Ineffable Might, Poem 88

Poetic Prelude:

strange_fruit_by_warunderground

[Ineffable Might] {88}

1!

I have to get through tonight.

Through mid-tredarious forward assaults on the best of my iron vest incites.

My failure of amorous insight I like best,

The hole in the hollow, the pump that replaced the very black heart you stole from my mostly tumultuous chest. Mm-hmhm.

The pretend of a sigh, I know not the reason the rest of us feast while beyond citadel gates the rest of them die.

You have no idea how I try, when each time, each slight, each break of a promise of long life to come presides over the wisp of a hum!

After a long kiss good night and each missing delight.

Is the price I pay, I repeat what I say’ I slip not a single bit eager away, since your departure, wrong or for right

Grim departure into Moscow’s deepest ring roaded abyss, the spire of citadels cracking the rims of the night.

Did I get the last part of this parable right, the cold comes so quick and pulls blankets across over and under, unearthly so deathly, so white?

Was the price that I paid for surviving the run and gun into 30 decay; the brak and bray of the fire fisted fight?

All just a lie, a lie upon lie; a fuck upon a fuck of hardly giving anything since your flight back to Moscow my mind run amuck!

Know the palm of my hand, from the width of my spite. And the nose to the palm and the fist to the fall and dashing and lashing the fuck of if it all,

Ineffable might!

The spittle the bleeding the taking the needing of need, the needing the worst kind of slashing and misreading, the cut of my guts and drop of the floor.

I can’t take one more bit of this shit; the wanting and needing and lusting and ego size feeding the lies that I tell in the dark in the blood in the spit.

I have written nothing of note in a fortnight, the sublime in a rhyme the taking and selling and trading of time. The wasting of me, taking all I had left of shadow of man with an blackness of soul, that hole in my chest and the tack of the toll.

The words that in hatch marks we chiseled on the tree of life, cut into the fabric of magic unknown. We cut with a knife a most frivolous thing; a tantric phallus with fairies, with cantankerous birds and bare breasted women based on the porno graphs as a young man I was shown!

Warbler please, I balter blather bother as I beg you on my knees, as my own skin is a second hand cloth that I have no mastery of, Daphne grazing swans as stabbing eyes.

The tower lies. The science of lord of the flies. And the words they use the fish gut stench of reasons for the uncouth means their ways implies.

Dear one, citizen scientists playing along using flashier cars well-oiled sport teams ongoing efforts to pretend that they’re strong;

Hyper Development just setting in the death of man in the forest somewhere is a trumpet cacophony playing along.

 

2!!

I have to get through tonight.

A black breaded bite.

A bit from a stripper pop cake, or the glare of cattle do ambulance lights!

Exploding the quiet of poorly spent plight. I am sure that even my audience will agree I pick a most precarious fight?

How did I find a woman like you? A painted face pixie/ glowing indomitable spirit. A triumph of happy delight.

For my pain is leviathan. Swallows me Jonas like whole, the whole of the real the epic created the lies and masks and the anted up toll.

The world to me is mountain.

A treacherous fort on a series of hills.

At time my heart stops for a minute or two and escape I go from the physical plane; a gust of grey smoke; above the knives of the killers

The laugh of the joke;

The spies and their lies; the whores and the pills; the dagger men banking on newly spent kills!

I escape.

With an ephemeral form; ineffable might.

I arrive in the future, a futuristical place; optimistically new: a futurist man remade in my vast powers of so endlessly loving the very most essence of you.

The sheer will of my love, you say what know me of love?

It’s in my vertebral wires, the pumps and valves below and above; a flame driven of ebbing and tidying; expending reason, self-abasing, or pleasing, it keeps sails on the good ship Adler aright;

The good ship takes flight:

With red balloon ballast; for the love of the goddess they’re calling a piece, I fly like a battalion of eagles, no goslings or geese! Get me out Shrakasa Waltham; take me back to your arms; take the thick of me deeply and thrust away all this pain give me back my beloved, give me back my release!

Release to your arms, then everything’s right; and out of the sickly black whiteness of my last winter’s long running night.

 

3!!!

How did I come to be in this place! In this night. Despite all my lastingly brazenly brokenous promises made; most find my goodness of motive in fuck or in fight.

I chose this. You’re right.

No Waltham, no you. That’s what I know. That steel hand on your chest is a pledge that I’d love and support you through it all.

No matter how far. Or the places apart that we go.

No matter the heights.

