Plays

Essays

Critique

Novels

Short
Stories

Selected
Poems

Political &
Incidental

For Posterity

 

 


email: anthonysteyning59 at gmail dot com

       

 

Pnin, Psmith, Purefoy and Prufrock of Nabokov, Wodehouse, Joyce and Eliot fame. It's all in the P it seems, hence Pvanwestrenen and his art.

  'Le Penseur au Parc', 2014, oil/gesso/medium on canvas, 112 x 120 cm by Van Westrenen priced at USD $ 5000.00 plus shipping, for sale from the author's collection

 

 

SELECTED POEMS

BLACK PRINCESS...and more

 

by

Anthony Steyning

 

 

These 'compositions' are constantly revised online. As for the Youtube readings, I cannot re-record videos every day, so please take the written words below as the most up-to-date version available. Also, speaking Spanish and French all day long for the last two decades hasn't improved my English reading skills. So that next time round perhaps I'll use an actor. Still, this will give you more than a flavour of the scope of my work.

 

watch?v=FuAMrRFSCRw

Black Princess 

    Slick, she slides  

As swan on ripple rides. 

         Glib, she glides

As bluebirds on airtide rise. 

              Gawks, up she chalks

As breeze above reeds stalks.

                     Then talks, but balks 

As she by others walks.

                           Crouches, still pouts 

And in that crowd, breathless, I run, I hide.

                                  Yet hunt she must,

She of constant, moody flight,

clinging,

hips swinging, tail zinging,  

                                        a prowling river cat

making me pray

I won't be prey

another night

 

watch?v=FuAMrRFSCRw

Waiting for Henry

Most people spend their life

waiting for him.

I didn't

until I was fifty,

immediately following

those

early years of innocence.

Innocence is dismissing,

he never entering.

But now

it's: Is Henry coming,

on his way?

Where do I hide?

For Henry's death

and

death's Henry,

isn't he?

 

Sailing

Power Plug Pete

and

Wet Jack Stel,

back from

rounding Cape

Carnal Binge

Took a breather

on the deck

of their Catamaran,

basking,

glowing,

in the burning

Also of the sun

 

Mother

My mother

likes blossom on a tree

much better than

apples,

growing later,

usurp,

disturb,

she says,

like some of us

steal Spring,

spoil

everything

                                                         

Monday

I waited for Monday

as seldom I seem to wait

forgetting how quickly

black'n white days alternate,

after

someone stole soft Sunday's air

with me

going round in circles

and sometimes in a square

 

watch?v=V71BbueC3XA

 

In the Beginning...

 

ODE

 

Struggling with existence,

at the end of each day

harshly asking "What the Fuck am I doing here!?"

the many lost,

the many suffering.

Not given to unreasonable fantasy,

Le mal d’être,

their only

having been.

Intelligence doing this to the mammal.

Though not to all.

Gnus, only grazing, only spying the lion

not owning the problem.

But for others,

beside the shallow,

as only choice

joy

or

endless probing into the unknowable.

 

So listen.

Yes, you,

listen!

Rejoice!

 

Immerse

yourself in beauty, create it,

as beyond our daily death,

nothing else

delivering.

 

 

But then...

 

 

Betrayed

He was running out of it. The running out of close family, friends and acquaintances begun, all noble hopes for them, for him, practically gone.

He felt angry. And tired. Life had turned out to be a fraud. A place where even saved the immediate pain of the unfortunates, a lair where fish swallowed its own and the magnificent impala got devoured, and where through his own accidents or terrible sword and thus ridiculous mind, he came to find life as its own purpose had given ‘way, to all horrors slow.

A domain where not death the greatest tragedy of all, but the evanescence of beauty and joy that if not a total illusion, consist of time even shorter than his own.

Yet time itself, the centuries of it, the today, the yesterday, its tomorrow, passed on, and back, and forth, carried on millions and millions of successive unsuspecting shoulders, surviving fine.

Alone! But fine.

Without the burden of oblivion. Without the horror of loss.

Belonging only to him. To man, to you and I.

Whence our ire.

And defiance.

 

Two Cats To Go

 

If a cat has 9 lives

And I had 7 cats,

It may be said that I had 63 lives within my own,

With these doing whichever what

None to impose, but a few to waste perhaps,

The hours of dolce-far-niente, of contemplation,

But also of frustration,

In which pain, real and imagined, wouldn’t, couldn’t stop

But here I am, at 3 a.m, 2 cats to go,

and still discovering, hoping.

