hauté boheme

/криостатированной горячки/

sparrow in a concrete bunker

‘I cannot imagine being
better than you’
Lord, you lack imagination.

I am better than everyone –
Give me time, i can do
what Newton did for knowledge
Aurelius for Rome
Caesar for power
Khan for land
and God for sons.

But i am also so much worse –
In three seconds, i will have
gulped angrily a mile offwater
sacrificed body to the altar of gravity
while soul whiles self
to claim, worry, boredom
or inheritance.

Yesterday i took off all my clothes with all the windows gaping, and felt high and precious the way i hadn’t for a long time.

the boredom habit

Boredom is a habit,
abhor it.
Do not allow your cosmos
to shrink facile or unworthy,
for the rail against things to do
is a shamefulness
betraying inoriginality.
Confess and go,
Not yet are you so big,
not yet God.

flyman

‘Gods are the biggest killers’ he yeaped
but ‘no’ i whispered
men can die, and still they fight

when gods bleed even the vultures
writhe midair and beat their wings in begging
but she is crying and
the world rolls forward

over a dust
over a nest of fine black ants
over an upturned lizard
over herself, at upturning lizards

she is crying
and the world does not care
and still she dares cry
and sees, finally, as the world sheds a singular tear

her lament is a pain in the ear of gods
gods cannot pray
out of agony they arrange things
a tumbleweed, a mother

gods drink from the end of a water
that falls forever over the cliff of worlds
beside their olympiad mead
and mammoths broken to riding

while men descend the face on a vine
sprouting sons and daughters
nourished by the running stream
while the old turn to ash

and are buffeted like gristly petals
into the golden water
where they dance the float of typhoid corpses
unfeeling of their fame

still the men cycle endlessly
forsaken by all except each other
whom they insist on plundering
mind, bodies, life

thinking they can give mercy
(which they do not possess)
or make immortal things
(when the gods see their end)

or build spirits bigger than themselves
(a spiteful, cowardly end)
on their smallness of a planet
(that approaches in minutes)

on their pedestal
the men oppress their own
not daring yet to beg
but when it comes to begging,
beg the best

so i know
i have faith
that when the spindly, fiery, cowardly end comes
we will beg
proudly

voila

Music
knows everything
and oozes life without word.
Distilled thought,
poem-free.
A slate that runs forever
and cannot be held.
A god without form –
a god that prays
and is permitted
to come to inhabit men –
a man without his head.

–––––––––––
Music is the most Dionysian of the arts, since it appeals directly to man’s instinctive, chaotic emotions and not to his reasoning mind.

ornament-ingredient

A halo does but scream
Target!

Locks shaven
and sent bald death
in a paper robe
in a gas bunker

Jesus was light
without his crown of thorns
Caesar naked
without his laurels
Medusa ugly
when age made her snakes
thin

What more does an
outrageous growth need
than an
outrageous growth?

Sakhalin burning

Did you know, for example, that your brain is a cancer? Sure, you may deny it, but of course you would, sick bastard of a virus – look, I’ve even grown fond of you. The truth, though, of course, is that we are all born with wounds in our heads, hideous holes that can’t help but be there, it is a defect, but a natural fallacy. And like typical bodies we send all our foolish antibody nonsense and whatnot to our heads, and when the skull has got so much blood and air and sugar it hasn’t engine enough to burn, a cancer to bound to form, stupendous things, that slowly take root and grow fine, long hairs and shock the limp body into obeying. This is the moment everyone dreams of, the only moment dreams are possible, when a baby starts to keen.
––––––––––
I have smelt rotting apples all day.

the only way

The row of rooks that face me are hooded, black-headed.
Their crossed arms bare their defence – they cannot logic, cannot listen, cannot reason or understand. Only the stubby fingers of violence moves them. Whence, now, gives them say to paint with red blood mindless spirals behind their step, or hold air above the heads of other men? Point – this is a mute, disgusting beast – of claws and matted hair and droppings lain over its tawny back. It grovels, smells the scent of fear – and then this beast approaches, dripping its gangrenous saliva, to the white corner. The white corner smells of fear. Every man has flown, at long last to the white corner, shrunk there and shivered with disbelief, painting the walls with the colourless scent of piss. Now i shrink there too. This beast cannot be reasoned with, cannot be talked to. He would fain die the next second if he could kill me first. He is possessed by the now, he possess now, now is his.

–––––––––––
There are only two ways out of this house – i kill her, or she kills me.

show

The piece is a
Going into the war with
red women dancing to distract
soldiers grasping at old faces with
abandon – the last time
us ghastly and waiting
not daring to eat
– this last immortal moment will breathe for
unnumbered minutes as later,
Somehow,
A horse cascades in

––––––––––
Behind, before every dance production hangs the last, immortal breath – until finally we are thrown into a pit of lights, swear, stomp, and mount our swords.

a dog’s nose

I have a beautiful face, except for my nose. It is a dog’s nose, i have the nose of a dog, a dog of a nose. It mars my face. It is swooped and hooked too deeply, my two nostrils are nested into its mournful eyes and breathe hairily through. Armed with it i have a snout, which you sniff and release your piss upon. Now it smells so not-me i quash it off my face, twist its lobes and fleshy dual diaphragms, but it is soft and elastic, almost-wet, not yet a dog’s.

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