Unlimited loving, but lately my powers are limited few; alone in this grim Shrakasa camp; staring at screens, talking in circles. Dreaming of you. When i look in a mirror I see a masked man; hiding his weakness, his murderous features a terrible blight.

What know me now of love. Perhaps you were always right.

What questions are these?

My face has been dashed. I’ve had current, a beating or two, my face has been water board splashed. Bleedings and squeeze.

You hate when I beg and you hate worse when I bellow; but if I can pray prostrate to the thing I call god;

I can beg the swifter return of the woman I love on my knees.

 

4!!!!

 

Black Gates of Ringed Roads!!

Halve the Bad Lands in between! Moscow where is Moscow! I am blind and bleeding from the ghastly things I’ve read but also seen!

I’m going to cut my very timber eyes-hatchets out for falling fancy i have invalidated the thrusts of bulldog black intent.

Replicate in my countenance a bleaker predilection, vast pre tension boils over; guest workers four leaf clovers; borrowed money poorly spent.

Click boots on black tarmac prospects covered in haggardly snows, my own sound and both unquiet mind plays ballads to your kind;

To flaunt all trepid interpretations of my base medical vocations, back hand to brackish bankers, my boots will crunch his jaw and leave all these business men cocksure now cock less grind.

I will beat him palpy pale, I’ll kill your Thomas cop I’ll brutalize your vile builder Andre and stab his heart with dagger bursts rip apart his vicious tale. Thought you my poems pretty song?  I’m a most violent nemesis to any motherfucker who has done my woman epic wrong!

Moscow where is Moscow it’s a place inside my mind; it’s a fortress it’s a mountain citadel, it’s a place I am kept from my only love and therefore it becomes a hell.

The deadness spreads inside me.

And the poems end but not my own is rightly neigh. I hate the thought of poetry, I like the thought of killing; killing myself to slaughter out the oligarchs and all your laundry list of vile, brutish guys.

I hate now the face of me!

I could kill ten thousand Europeans

Burn out every sand of Europe’s soil

It’s just a place to rape and shit and pee.

What people want they go to see! I try and tell them what to think more of perfect you and less of violent raging me. And you underestimate the violence that was done to those by Europe done to you and done to me. Done to mine and done to yours, I have fallen and am in drowning in my tears of madness dash my face upon the floors;

You left me here for Moscow, I am thus a dog a broken wolf and breathing smoke.

Hanged men hang for forty days before thieves decimate the corpses for the secrets in their cloak.

What near a life by proxy we.

Three continents apart is our manufactured destiny.

And you so fearless, you so noble, you so perfect and so true. Were the only thing that held be from these bastards back, of fear for me and more for you!

The Moscow spires and the snow fall, the oldness and the thrill. The vastness of separation is a poem not a kill.

The winds howl out and call for layers, my words mean nothing but effigies of deed and love between our warring peoples might seem ineffable, indeed.

I see you in my all my happy dreams, your thrilling beauty juxtaposed with my potential coming might. But for now like tragic Mayakovsky and his Tatiyana;

I am red.

And you are white.

From Somewhere With Love (54)

 

From Somewhere With Love

 kazanjian1_02

I walked until the boardwalk ended and toppled complacently into delirium tremens,

Take your salt pills!!

She fucked to barely feed herself;

On the top of the mount,

On the silk of the sheets of those lowest of lying, American hills,

Civilization, hyper development when man was the hunter, the broad was the target,

But also the spoiler of kills.

There’s blood in my eye,

You left me alone in the provinces, you cursed me for nothing, and left me to die.

I once told that girl what a forest wife was,

She heard forested whore, she gave me a black eye,

That’s what losing yourself in translation, too often does.

She teaches us our English you say;

She once knocked my face with the flat of her hand,

You can’t learn a language that way.

My people come from the soil and learned what they did because they couldn’t buy land her people don’t play. And men who are real men always pay,

You taught be pay then you taught me to pray,

If you didn’t know manly or womanly I bet you they’ll teach you, for the right price, savage surrender someday.

This one’s gone got away, I had begged her to stay;

She is a blond Slavic doll, take her layers off, wood pop and peel, and what is it you finally see;

After layers and layers of beauty and darkness and lies;

She’s just filled with some diamond, kept hidden from me.

Blacken my lungs are my therapy now;

Stoly my blood,

Bile my tongue;

You measure my worth in the swipes of my hand,

You’d marry mirages of money, when you’re old or you’re young.