For more cats and for far fewer of us,

So doors to earthly bliss

eke open

 

Hands

 

One short,

a tortoise, the other longer,

a hare

 

One 98.44% faster to be exact,

running circles round the first

First stopping, looking back, triumphant,

but soon and suddenly finding himself behind,

then quickly dead-even once more

For one is history, the other now,

two who cannot be sans each other

 

Bound to be one,

later,

as before

 

Icarus Accused

 

It’s nice to be shameless. It comes in handy when finding oneself, formal as always, highly dressed before judge or committee set up to inquire about one’s ways. It gives one the opportunity to lie through distinguished teeth, faking how one cares, dodging truth brilliantly through vain brain nimble and memory for utility drilled

To be looked upon as sincere when in reality one's a corrupt and pin-striped whore

With such honourable voice, deep only at its shallowest, and, success justifying the means, not being real or authentic never having held one back. One's acquisitions, profits and gain furthermore, incidental only to one’s need for much esteem, seeing as at the end of the day the one for oneself

so paper thin

Still, attacked, outrage and denial one's best friends. For skimming not outright stealing and self-reward not robbing, one convinced oneself long ago. And never mind if one leaves the disadvantaged scrambling in one’s wake, it’s not killing is it, as in tyranny and violent crime? Much obliged in other words, small murders not murders at all

It’s nice to be shameless. It comes in handy when flying high and forging ahead

But remember the sun and wings of wax

And Icarus neither victim nor hero

but a greedy,

inglorious

fool!

 

watch?v=bujFf2ETmR4

Cloudburst

Poor rain!

Drops

lowered into

rivers into

seas,

wiping ooze off wings unseen,

float to float upward unperceived,

drift to drift back

hanging

Over

barren folds

and thirsting souls,

ready to moisten and caress again,

but

paying

With liquid

loneliness

Poor rain!

 

*******

 

Unending Rhapsody, 2015

 

Just shed another tear

 

 for a man I listened to,

 

 but never met.

 

 

Shooting his sèlf,

 

forty years ago,

 

freed, free at last, until,

 

most ill,

 

dying upon six thousand dawns,

and deaths.

 

 

A good soul,

 

a Bohemian one,

 

unbeknownst to many, mother included,

 

not quite the man they took him for,  

 

who sang:

 

 

Mama, just killed a man

Put a gun against his head

Pulled my trigger, now he’s dead.

Mama, life had just begun

But now I’ve gone and thrown it all away!

 

Mama, ooo

Didn’t mean to make you cry

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow,

carry on, carry on,

as if nothing really matters!

 

 

But it did, it did, dear Freddie,

it still does and always will,

gone friend.

 

 

* * * * * * *

 

Her Face

A rich

and angular yet

undulating field

graced with two flowers,

two eyes

unfolding slowly

each day, each moment

and

lit from deep within

With warmth oft hidden, but never quite gone, nor dark,

even when imperilled by fogs

of doubts or fears

Doubts if yesterday's hurt

will come again;

fears only disappearing

when kissed by

heart's fresh outcry

Her face

in sudden

celebration

after

clouds swept 'way

by this,

love's tender thirst

and dawn's new dew

 

Them

What's them

is all talk

and marry well

and travel far

and talk some more

and talk

and talk

and take

and take

about others

never giving

a fucking damn

 

She

Sometimes I embrace her body

Sometimes I embrace her mind

And when I embrace them both

it tends to be divine

 

Of Tomorrow

Evening,

lace of moments

round my neck still beating

from your interrupted embrace!

Darkness,

only awaiting

the arrival

of your next touch!

Nearness,

like a light

incapable of conquest

it seems,

without inflicting

Hurt all are known to hate!

Morning,

prelude to tomorrow

and the final certainty

that while embrace unwillingly sometimes,

Darkness

and careless pain

also must

abate!

 

Ever More

A profile hewn from light and shadow

under umbrella-rounded hair

so fine,

I tremble before my hand outstretched,

awe nearly causing I withdraw,

except now her eyes burst open

and her mouth curls sweet

and her teeth speak bright

'What are you doing? What are you thinking?'

Irony! How is melodious,

innocent breath to know

through mouth divine

it has

to enthralled ear

traversed,

giving life

twice, thrice..?

 

Moment

I want to keep it!

It is not dirt!

She said,

refusing my hasty kerchief,

placing her hands protectively

against the upper insides of her legs, wanting this part of her

moist and warm and fertile

a good spell longer,

the other still shaking;

weak, weaker slow spasms

ebbing, way below layers

of clothes in disarray,

deep inside the dusk

of my car,

quickly

speeding 'way.

How utterly loving! I thought,

touching her hand;

but too stupid

to slow down

or

stop

that

goddamn

Chevrolet!

