Pisces Caput
Out of great despair,
There’s nothing there,
A gaping hole, in which
A digger could fall. Not till
Death, but to infinity,
Through hole and host and everything;
Stomach settled but starving,
Alive by the Heart that beats inside o'him,
Though that too be of Darkness.
Out of great despair,
A beast sleeps there,
Where there is no light.
The beast’s name is longing,
It has no eyes and it knows no sight.
It blunders East by eve and West whilst dawning.
It Knows not of its confinement,
Nor whom it is nor where it’s from.
It cannot breath, though bequest lungs,
The beast is a fish in great despair
and where there’s nothing there is no air.
To the Cello
The cello sings
Sweetly and softly
Of its high strings,
A baritone of masculinity
On the low.
The cello weeps
When played by Du Pre
And with grace it speaks,
When Feuermann plays
Melody in prose.
The cello rejoices
In Tyranny’s fall
It echoes the voices
Of Pablo Casals; other
Orators of sound.
The cello knows not
Whom it is nor of what it speaks.
To the cellist, it is thought;
To be heard an instrument he needs,
And the cello is loud.
The Death of Comedy
Doth beauty escape me?
the death of Comedy
the Oedipal tragedy
God has forsaken the funny-men
And a stage-hand has relinquished the spot-light.
Bricks look black by darkness, like nothing at all.
Where are the funny-men now?
They sit in dimly lit basements beneath the world,
where people would once come to laugh.
Sophisms danced like shadows
Of fat men and frilly girls, necks strained
And round bellies undulating with laughter
Against red walls.
Midnight has come and the crowds have gone home,
Leaving the comedian alone, with only shadows.
Not but a comedian once, but also a squire
left with silhouettes
In this hell-ish basement
Where once he could court her,
For he was do dull, and she so bright,
But the two so in sync
That all were honored in their company.
And they would laugh.
Comedy hath forsook he with all the grace of womanhood,
And there would be no more hunting trips to Africa.
Where once her fair figure fit perfectly in his arms,
He now has not but empty pockets to show.
The man stands spot-lit on stage,
Neurotically flailing a list of accusations.
“The people need a laugh” He’ll say
“He's lost his funny-bone” say they,
But pity be the straighter man who makes claim to understand
the plight of the comedian;
Where the whole world’s a stage,
Fighting females in the ring,
The boo’s bring him back to his youth.
I can offer you no console, comedian
But know that this happens to all truly funny men;
The man in the basement bellows at the shadows,
(“You forsook me this and that”)
Fate hath plucked her from he.
Had he been a hero
he’d make this stage his pyre,
Shove a sword through his heart.
But comedians don’t die with dignity;
They go down fighting in the Philippines,
Lingering on fading linoleum,
Gripping the microphone
With good ol’ American tenacity,
While god gives More Shit and More Shit and More.
The comedian knows his place,
Head spinning, Ouroboros in a basement.
Oh Fortuna! To spin his wheel so low,
The light has gone out of my life.
Prays of Percivals
Part 2: Martin
God,
Grant me legal immunity.
Grant me emancipation.
Grant me Danish citizenship.
Give me drugs,
To demolish my mind
And dumbbells
To strengthen my body.
Give me women,
So I may live care free.
Give me sunny days,
Give me warm nights,
Give me collect phone calls
To all my favorite friends.
God,
I realize I haven’t done much for you,
But I’ve tried,
And I’ve lived a hard life.
Let me end it in euphoria
So I don’t end it in the night.
Part 3: Timmy
Bastard baby that I am
With a disappointing son.
Perhaps all fathers are meant to disappoint their sons,
So that they may learn from our mistakes.
But what, I ask, is the point of sons disappointing fathers?
What merit does this take?
What should I learn from this?
God,
I realize I’m not in your highest of graces,
But I miss my disappointing son.
Give him brains,
Common sense.
The Vagabond
A poem for camping by fireside
Sometimes time is caught by a noose
And all that matters is the dirt on your shoes,
How you wear your sunglasses.
Body and cloths cloaked in smoky perfume,
A smirk by fireside, basking in brassiness.
Libertines thrust lapping tongues at every facade.
Lizard-like, licking lower legs; lustily ablaze,
Ebbed by artifice of gullible irises.
Fear not revels of belly-dancing flame,
Be stoic by fireside and regaled in guilelessness.
So long as flames do lap the underside of your shoe,
So long as wrinkles create concaves in countenance’s scarlet hue,
Fear not spies nor sneaky surprises.
Intrinsic, at last, to know all that’s behind you.
Monk-like in vigil, and pray only to Prometheus.
Sometimes fire is better if you don’t stick your hand in,
And all that matters is soot on your face, a yellow-toothed grin.
Fresh air makes man abort all disguises;
To smile like a reptile, laughing like vermin.
The nature of the man, a beast behind sunglasses.
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