If I put nice words in the linings of my casket,

I only prolong the latest Russian girl from dancing on my grave;

I thought myself brave,

I gave like a slave.

The difference is widened; by the lie of a life you again failed, were rejected to save.

The life that you built with a hatchet and pen,

She don’t love you no more, she don’t love the drama, and she don’t love the color, the nuance of you getting crazy over the chornay, again.

Black on black heart;

The life you offered- and gave,

Like the phantasms enchanted, enchained to the walls of a red neon lighted- post-Soviet cave.

The highway between New York and Boston is now overly eerie to me;

When we fucked once in the truck stop,

On the hood of the Civic, while truckers looked on;

She said ‘you never look like you’re looking at me’,

You’re wide eyes always look but they rarely do see;

That time I fucked up my life- like the time we spent in that forest, I’m handcuffed to you but you’re always still leaning on me.

Then until November now;

The Connecticut cops captured me blindly, they dragged me of the Lucky Star like a hooligan;

On the border of Mass, on Route 83;

Looks what they look like, we turned to the ugly alonehood of me.

She left me crying gently in Waltham weigh station, the next day I beat retreat.

“Real men don’t cry,”

All your men are beasts judged by the things that they did,

For the good life you think you just have to stay here and someone will buy.

Look at this country,

All of its wars,

You make small talk; that comes out like you think all my people;

Are gangsters and whores.

When we loaded our lives in a dream; when you made me cry and I made you scream.

Look at all of this trouble you’re constantly bringing on me!

Drama and madness, like the blat chubbies watch on the fat of TV.

We’ve jumped out of planes, I’ve spoken of carrots, of sticks and of rings.

We’ve acquired all manner of Asian made things.

From somewhere with love, I’ve found little, no place with a pulse, if I were a man that could make myself into glorious flame,

I beg for the end of this winter,

I beg for the cultural warfare to end,

The end of my mind is but only a round of her game.

 

 

Havana Road (#50)

 

# 50: Havana Road

 IMG_20140801_200000_edit1

We could be in Havana by nightfall.

It’s what I’ve been whispering for years.

If I could just trade a pound of my flesh for just one single ounce of your tears.

 

Bloody paw marks cross my face! Self-inflicted.

Lash marked loved one; I am so careless for you.

Dug my own American grave in a record time, the scary parts of our company is that most of our stories are true. Avail me of your sling shot eyes, Last cartridge spent.

Temptation looks like you.

But, sin-not-simple-sinner!

Your thighs delight the treachery of lawless temperament.

Losing bearings righting wrongness.

Leather boots, And dark sun glasses, Skinny dipping long legged mikvah, digress under stress! What you wear under that dress is tougher than my mechanical heart or the flash of iron eyes scaling walls and the ripping off of clothing,

As the best dreams fall apart.

Over last supper, Our unsung broken heroes if the story’s told right can make all the martyrs grin.

Losing ones lost morals doesn’t make the skin itself once broken any thinner. Or the self inflicted violence of total recollection even a mostly piratic win. Temptation looks like you! How do you say exsanguination in Cyrillic?

I have not three fucks of clue.

I am too brazen for these bonds, As Benjamin bondage holds plantation risings, pale of settlement, comfort keeps the ghetto wall in check,

A noose about my neck!

The only true reminder, as I quiver amorous beside her,

What just one night loose in Babylon can make a brother do! And all this special for you, I pause to dot a check list, of what calamity ill next ensue.

For that’s just the market price to play, with a deadly creature such as you.

Some French-Reggaetone anthem belted out from the bodega,

As some abstracted grindhouse of a poem,

Or foreign tongued gift made of song.

And black death inside us, from those fires we long left burning, another late night in Brueklyn Soviet,

And we lied when we said that we knew our right from wrong.

I tell her, “We all just pretend that we’re strong.”

Like a tribute to golden aged exile. Or an ode to a bold deportee. She says that my goodness is good for her only half of the time. “But bless you you’re savage when beaten but always loving when looking at me.”

You’re drunk off your tired you’re constantly trying, you’re doing god’s work, so they claim. Just make sure that the salt it stays in the mind and not in the wounds as it distorts all the forces of blame.

What a spree! We did some violent pen to pad scribbling’s by cell phone at midnight.

Lately for her, and the glorious plot!

Plotting out plan dalet through z.