 

Impunity's Death

There is

every chance

a body

buried illicitly,

meeting its end

less than fortuitously,

encountered

the kind of

justice

it once dished out

If not,

there

soon to be

second loss:

impunity's own demise

bequeathing

crime's hidden author

death's

infinitely

more Just

toss

 

A Funeral For Immortality

(Subtitle: The Lodes of Time)

There is no sweeter contingency

Yet consider the promise of endlessness and finding all things good, become all hell

So that the possibility of immortality's own death sneaking up, to this deception we should not over-react,

coddled as

we were

by her

only

when still in need of

nurture

Indeed, if immortality were a woman who had a certain way with us, holding herself out, making us go and go on, when otherwise and long ago we would have given up: yes, such is the power of suggestion and the degree to which our fears and at once the self-preservation behind our beliefs, do stimulate

The terrible power of fantasy, as it is called

For as it turns out her generosity always exactly mirrors our generosity towards ourselves

Now one day such a lady surely deserves a warm-hearted elegy, seeing how before our very eyes she suddenly grew so very old, and cold. Or was it slowly, but nobody paid attention? The cause of death, since you ask, usually ignored in as formal an outpouring as an obituary, and futile bringing the matter up except perhaps for those themselves blindly moribund. And having loads of time coming up with a suitable epitaph, there rarely existing need for impatience or thrusts of other sorts

For it is nearly impossible to write a well-reasoned prose poem on something that isn't quite real, something like a real enough obituary or elegy for immortality and the reason lady-embodiment serves us well. For in defense of things it must be given a try as life only valued as a constant 'raging against the dying of the light' so often leads to the de facto denial of one. Like the stating, as so many do, that wisdom is 'accepting life's limitations' and from there swiftly going on to suggest how terrific and infinite and un-'limitated' the next one is. Commencing the search for the holy grail of this immortality, even when there is not the faintest hope of finding it, the real, organic universe unable to function in this fashion. Or as a friend of mine expresses it, immortality having no future at all

And which I only now begin to understand

But let us return to the task of burying a lady: it is not easy celebrating someone who never was and could not be, someone comforting and fanciful, alive superbly in our desires, one we only recently and to our great shock learned no longer lives among us. Gone, defunct, dead and needing to be buried with great pomp, out of respect for what we perceived were her extraordinary accomplishments: dishing out limitless, beguiling reward as recompense for our own perceived victories and qualities. A spell-binding, an overly generous lady, deserving an elaborate grave, a solid grave, for she was uncommonly elusive and thought to be extremely tall, with all of us knowing her but none of us ever really seeing her, even though, incredibly, we would kill for her if we had to, chips down and seemingly in the service of some deep need

With an elegy or obituary that could say a lot or not so much, because she meant a lot or not so much, depending on to whom one spoke. In fact there could be more than one of each, the irony that she knew so many and survived such a long, long time in the minds of most. Longer, and get this, than all her admirers, adherents and good friends put together. The Daily Telegraph probably celebrating her service to King and Country. The Times her estates. The Guardian her fellow man and Radio Four her forceful voice. And that is because we are all so very much inspired by anything or anyone confirming what we already stand for, making every attestation like it rich, because... in fact... our own

Though strangely, dead or simply disappeared, she keeps on popping up, sighted by those who can't give up, wanting to have a fresh go at her. When the only thing the poor dear wanted was to be remembered, not be seduced again or in the other extreme driven to exhaustion. Or ridiculed by some, because that's the way we are: sometimes good, sometimes nasty, just don't push and as long as either way we bag redemption. But seriously and swiftly removing tongue from cheek, is it not the premise of promise of such another life, the one after the one we know to be so short, precarious and cruel, the sole element of change that possibly makes sense? For what is the point of extending life with one just as fraught with uncertainty? And therefore making the dreaming up of one that is neither, such a perfectly natural endeavour? Putting to good use the one faculty making us differ from all other living creatures: Need something you cannot have, thus badly want? Why, invent it, of course!

Then buy it! And need itself then, so very facultative. And artificiality on the surface so very beneficiary. For it certainly seems to work in other parts of our existence, like matters economic: half the world lives decently by the fabrication of products that are useless or invisible. Goods and services based on fear and contingency. On mere impression and suggestion, with them crazy or smart enough to provide the stuff and us daft enough to buy it. Yes, along broad lines it works, just like the cold war. The economic catalyst without which we would all have been eating dirt and for decades fostering industry upon industry keeping us directly or indirectly in a job. Though nothing ever happened, no shots fired, only those empty, angry menaces and threats. And what did Yves Saint Laurent ever do for Joe Pizza? Sodomy and velvet hats? Just what everyman was pining for? Of course not, but let the poor designer be, you do get the point: he successfully employed thousands of us in hundreds of stores in a dozen countries, or more. But in the end, both Yves and the Cold War tired and went. Yet fatuous immortality, despite all funerals, ever so kept her allures

