A GUTTER LOVE
IT) RTRA R O P (SELF KIRCHNE R E K IG RIN THE D NST LUDW ER
A Field Full Of Rushes Familiar fields Follow closely at my heels As I take turns around Bad tempered balustrades Down in Deserts Of Love - Begging for bogus bullion Behind a Baghdad brothel I believed only in untruths… And arabesques, as she undressed Down in Deserts Of Love - I remember the sinking City would take us easy Unto the evening air, so cold It should have snowed Down in Deserts Of Love - Lamenting frailty, Frequenting vice ‘till self-perverted artifice Unfound me suddenly mostly loathly Down in Deserts Of Love
A Doggerel’s Dinner I have seen the horrors of a life misspent In filth and floundery With thieves and scoundrels In love, in liqueur, forever Thinner; On rooftops Of dram shops- Subcontinental misadventure! And all that is wicked and weary, Terrific and teary, gorifies the graces Of the pages of dead men’s diaries. An ex-voto to the lotus Of milagros in the hollows Of bohemian bureaus that bellow below us; I’m missing my Madonna, Surely I’m a gonner!
SY VON HARDE OTTO D N IX
The Head Hunted Breaking into Bedlam’s opaque hallways Of diabolic dreaming And senseless meanings Where vagabonds and heathens Are caught up in coat-tails And prostitutes pickpocket politicians, Bequeathed beneath Billows of spirals of shadows; With covetous cavorts towards Legacies of vanity and malady, Bodies loved and bodies left In sunken cities, desert graves, And irksome taverns on council estates. In this panorama of inhumanity, All jest and jeer and jealousy, Ghosts and ghouls and drunken fools Are twisting in terror of a tincture, A gingerbread wine, a faerie’s fancies With all the vices of a brothel in a bottle, Half captivating, half decapitating! Oh, to be below the Blue And not a part of this appalling vista, Surrounded by sinister silhouettes Of wraiths and witches; Some doomed dreamer Sits alone reading of rosaries And writing the poetry of poisons, Lost in leagues of lucid dreams And reveries of pure repulsion, Sorrow in his sights, and sickness in his skeleton.
MAN MAD E
GUS MAD B Y TAVE COU FEAR RBET
THE ABS INTHE D PABLO RINKER PICASS O
Itâ€™s as if Paris dreamed Us all up one November evening A green mist dropped Down from the rooftops And together with the stars We disappeared on the ramparts.
Armed with a cascading Accompaniment of clouds I catch falling anvils, I see the grayness in the blue I sit, sick of sentiments In a daze of days put to waste Staring at steamed-up window panes On broken down suburban trains Oh! How I fake forever! I feel the hoplessness of never
LA FEM ME EN ANDRĂ‰ CHAISE DERAIN
She found me, unfortunately Brilliantly lost Between the top and bottom, My biggest fear being my own morals, With leaky laurels, hopelessly Appalling and no one left to be, I set out on a solid sea; Inclinations soon turned rotten Without a message in my bottle And as I bowed upon the brink, Sweetly soilwards, my ship did sink. Savage modernity deepens Spending endless evenings Depressing over anything! Nature had no business with me.
NE MOR PH SA MU INO M EL G R AN E AS SE T