We all hope this violence you do to yourselves, is making a man out of me. The trouble with the nightlife in Brooklyn, Is that sinning comes mostly for free. When a thousand sweet words are the only way left_

_This city of Zion in a world of struggle has been bleeding the shit out me!

There is no lonelier place than the boardwalk at midnight. When your love lies in another man’s arms, And the ghosts and the screams from a life you had lived twice before_ are never completely drowned out by these danger filled banshee siren alarms!

Jessica asked what’s been killing me lately?

The Malboroman he has blackened my lungs and the Vodka has clouded the morals you so often condemn.

And I sold both my two souls and cut my own heart for the Russians just to try and see the world like them!

Madman, I hope she cries for you. As much as you secretly cry for yourself. As you dash your ambitious wilding dreaming,

On dagger ragged rocks of mislaid plans seen on Steeplechase pier.

Lover, lately I have no inclination for fear. Salt tastes like salt. If there’s blood on the streets you can bet a green dollar that god gives not a single shit, And always there’s a human to fault.

I’ve been a boxing a brickwall most lately.

And we all know the wall always wins.

When the lights went out you will be left alone with your failures, your torments and sin.

And a candle, will be the only way you better know the devils in your casement mirror. Death winks at you from the dirty mirror. And she calls for as you lie helpless and still unable to really hear her.

We’d could in Havana by nightfall.

It’s what I’ve been howling for years.

I’d easily trade a pound of my flesh for a single ounce of your tears.

 

 

 

Bullets for Breria (#042)

#042: Bullets for Breria

(Moscow Hostage Crisis Part II.)

Bullets for Breria3

I.

 

“Companero!”

She says to he:

“Just how far will you take your love for me?”

“I don’t know.”

“What-don’t-you-know?”

“Is_love-just-another useless-word-in-english-to-tie-together-all-my longing_ and absolve the pastness of its evil woe?”

Balkinera!

He says to she:

 

“Why do you hide your past_from the demons in me?”

 

“Vasili!”

What’s there to say to you:

“Why does your name change like the seasons and who-do-you-as-of-lately-pray-to?”

 

“I’ll pray to anyone I can! God or human! Haitian Creole or oracle Greek.

My, mind’s prophesy has failed me lately_ and just this week, forgive bleak speak_

_I, cobbled together select bits of happiness!

On a box-car-ride returning me from the work camps_ I, whispered alone to the unseen you_ And I, placed a tourniquet on myself to impose broad side cessation most true_

_On the hemorrhage of wasted blood from a bleeding heart!

A crumbled contract clause well known_

_ It was iron to lead, finally stone, without intervention, things fall apart.”

 

A moan_then a grown, full blown!

Bleeding for the last four thousand years alone over things it was shown.

Flickering flame_take aim at what is to most just accepted with “solution unknown”,

The things you invested and my discipline tested_ no longer a puppy,

My dagger wolf claws are, full grown.

 

But at 29, I am half old,

and this bleeding stone heart, its passion is viperous, without intervention a thing growing too cold.

“A stone heart?! Tisk! I’m more like a Gold Locked Lion” she said,

“Just the other day I used electricity and repeated compression and brought a near defeated man_ back from the ranks of close to dead!”

 

“That man was me,” I said:

“And I’d just as soon you let him die you saved him out of pity!”

 

“Pity isn’t cute or pretty,

It costs time which is worth money, and I’m a working girl who has to engage the life of noire, the darkness dance, the champagne room, the filthy and the gritty.”

“You listen Man!_

_I’ll kick you out and cut you off for a hundred years of solitude_ you know I can_ if you talk like that again! Each time you are buried it will break my heart in secret, and then_ there will be nothing left of ‘We’_ but a fistful of poorly known Amerikanski poems and some songs to remind me!”

And I said, “When we-are-separated-by-the-fates_ I’ll sing songs to you in memories and in the next life you will find me!”

 

And the in the middle night they stole away again!

 

She carried me upon her shoulders with the strength of forty men!

Through the sand covered tunnel in the tavern floor.

There’s a door in the tunnel ceiling, and if you catch the right beat, there is a world in another life to come where miracles play out in the flicker of the lights on Ludlow street_

Our bar flight is a magik made realistic!

A fait accomplit.

The ultimate triumph of good over the cold and sadistic,

The-boring-the-bad, hopelessness-shattered, dissipated by the holding of hands.

An escape down an ice cage tunnel, heading off to last stands.

The tunnel is long, the light is a hopes flicker, we have to go quicker_ the sands of time combine with the near hellish nature of the dry heat made thicker.