For on a further level it seems self-evident that there can be no life without death. So why then eliminate death? It is like trying to steal the horizon: it cannot be done and to begin with does not make sense. But by insisting on doing so, by trampling on others in the act, by being blind to every breath-taking landscape on our way, what are we achieving, anyway? To a growing number of us the secret lying in staying away from this sort of thing, by overcoming existential fears and silly ambition. Not craving immortality and reward the answer,  ignoring that innate vulnerability to incentives of the kind. For it may be that in this ignoring and the human dignity it engenders lies the only timelessness that matters. Additionally and as a by-product, a delightful element of discovery left to our children, a stretch of road truly their own, nothing handed down or for much longer. The case before. Yes, not having their existence cut and dried after the ignoring... no longer ignored

Is this not the very least we can do, bequeathing them life's magnificent sense of adventure, the one that we are busy claiming on the late side? Therefore, besides her obituary, the funeral for immortality, our lovely but somewhat sly and once ancient lady should be an extremely joyous and even repetitive one. Itself an unending New Orleans jazz funeral with laughter and dance flowing through the streets of five continents. Listen! Listen to the sway of that music, slow drums rolling, brash brass and soft reeds blowing, all feet moving, all man's skins aglow

What a way to live

as live we must,

within thin

lodes of time

the party

far from over

(conceived just prior to FairyTales, the essay)

 

Paris Streets

Pas de Deux       says one affiche

Pas de Chiens     another

Pas du Tout       I say

 

Quebec en Trois Saisons

O, glorious autumn

of red, burnt falling crowns

What more

can one ask for

but to lie

among

Cree and Gallic tongue

quivering

below

eloquent winds, wings,

and

black tender tree trunks

Just

as long

and later on,

shielded from frost,

this

to

new

birth

brings one

Another shared exhilaration

another unanguished confrontation

with the gods: ourselves;

another Spring

 

 

Inspiration

Through

desperate

imagination

The missing breeze of her

Across the ocean,

in this hotelroom,

washing my hair,

writing it dry,

the pen I found

and so

this

sudden

peace

on paper

 

About Richard

He drank

first to luxuriate in,

then to hold off life,

followed by

shoving the whole show

up his arse,

deciding

dying

greater

than

crying

 

On Twisted Meaning

But also about rivalry.

And I do say

while often horrendously legitimate,

flaunting anger

a tragedy

especially if entered into culture as a social commodity,

like the handshake, say

For young men having nothing but a worn set of running shoes, a stained old polo shirt and a pair of jeans, no job, no education, no knowledge, no expectation, no girl-friend, no car, no place their own, anger more than sentiment

It the only possession, the only weapon with which to duel,

and having more of it

the way to best

even more lowly

pals

Yes, man the competitor, also when he has nothing, like who's first getting to the square or corner hangout, and once there who puts in the most useless hours, bluffs or fantasizes more, and above all

Who hates the most,

there seeking

and getting

attention!

Though

besides all this,

what to do with oneself,

how to keep busy

every day,

every week,

month after month,

year in

year out

Anger, hate

become

phantom victory,

become

useless dignity

 

Gloves Off

The proctologist and the lady gynecologist had lunch,

he thought that special scent of hers beguiling,

she

that his

could be better

and,

only a hunch,

having

to do

with this

professional

guy

thing

 

Same to You

As theory has it

tree climbing mammals went on to rule the world

due mainly to the thumb,

the use of which

forced the brain

to make all kinds of small decisions

Improving it,

gradually guiding

mankind

to ever greater heights

But since,

it seems,

become a waste:

after

two million years

of preeminence,

humble thumb

subjugated

to a stiff

middle

finger

 

Into The Lair

Humans were propelled

not by muscle, not by mind,

but by thumb

and

clitoris

Early on, One

mechanically developing

the brain,

the Other,

more delicate

than cello or violin

that most marvelous

of anatomical instruments,

instead of excruciation

creating intense pleasure

Male orgasm functional, vulgar,

mere secretion,

but nature's genius providing

women with ecstasy

of the noblest

and most intelligent kind

They no longer resenting

otherwise most unelegant penetration,

so saving us,

weak,

few,

unlikely to survive,

from

both

early extinction

and lonely

desperation

Both in nature and in private

making them

so

stunningly

exceptional

 

Mindless

Free.

Euphoric.

Cheering.

In charge at last:

ON TOP!

After misery not only belonging,

but of the highest stratum,

and at long last

not

having to care

for those

below,

forever more

Relief!

All smile!

Doesn't it feel great,

what's wrong with hate,

resentment,

terror and violence

almost family,

always on our side?

