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A GUTTER LOVE

BY

GEORGE JAMES


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.

THE

MAN MAD E

GUS MAD B Y TAVE COU FEAR RBET


THE ABS INTHE D PABLO RINKER PICASS O

It’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.

PEA SOUP


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 ANDRÉ CHAISE DERAIN


EU GÈ

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


http://thepurestpainsoflove.tumblr.com

A Gutter Love  

Back alley wanderings, over art.