 

And she whispers as we go:

“Just how far do you plan to take this bloody story, it is not a picture show? How many lives will you take to torch for things that went down_ just so very long ago?”

“They took someone from me,” I said, “the rest you surely know.”

 

“I know the story begins and ends in a City they call Moscow.”

 

“Life by life I pledged to fight them and that first injustice it did fully bind me.

If I acted like a human once, and act like it again_ its only because the fleeting smile I see you smile when your songs do remind me.”

 

“Remind you of her?”

The tunnel takes us toward the target, I say nothing as she surely knows the answer, she’s heard my vodka sobs, the beatings I have taken over things that did in other lives occur.

 

II.

 

It must have begun before Breria.

The terrors.

The closet hysteria, the dead-eyed-red-rat bastard rage,

Box car deportations for chornay in a continent sized cage.

Put fear in ya?

You remember bread lines,

I remember my lover’s pale-famish-face;

After two years in the gulag camps of that flat and deadly cold abyss Siberia.

Certainly, to point-the-finger toward the sky and let shots fly, pistol-pebbled-metal-mosquitos toward that most sadistic demon, correction, it is but Rubles on the wedding night traded for an abducted bride’s “protection”.

To avoid detection, an unwanted topless inspection via a meat-market-mangling-strangling  of hands and fingers; she wrapped her hair like Muhammadians do,

Limiting the potential for calamity most foul.

Not by much.

A bogeyman with bad touch, buried in his garden, a hundred, a thousand victims such.

We know what the head of the secret police is always in the nightly mood for.

Flesh and then murder.

He sends roses then takes people. A woman a night. A body hoarder, a mass ruin herder.

There was no ransom asked, when he took mine.

What’s too many? Nine? Or perhaps a thousand is fine, until yours are eaten, devoured vanished, there is no candle, no tomb to be watered by Parin moon shine.

To steal the moon as just a first start. When not even asked a ransom.

 

Who knows where she’s buried, after for sport Breria ripped her apart.

 

Cruel cigarette interlude.

Puff. Puff pass.

 

Pass me the proper weapons I will need to deal with devils now, devils then.

Take from me mine, break my life with the rape of my love, murder my only, my intended_

_ Cruel-beyond-cruel, powerful for brutalities power forsake. You may know well just-how-to-take, but you are a devil and I am a man with a gun and a stake_ and vile conviction of kettle-boil-burnt-blood-lust, must a savage avenging reality break!

AND VENGANCE WILL BE MINE, make no mistake_ no matter how many lives I must give, or eventually pile in wake of my take!

 

It’s not safe to walk the streets, day or dusk. Start smart, brave heart.

Wolves lurk in black government cars, carry you off and tear you apart.

 

               The tunnel terminates in an abandoned metro station.

We  are sober as clergy would want us to be, optundation is due to the size of the crew which is two, and the fate that awaits the acts we will do.

 

“Not much further now ‘til your glory_ hopeless fearless heart.”

“In each life, they will try to break us down but I won’t let them find me! If I forget what miracles we’ve already done to save our souls:

Sing songs to remind me!”

“You have a shower voice,” she said.

 

“Then it is you who will do the singing on the day that they strike me dead, they can kill my body and break my heart ten thousand times bled…”

“When you kill the devil, it won’t bring her back.”

“When god stopped interceding the world went on fire_ whole nations to smoke_ with war and with gas and their ashes watered the heavens via smoking black stack!”

“Vasa, I would love to see_ that first life when you were allegedly happy…”

“That was too many lives ago_ but if you kiss me for a moment I am sure by taste alone you’ll know.”

“What makes you think a bullet in the devil will improve the lot of man?”

“We don’t do this for man; man does what man can, a pittance, a sad offering, less than a little!”

“Is woman ever to blame?”

“Only in her coping with shame_ that devils emerged from her womb to ravish, usurp, enslave_ maim.”

“Women took what men gave, so I fire too at the corpse of this monster his body with bullets I’m seeking to rittle.”

“What if I asked you to turn away and run away from this kill?”

 

“So you can play martyr and I’m just your shill?! BLAT! Stick to the plan. We both know exactly how deeply these first tunnels ran. What you do for your vengeance, I do for my mine too but I still have many secrets I’m keeping from you, so along we go, angels and devils conspiring in the absence of the intervention or attention of the most high! Maybe if you were more man and me more woman_ we’d be afraid to die.”