Except look everywhere,

whatever was achieved this way

never

ever

lasting

 

Jack

Not one

but two

tall beanstalks

and the damp,

hot

tree house

with the leafy entrance

to try and climb into,

thrusting head

deep

while in the breeze

desire's

all sway

And

where

he

curls up

and rubs

the floors,

and walls,

and ceiling

without arms and hands,

going up and down like a seesaw

till the stalks cry out and in twilight

go limp

and he

slides out and down

all smile

and wipes himself

after

soft,

moist

play

 

Aliens

America

in psychosis

about Socialism

(governing it)

Latin-America

about Gringos

(exploiting it)

Russia

about the West

(invading it)

Africa

about Europe

(re-colonizing it)

China

about the Occident

(belittling it)

Japan

about the Rest

(not buying it)

Hindus

about Muslims

(not bowing to them)

Jews

about Arabs

(bombing them)

Muslims

about Christians

(out-believing them)

O, where the Extraterrestrials?

(if not humbling uniting us, and why so much in need of them)

 

watch?v=737YV4B-wNo

Eighth Floor Second

No matter what you read

No matter what they say

and sounds like war

World economic crisis

never Armageddon

but

a set of reversals

in the Babylonian building of Finance

whereby

occasionally

Basement becomes Penthouse,

Third floor First,

Eighth floor Second

and the sad stupidity

of rapacious

architecture

evident

 

watch?v=AVh9JpvlkM8

Deception

Who the hell are you,

at the Evening or Finance Post,

asking me,

having lost everything,

while pointing at institutional abandon,

if

I don't know

pyramidic society cannot live without

graduation,

elevation,

going on and on

pretending it is never summit

always bottom,

me, in other words, not them

in charge of everything,

including Wall Street, and why not,

throw it all in,

Route 66, Hawaii or even the East Coast?

So,

then,

why publish the foregone?

say editors

and other doormen,

keepers of gates,

unlike with their favourite

soap, pop and movie stars

too reverent,

not cornering,

not tracking down

absconding Ceos and Chairs

who own not only judges

but all yachts

and shares

Never asking these angels

of extermination

to explain themselves,

by their lapels grabbing the lot,

in their vowels kicking the rots,

as the improbable objects of serious adoration

already INSIDE the house

and well rehearsed

when the show

commences

And things predictable

in a strange sort of way,

always right, the way they should be

they say

But o

Poor the system

in need of might,

though not nearly as poor as one minded

with unreasoned respect and deference,

in deceptive society

rather than what does get written

what goes not written, not published

the bleeding

difference

 

watch?v=UIBhS4t6VQo

Mocha Man   

There is something tranquil,

something stoical

about mixed blood,

the

Half-Breed,

Métis,

Mulatto,

Mestizo,

Creole,

those not

remotely

impure.

Below their wings

the peace of future

hovering, impatient,

while

nature

redefines

itself

Creating

Seraphs of Dilution,

of

Negro, Caucasian or Oriental blood

flowing

into Obama,

Woods,

Dumas

or Pushkin

And

a matter of physics incarnate,

the confluence of molecules

not through

gravity,

temperature,

pressure,

or volume,

but by hormones,

in bedrooms

and on the backseat

of cars

Brazilian the mosaic,

even when in places

like Samba Rio

lingering hatreds

still await

the arrival

of

the final,

modern,

the total

Mocha Man

 

 

Dizzy's Dead

Glenn didn't,

Bill, Jimi, John,

Franz and Charlie didn't,

in the end

only Dizzy

given

the

time

to pay

all bills

For

like Oceans,

Music,

besides

delivering

magnificence,

also

kills

Seizing its

most ardent

practitioners

with pain and tension

as

slow delirium

ravages them

The only assuaging

the wrecking power

of compulsion and perfection:

more music

more of it,

ever

ever

more of it

Creation

by obsession

consuming its children,

devouring those

known

as

Gould, Evans, Hendrickx

Coltrane, Schubert,

and young Parker

Sucking them

deeper and deeper

into space,

like a vortex

not only getting louder

but dense,

darker

 

watch?v=bujFf2ETmR4

Lips

A cliché dead wrong,

not stiff upper

but

stiff lower lip,

producing

not a round

but square mouth,

one prevented from closing

entirely

by

an upright toothpick

Belonging to the antiseptic

'I'm very well,

now

be off!'

Englishman,

in an awesome display

of careful class crap

Expressing himself

in

ghastly speak,

by ordinary mortals deemed

a crass,

not high

but

low blow,

last

gasp

 

Kafka

Kalled

the Government

the

Arrangement

For me

Life

should be called

the mysterious

Arrangement,

as it's much

more difficult

guessing

who

or what

placed

who, when, where,

why and how

Though

as I'm kinda busy living,

it doesn't really matter,

just now

 

Cool it!

