Someone yelled Jump but I was only up there cleaning windows. Then I thought, as I stood on the fine ledge, I could –
if I don’t overthink it –
I can fall! –
(who’d permit such violence to befall me – when there are Games to play, Fascinating facts, Things to make …and Lots of surprises.) poised – handshigh, a steeple in the abstruse
There’s evil & it makes my world gong on a rope-swing & it fills me with. Head
long, Up-ended I am, In the morning, at night round about vespers. CandleWax. Each flame envelops a Spirit; and, swathed within, each Spirit burns. Ulysses,
Diomed… You’re dead!
for a long time. I practice in my room with the door
locked. Who permits? If I set my mind to it, I’d haul you 2
feet off the ground. Squeeze the shit
out of you –
til you’re Red
White & Blue.
Don’t underestimate my superhuman-ness. My Corporeal powers.
Am I a dog with a clothes-peg on its tail.
Not just that.
Last year’s fly
on the web: have you found your soul,
mate. Yet. 2 bucks less than the cost
There’s Fortune ™ for anyone who wants it if they’re smart enough.
Think about it.
& if you have to sell your arse in the back streets of the Vatican…
Not even God ™ sees everything &, la-la-la-He-can’t-hear-you.
Congratulations. You’re the millionth poem to address the spit on the sidewalk, cat piss spirit stench of alley way shit, egg shell-back of takeaways & subways
Human frailty Bukowski – Tuberculosis. Ultimate in- The fissured concrete Between us, continental drift – as a metaphor for
Gradual disintegration Alienation; the worker kept from the fruits of his labour Problem Whores Because, there’s no hope for
Western Civilisation.You can see it in the long shadows of commuters. Over the bridge.
Victoria Street. The confidence
gone. What we feel is not our own, not even loneliness.
Of the- dinner hall Stairwell Communal mess 3-minute shower Wet towel (Evacuate)-
Smack. Strain on the chain When I bark it’s because I’m anxious Pricked
between the eyes White noise I can see
when it gets dark
How to say it w/out ticking yr sensibility off, getting shot
down Misunderstood What I feel is not my own Second hand fur—-lined fleshof A
wit – Said basically the same thing 30 years ago. Skin
flaccid Dick Can’t fill it/fit for a spare wardrobe
drawer. It’s coming: 5 years/10 What I am, isn’t mine Knotted hands that-that, type & type
Get hung Cured on a rack I recant/o God- i was wrong Kill me! doctor.
Make it stop.
I was wrong: it’s me that spins
Not the earth