“Last I checked I was flesh and I bleed, you strike me I shiver, you touch me and I smile and put on the trappings of need!”

“When the devil is murdered,            there will be more in his ranks.”

“Then we’ll have to kill many a devilish hoard.”

“You’ll never get bored?”

“Use your magik! Bring her back! I tire of lectures what points are you hoping you’ve scored!”

“I do what I do, first for my mother, but I still believe in the lord.”

“Believe you want, that’s your right. You saved me that night in the thick of the grey, in the blackness of endless existence called living in night.”

“I do only what I can.”

“You’ve never faltered before each time I hoped that you’d ran.”

“After Breria’s dead, what’s the rest of the plan?”

“I’ll buy you a dress, we’ll go to the opera, and I’ll speak poetically of Peonies bloomin’.”

 

She says to me, “I’m more happy than free,

But you can’t shake my faith in the goodness of all that is human.”

 

 

 

 

 

#38; Moscow Hostage Crisis

#038

 

 ISS-30_Moscow,_Russia

Moscow Hostage Crisis

 

Part One

 

 

 

Life of the slave show!

I will remove you from your castle and make you watch the way we live in the wilderness below.

 

And she slips off her high heels into a star-crossed stare down,

She always calls the shots,

Gun shots to blood soaked makeshift cots.

The shots she calls are complicated.

She must find me highly dedicated.

She mostly deals with the haves, and I am the have nots.

 

The rules are anything goes, but no know one “knows”.

If she’s been known to steal the weapon from my over coat,

I’ve been quick to remove my clothes.

 

I spill_ for the thrill of those invited, I can kill on compunction, I still have the will;

To activate the full facilities,

Of word play, and use of allegory_

To execute deliverance of a blue-blood-bleeding testimony_

A Former Soviet love story.

Involving a Chechen peasant and a woman once of Penza now mostly of night.

It will be of little glory, the way I tell the story.

It’s based upon real people. Real blood_ and real bleeding_

Of taking-of wanting-of feeding the need.

Of fucking and fighting and the will to survive in a City of glass, steel, and greed.

Real emotional explosions_ her eyes are always so bright,

She has long since urged me to put down the weapon and give up the fight.

But I have a last name that is easy to place,

I could buy some new papers, but not a new face.

They can spot us on site!

It’s the ongoing struggle of those who lead:

A tragic_ unyielding life of night.

We’ll sell a sordid tale.

I wish I had found her back when she was nineteen or twenty_

Before she had to do what she did,

And does what she still do,

To keep from starving in the shadow of plenty.

My objective and travail_ is to recruit the members of this audience into a clandestine apparatus_ And harness our collective clandestino_

To force a mighty train to prematurely jump the rail.

I wear suspenders with buttons, a Mayakovsky cap, and iron plated under shirts.

I dreamed up a plan to get revenge on a man, or a series of men, hit them in their pockets,

Hit them where it hurts.

 

I called her late at night_ bleeding all over the place,

She said don’t get your bleeding heart on my red carpet,

And her mother fixed me midnight supper.

Herring, beets, Palemni.

And she wiped the cake of crimson off my bloody Chechen face.

 

(Small talk)

“And the snow fall is phenomenal this year”_

She retorts”

“Don’t get French with me my dear.”

_They really punched yer ticket_ did a number on you in the district, this time.

(She loves the way I make the Ameikanski noire lingo mix out elequently with a touch of old Fenian rhyme.)

The pay phone call cannot be traced_

The weapons hidden in the drywall_

In the space your men replaced_

The ice cold taste of 9 proof Baltika is refreshing, albeit haram_

Those good patriot informers_ those zombies_ those follow-follow men.

They beat me for a fortnight,

Demand I sign a grim confession,

Attesting to the building and/or placement of some near but unexploded bomb.

 

“Why can’t you be like normal men?”

 

I told her: “I’m hungry for my freedom and I’m never going hungry again!” (Sung)

 

And she says;

 

“I cannot love you if you’re dead.”

 

Please put the house in order,

Use the lithium,

Use Russian Standard Vodka; use my lips if necessary,

To rectify the madness as it expands inside your head.

I’m not saying that I love you now or later,

Simply I refuse to cater_

To all the “incidents generated lately” when you do not behave_

Explain how you plan to court me_

From a black-bag-disappearance.

In frosty, shallow, unmarked open grave.