Ever stood in front of an Aviary,

barely lifting your arm,

hundreds of birds

in one swoosh taking flight,

the flapping of alarmed wings

moving the air violently,

on either side of wire meshing

nothing really happening?

Yet when

newspapers,

television,

journals

and

the

radio

raise voice,

clear throat,

spit phlegm,

we also churn air,

headless,

fright laden,

all at once

going every

nowhere

 

Why?

Motion, mass,

time, light,

space, speed,

electro-chemistry, gravity

and

fire

Everything revealed,

except

the

Origin

of

Purpose

Leading to

pathetic dreams

and the irresistibility

of ire

 

So What

She doesn't know

why she's here,

this leaking raft of a woman,

floating on currents

she doesn't understand,

drifting from coastline to coastline,

never to land,

not thrown a lifeline

by anyone,

except one man

Himself

floating not far

She a little plain,

a little plump

He a little scared

a little dumb

Now paddling together,

indifferent to weather,

suddenly

no more clinging

Defiant

 

Caged Pedestrian

I saw them in the street

Man takes,

Woman holds,

but nobody says

for her to walk

two steps behind him,

bent under weight

of eyes

checking on her

from all sides,

invisibly tied

not

to a passionate friend,

but to some captor,

bloody kept her

And

telling us

not enough

about her,

but

about him

Everything

 

Love To Slay

Paraphrasing Sinatra,

the problem now of course is

that people are not horses,

reduced to mere premise

A space to walk into,

a place to invade,

a desire made habitable,

not merely providing comfort,

catering to every wish,

where

'Jump, I say!' all poor bastards jump,

but

in the long run

still not

the

contempt

offering

much fun;

a domicile

onwards

even

tiresome

No, the joy of

inspiring fear,

the real edifice

to be demolished,

this addiction

to instilling terror

making demagogues and bullies

seemingly rise

before their own eyes

The seeing

of others not only

crawl before them,

but crawling 'way,

no legs, no arms,

almost gravity defying,

like forcing water

up tall walls

Only for the slaying,

this base anomaly,

this dark perversity,

Revolt!

 

Seduction

With smallish organ

some acquire a very large car

With luxurious hair,

and painted mouth

even minor fortunes,

and

with help from a surgeon

three, four extra husbands or so,

astute calculation

and legs opening

their society,

at the same time

closing

many late, posh bars

But not Marilyn,

singing diamonds are a girl's best friends

a lark,

buying them herself,

through healthy appetite and

a small excess of immodesty,

hot the way some like it,

making it entirely on her own

Speaking softly,

face tilted, eyes half slut,

voix de fillette baisable, adorable

lips simulating fellatio,

showing each man she means well,

driving him quite crazy, sometimes old

Exquisite huntress,

bagging

Statesmen, fine French Crooners, Actors,

Ballplayers, Playwrights,

though not necessarily on the same day

and often

mopping up after them

with other guys,

on the road,

where she comes

and boldly goes

Only ever dumping Norma-Jean,

her pumps, her bobby sox,

her lonely adolescence,

all the rules forgot;

the thing to do

with caliber,

a velvet smoke,

and a couple of

Tequila Cocktails,

Gold,

cold

 

watch?v=737YV4B-wNo

Century XXI

Can you speak a little faster,

I have a short attention span!

And louder,

because I'm also going deaf

from what I used to think was having fun!

Hey, don't you see I have no time to be sincere,

are you that dumb, not on the run, like everyone?

Hurry, Driver, slowing down my nerves get shot!

Tell me, M'am, how long will you ignore me,

so I can go, not lose this spot?

Waiter, can you speed it,

the Vichyssoise is getting hot!

No fooling, Paris through the roof, the Pope in Cuba,

erosion in the air, got to fix my hair, but what if I'm late,

my kid with AC/DC AD/HD, wonder why it is that he can't concentrate!

At any rate

For Christmas I want my own traffic lights and parking zone!

Hi Mom, haven't seen you in a while!

Was that her?

Can't believe how old she got,

head shaking

as if her child is lost

Or is it Parkinson?

 

watch?v=FuAMrRFSCRw

Time And Again

While on stage

a pause is fire

sometimes mirth,

in a poem silence

space,

in space itself

darkness not death

but a flame

dying

to see

birth

 

The Bed

Some Cops to Thieves,

all Minorities in Power,

Officials to Builders,

Bankers to Swindlers,

Women to ill Suitors

do it

Saying

'Come up,

but

make no waves,

you knaves,

and

for the sake of Christ

upon a foul act,

DON'T move the blanket'!

