57-1000#
Спой мне
Setting a Red and Gold Standard for Something New
Canta para mi:
“You don’t know me well for nothing,
There’s risk in everything we do.”
“If words have any worthy-worth,
Then they remain small gifts until acted upon.”
“True.” (Cierto)
The urge to woo? Feelings are held when the other is gone.
Is; the urge to risk. In the shadows,
things we might wager
The things we might be and the things we might do!
Every man or woman takes their own hill,
or makes their own hell.
But: Heaven isn’t real, it just swells, something preachers sell, too long, too well.
To justify the listless always working life, no sky pie,
no one ever comes back, why?
The dead, they gasp- the dead they all die.
They say Black don’t crack, but really: they all crack.
The living,
Are all dreamers, to any vain hope we grasp.
Even when the hope is fully gone.
(cuando el trabajo se ensucia demasiado)
Even when the work gets too dirty!
We passed over each other, once,
Past midnight thirty, in Lapland or that other temple of Americana squalor?
In Arabian salsa nights, in roughly taken masquerades or sipping Bulgarian soda, in Ponce?
You and I met our eyes,
And I had nothing to try, or to sell or to buy and you had nothing to sell.
At least not that day, for a drink we knew nothing,
Nothing that ends well.
“Talk sweetly to me,”
(ella dijo)
“I think they just need a bribe, excuse me, an “expediting fee”.
Canta para mi:
Oy the frost, the frost!
Please don’t kill my petrol-bound tin horse.
Oy the frost, the evil vile northern frost!
Don’t let a bold Bronx knife take my thankless life,
My wife is a beauty.
A green-eyed something cutie,
but she is also a jealous wife.
“Am I right?”
You can’t fuck me at knifepoint tonight.
Out of the plane that I jumped?
The white bike she rode!
Could I just drop everything I’m doing right now before we implode!
“Well, count all the fucks you’re giving out tonight,
Do you think you can carry or swallow my load?”
The backboards slam only in indiscrete places.
Trousers left on the road,
And I’ll just tell you I’m simply captivated,
By the luscious, by the tempt, by the temperature,
but:
Frustrated by the code.
The mask on my face protects me- not from you,
But from invisible things, like breathing.
Better to die of a bullet then. From a have to a have not,
A blood clot?
When- “What proof is there-it was really a blood clot!”
If you aren’t coming to the inner-Party, have no after-thought!
No pants down then, no hanky panky,
no get your red robe bundle bought,
Then in that case:
Lust is just lust bought,
I’ll make my leaving,
I could work for you on a weekend, but the palace had better be swanky.
To leave your winter chest, summer heaving,
A general frost is dragging us into its low orbit,
Always a rapture of death, or dying and or deception, and or deceiving.
The dead souls must speak!
They hear things,
When you come-on-coming;
Left and came again, only the seeing is worth believing!
I saw you and in true lust I wept.
The life I lead is portable,
Worth only as much as the secrets we gave,
And the whispers we keep on believing.
The life of night is the life of a slave.
There is still some kind of vile hunger,
There is a watching, which way went smoke,
There was a bag of money,
A blue passbook out, a black card.
The things it could buy, a black joke.
Glorious options, good life, white skin suits,
There was gunpowder cut with coke.
Life is beautifully written, but we lost somehow the portfolio; the prose-like words.
It all became a rough fuck.
A Kurt joke. A morale dismember,
If I ever knew you,
In the naked biblical sense,
Trust me I’d fuck-king remember.
The shape of things is suspect,
The demiurge, the prospect.
The unmitigated worth of identity, little to none.
I take off my something,
I take off my hat in requiem.
I take off my hat in respect.
WALTER SEBASTIAN ADLER 