If you’re going to dedicate, in your exacerbation,

Resistance efforts to a woman (me) who can only love you out of pity,

In this bleak and foreign city_

Even if the words sound epic, also pretty_

Fuck it man! You’re doing it again!

 

I sigh and then reply:

 

“Did I tell you lately you’re my dorogaia and if not for loving you_I’d surely be dead a thousand times at the hands of ten thousand lesser men?”

 

Oh, when last we wrote I spoke of devouring her, for hours.

To tease her- to please her_to want her to need her- amid a bed of hand-picked, Peonies; or provincial-wild-flowers.

She isn’t one for single serving dancehall roses, she moves too fast for poses.

Her bright eyes beckon as they dart about the room filled with bluff and imitating glee_

“Accelerate your tempo of evacuation_

The checkpoints separate the have everything’s_

From the people who are dressed like you_

And carry paper work like me.”

 

I suppose you and only you_ the woman that I trust and choose_

Can entrap these men of business with their whoring,

With their thirst for further treasure_

With long lines of china white running from the mouse trap to their nose.

How many slaves does it take to keep this neon play ground running?_

I know via your profession you can undertake a series of transactions_

Blonde dynamite distractions_

Before any know exactly what’s in store.

Reduce the need for automatic weapons,

Acquire us the proper routes and channels_

And guide us through a tunnel to the vile trading floor.

 

She looks at me and rolls her eyes and says in Russian “Lord have mercy.”

I said “I don’t have imaginary friends; there ain’t no need to curse me._

 

 

Where we met is unimportant.

Did I mean to enlist her?

I couldn’t resist her.

I had causes and struggle and vengeance and plan.

I shouldn’t have kissed her

And longed for her touch,

For surely she lays nightly in the arms of some husband, some man.

We have become a most curious spectacle_lately.

You hate me? Push further,

Took you home from the bar stool,

Bite me_

Kick me_

Bait me.

She could have killed me that first night, just with things that she said:

I looked at her once.

And the wheel was turning quickly but the hamster was dead.

The wheel was her cold rationale,

The hamster was the morals that once governed the wheel.

And there were bright lights, that up lit her eyes_ and whatever that implies.

Separating what she does_

From that which she’s still willing feel.

 

“You take up so much clock!

Blood from a rock!

I must return to District work which begins at moon rise.

And the steel trap will slam shut_

And bind me behind those District walls.

And the men of that vile district,

Will use their credit cards_

To try and pay for my flesh and access to between my thighs.”

 

She said “root for me.”

I’m going voodoo out tonight_

To earn my money the City.

If you truly are my friend,

Understand that I’ve been hungry and I’m never going hungry again.” _(Sung)

 

I am looking down the barrel at my pin striped enemy.

And the columns we’ve been shaking

And lives we’re always taking,

I was seeking sweet surrender and I sought it at her feet.

You think you’re not a target? You pay your taxes don’t you?

Are you blind to their transgressions?

A cavalcade of charging bulls rampaging down the street.

 

Everything from here out, it’s true,

My bones rust, from your star dust, your fairy eyes_

I loose myself to you.

 

She says, “Oh the things you might do,”

Our harsh and untenable positions have emboldened us_ as we know no one cares or pays attention, or even has a clue.

 

If we want it bad enough we can get it:

“For the rest of our lives_

_we do.”

 

Even if that life, she says, will last no longer than another a day or two.

 

Kiss me _fight beside me Dorogaia,

Even if to you my name and words are sometimes strange,

For what they do to your body and mind,

And what they did to my family,

Help us create a major crisis at the Moscow Stock Exchange.

 

You’re crazy she said,

You’re crazy won’t get me dead.

Well talk about your ridiculous plan in the morning.

It’s all a slave show, and if you didn’t know.

Russians who help rebels aren’t even given a funeral, much less a warning.

#12; Muse of the Brighton Bathhouse

#012: Muse of the Brighton Bathhouse  

 

Bathhouse

 

 

I interrogated you with Newport cigarettes pursed at my lips.

And you sized me up like a slave on the market block.

 

Emergently my covered wagon has been jettisoned and set ablaze by a blonde haired savage, a mercenary in clad multicolored finery with war paint under both blue eyes.

 

Brandishing a spear and also a bottle of Russian Standard.

 

She’s since infused my life with her Red Bull risings and cynical parables on the subject of snow ball fighting with General Winter.

 

“Drink!” she whispers out her demands.

 

Until in naked oblivion you can pronounce my name in full glory!