 

Splash

The brain has two hemispheres

forming one tiny planet,

but

the beginning of someone

sometimes

the end,

like the woman with the exaggerated fish lips,

asleep in an armchair

in the lobby

of a Montparnasse hotel,

dreaming perhaps

about

returning

to the Ocean,

a

fine catch

for men

no

more

 

Ashes

The Press

comes up

with good ones

sometimes

Like the extraordinary case

of two eccentric

rich girls,

no arsenic,

no lace

Roaming the streets for rummies and fate,

themselves derelict looking

only

to win the friendship of

the lost

Putting them up in cheap apartments,

giving them one last address

before

once again

dropping them off

Having closed eighteen life insurance policies

on the otherwise worthless existence

of those homeless human cats,

pretending to be their fiancees

Paying the premiums diligently,

making themselves

beneficiaries,

of course

Then drugging

and

placing them

on the cement or asphalt

of the alleys they knew so well,

for good measure

bludgeoning

the good bums

before

with their beat up Van

running over

them

For eternity resting

lying bleeding

in

dripping

cardboard

coffins,

without pillows

or on the lid

Chrysanthemums!

Both ladies seventy seven,

and smart,

their victims fifty

and dumb

For who

needed

the money

Most?

 

A Megalomaniac's Song

I felt like an army,

the voice of my footsteps

so powerful,

the footsteps of my voice

not merciful

but masterful!

Oh, how they listened,

nobody suspecting

the mess I created,

over their heads,

behind their backs,

under their gaze

With cold heart

confirming

warm trust,

telling them

only

what

they wished to hear

My strength

and loud conviction

pointing

at anything

or anyone

moving

the wrong way,

quickly

assigning blame

for all hunger,

pain,

humiliation

If not by design

certainly

the

fruit

of

an

ignorance,

even greater

than theirs

and than mine

Plus those close,

snakes and of reptile mind,

mouth mute,

tongue smelling,

savouring domination,

never taking their fangs

and hypnotic stare

very far

from where

exhorting

I stood

Yes,

in this universe

there exists no crime,

and so no punishment

though I did try stopping,

stopping all guards, acolytes

who wouldn't let me,

fake fate thundering

well

down

deliberate,

firm,

paved path

Me,

this late,

afraid

only

of myself,

of

no longer

being

the strongest,

the most ruthless,

weakness pretending to strength

and noise to conviction

and hope to victory,

soon descending into

fury,

disgust

And,

tiring,

the sudden,

the irresistible desire,

not only

to punish myself

but

to pull

EVERYONE

into some hell

Where

if I,

all humanity

must

damned and well

rot,

rust!

 

Enigma

Chance is dumb,

Coincidence a force,

But where do I fit in,

Unless a horse?!

 

The Piercing

A mocking smile,

a bullet mind,

lips curled,

compassionate

not arrogant,

her ribbing

playing itself out

only through her eyes,

brow raised slightly,

pupils sizing up

in silence

and all its splendour,

her voice not trespassing

the human landscape

her judgment

long

passed,

crossed,

conquered,

left

behind

The knowing,

the baring,

leaving one feeling

totally unattired,

unprotected,

defenceless,

naked,

laughable,

but never,

ever

afraid!

 

Avowals

Having to do

with betrothal,

Yes,

Perhaps,

Otherwise

they stink!

Never for compassion

always for revenge

vows should at the very minimum

be

Never to vow

again!

 

Friends

Yes

It has started,

One by one

Losing them,

Slipping through my fingers,

Become nameless,

Death or their betrayal taking them,

By my recollection first noble,

Then negligent

But what is my name?

Do I remember?

Slithered

away

To them?

 

10 Cents

There are those

who fake interest

to perfection,

wallet tight,

smoking expensive cigars,

telling emaciated Sahel orphans

to think positive,

or

knowing you're sinking,

immaterially

inquire 'bout your bad back,

when as happy

to let you drown,

and save ten cents

Sure it's Sahel out there,

green once

and more one day,

but NOT for them

Even their own

having

walked 'way,

long ago!

 

Tradition

Is dying for the past,

not

needless repetition?

 

Exit Compassion

Solidarity's one thing,

Complicity another,

most

not knowing the difference

For though Kindness

also kills,

Cowardice

and Suspicion

doing it

with

much

more

passion!

 

Hope

My false friend

is back

Turning up uninvited,

throwing me a bone,

pretending

to

lend hand

Rage and disgust

in momentary retreat

as he drops in

but

quickly

decamps

Making me

bite dust,

eat sand

again

Even when

I saw the bastard

coming!

 

Drowning

Like a Monarch butterfly

lazily,

languorously,

unfolding wings

in perfect sync

In the slightest of breezes,

the deepest of emotions,

motions,

except that

these are

her

mesmerizing eyes

In which I sink

 

South Mid West

Turning a corner,

the good ole boy said,

suddenly

there were flowers,

flowers,

thousands of them

stretched out before me,

as far as

Arkansas...

