could dream of,
with rich Moorish history written into her
genetics; I stood in line behind her
and saw that she held fast a copy of
“Mein Kampf”-

ever ready for an apocalypse

Because life takes lust it could be called
‘distraction’- because ‘death’ is hard
it is not, for we must not
live always in ‘distraction’, if that were the case,
‘death’ would be called ‘focus’.

The night smears on its eye shadow, as the whorish
sky beds the many stars, I suddenly miss
the fogged lights of Paris.

Here is a land, with promise and beauty, yet
such evil that perhaps it is all tainted.
I felt closer to it when
thousands of miles of sea separated us,
but disappointment greeted me at the airport.

Now I only face the perpetual thunder storm of
US politics; and every thunder storm is the same-
we lose power…

Now I only face the constant look of sad or bored
bourgeois children and they affect me more
Than the man who burst into tears, while I was
passing him on a dark Spanish street;
for I could see with my hand on his shoulder
that his pain was earned and despite the hurt
he was grateful for it.
Having been robbed, he knows he once had,
and his yearning is knowledgeable.

Does that form of life exist beneath this recycled
sky?

Because life is filled with tragic ends, it could
be called ‘tragedy’;
because our skulls smile it is regarded as a ‘comedy’
and because God binds us it is a ‘divine comedy’
despite Dante’s preference for the former
the church made it what we know,
as we can only laugh for so long
before such hope filled laughter

turns to desperate tears grasping for divine closure.