Take in all its parts and thus know my demons and also my saints.

Extoll me as your eternal choicest muse. Make me your goddess and savior, secretly.”

 

And thus I went to work.

 

My pen and pipes, belting out prose, parable and promises to fight for her to the death.

 

And she beat me half to tears with the venyike.

 

In a wild Peony Ambush,

She put herself upon me,

Robbed me bandit blind.

Of my heart, and second soul as I made art to celebrate the coming of she into me.

 

Penniless as a proverb.

 

I marshaled all remaining vagabond tendencies into the rigorous use of my baller ball point pen.

 

Woman, you are a golden locked lioness. Boxing with me, you strike incite and nerves unnerving furious fascination.

Womb to tomb!

You Caspian blue terrorist!

Thing of profoundest beauty.

Drag me down the Brighton Boardwalk and set me as an effigy of hopeless romanticism on the sand of Sea Gate!

Sky high on fire.

Take me to pyre.

 

When our correspondence first began in September it was like a report on a Cherokee Indian massacre.

Communicated via the passing of notes.

We conducted then a lively human traffic in roses and poems and also in promises.

 

A triangle trade.

 

You dripped wax on me shortly after.

I wrote you a play.

“I will try to believe any stories I tell you and you will make me immortal!”

In words and in dreams.

Pull!

I produced on demand and she shot each product down.

Exploding clay pigeons with poems tied to paw, and smoke signals playing out on the prairie skies, steppes and later the chalk marks made on the promenade off Banner Ave were the guarded displays of my awe.

 

More fire!

She proclaimed, by not proclaiming.

 

You tied me to a post and blind folded me so that in a mirror I’d not see my manly limitations, my grinning devils leering.

 

I, the artist would then yell fire!

 

And poems would be fired off, absconding into night with you as their target, their words would roll out the barrel of my wit without even seeking to dress themselves in the fine garments of rhyme.

 

The essential quality of a muse is that she will be perfect.

 

While at the same time being deeply flawed.

 

At times she will desire to taste you and be fueled on your fluids, intoxicate herself on your writhing talents taking the form of depiction and futurist words.

She is thrilled to test my will, taking me into the shadows of some late night smoke inundated poorly lit alley way.

Kissing me to tears under gas lit wind swept boulevards.

At other times, she teases out my rough savant best by ignoring me completely.

Make me create in some wilderness cave like a mad Hebrew prophet,

In some Warsaw ghetto tenement, create brave new worlds, burn apart in the steams of the bath house old dead tragic pasts until the proper 13th hour when she calculates just when I will be ready to perform.

Then dripping I emerge!

The greatest show; the highest form of art is after all the private performance you give her,

While these are not immortal, their audience of one is the source, the very foundation and subject of all the war effort !

 

The muse is not there to please you.

 

She is there to drag you uphill, in an assault on the profane glory of false gods and the smallness of men who plot in listless towers.

Oh yes. Only an artist can challenge the gods and the shackles of mortality they put upon us.

 

The essential quality of the artist is that he, or she, will possess some skill and some embattled implements that when rendering her muse perfections, and converting her human flaws into deeply troubling, yet inspiring cautionary apropos that;

This bipole, this anomaly of the creative process will then allow the artist the widest canvas to cast her into the form of goddess, a celestial being, a savior, a seductress, or an angel.

 

The artist regardless of his weaponry will be fighting his way up Bunker Hill.

 

When he gets there he will declare:

 

“Love me until your love overwhelms the white gates of heaven.  Ravish me blind until I only see myself in the blue ocean of your eyes!”

 

Her greatest strength as a subject is her ability to assume the form of desire but also to unleash a savage and indiscriminate rejection of the artist unless each piece produced is an improvement on her immortalization.

 

For were the muse to be a submissive Siberian doll, an inanimate beauty, well that is just an act of painterly masturbation.

 

Useless to me.

Please excuse for,

My Muse Makes Art a Contact Sport!

And in the steams of the banya I assume the form of Krepki Mushik,

Strong men making fearless art.

She’s a most capable gypsy partisan.

A hooligan seductress.

A wild eyed savage, she holds herself up as a virtuous courtesan, lady at heart, source of great and the granddaughter of Jewish Baroness.

Under her folds I do utter when the steams clear and no one occupies the coffin ship but we:

 

I’ll Lick your tits and drink Borjomi.

And then compose a body of American poems that will put all previous to shame.