 

No More

I live under grass

not sensing where the surface is,

or that there is a surface,

scuttling, scurrying back and forth

without knowing

where I'm going,

discovering life

at a level

all my own

For me this grass forest,

every unevenness mountain,

every raindrop flood,

every footstep of something larger than me,

war

And I fight

for this life

without knowing it,

understanding it

Part of some foodchain,

producing something

even more magnificent

than what I feel and see?

Well, now, listen,

I have no voice,

but listen anyway!

If you have anything

to do with this, then

Care for me!

and

Let me be!

for

I desire no more!

 

Gaols

Rage

is

getting invited

urgently

by the family

Because mother baked a cake

and the neighbours

and Jack and Syl

are coming,

and her son is home

from somewhere

and it’s her thirtieth

wedding anniversary

every six bleeding weeks

But I told her

I dance only

once a year,

at midnight

In Mogadishu

and  Pyongyang

 

Apologies

Post war,

smiling

Germans,

not daring to snarl,

not daring to growl,

needing to prove

they’re not murderers,

by desperately having

desperately boring

non-blond friends

Oh how they can laugh,

mechanically,

at nothing,

nothing at all

Get over it

I tell them,

STOP laughing!

You did nothing wrong,

but

I

might!

 

History

According

to

my

Amanuensis

Entering

Francis Fukuyama's

historic

End,

Isn't

equal

to

entering

the End

of a Llama,

named

Francis

 

Plunge

Thank you

for shaving my wife,

the man told me,

lips frozen,

barely able to move them,

after I pulled him from the river,

one December morning,

in 1995.

 

Robed And All That

Hey, Man!

Don't even try!

Don't give me that!

Don't give me that eternal life crap!

Get off it!

Get off your arse!

Get to be decent,

which you won't

because you can't,

having others

do the moaning

and

the

weeping,

instead!

 

Honourables

Never be interrupted,

speak with authority

about nothing,

fast,

faultness

Shake hands

but keep walking,

keep talking

No matter what,

accuse, deny, object,

and never commit

Initiating

anything,

for amateurs

and

losers,

you

once

said

 

Only August

Meretricious,

Bitch,

a wasted John

slurred to the hooker.

Why, thank you,

Happy New Year,

she

mocked for free,

sipping the drink

he

had

sent

her

 

Culs-de-sac

I thought he came

from the Firths of Tay

and Forth, in Fife

But he was

from

Queer Hollow,

a quaint place

near

sleepy,

near

Quail Hollow,

a place

I'd

rather

neither

enter,

nor

have

its

slip

sliding

slopes

to follow

 

The Times

Economies in liberal democracies erratic and volatile

Political patterns in open societies unpredictable

Climate everywhere indescribably unstable

But fashion ossified

And music agony

Lips fishy, skins reptilian. hormones crashing out like Formula I

Erections lasting more than 4 hours examined, unless one’s private physician

gay, then better check another hand

Yet all adjuncts of non-naturalistic carrying on and products of categorical

imperatives

related to lunar death 

and

weather,

not here

but on the sun

 

Go Fuck Yourselves

Every couple of months

my travelling neighbours

announce their forthcoming return,

but after they get here

don’t ring my bell,

or bid me goodbye

when

leaving again

In the street

they smile

and ask how I am,

not bothering to wait

for my reply

Unconcerned otherwise

they worry

but dare not speak

about money,

disease and old age,

also fearing

storms, floods, fires,

loud noise,

accidents, holdups and theft

Hiding,

thinking absence

saves their hide,

Is life

Though last time

they did ask me

to look after their plants

With me saying

why bother,

they’re dead

like you are

As

far

as

I

can

tell

 

Last Call

A lush

and sultry

evening

A mist

of shadows,

a veil

of Blues,

a breeze

of fine,

white breasts

in semi-darkness

A

low-cut

down-dress

waitress

loathing rush

and hushing,

making

leaving

slow

and

most

reluctant

As

that

late

night

beguiling,

she

the stage

And

not

the

Act

 

Love Nest...?

She works long hours,

has little time

for talk

But when she does,

or feeling not exhausted,

he quickly cuts her off

Because

doing fuck all,

at home all day,

he finds words

to sway

how incredibly busy

he was

His way

of tiring at least of something,

boldly

also

cutting

Any

accusation

off

 

Rangoon Night

(2009)

  

When

Between two orders

of rotten Sushi

Aung San Suu Kyi

deliberately

sings

Auld Lang Syne

                                                                   off key

I drown

sudden sorrow

in shoddy local Sake

And before

New Year's Eve's

slow Burmese death

So

should

She

 

Near Death of a Salesman

The tribesman turned towards me with oblique, impenetrable eyes

The eyes of primitivity

And the sort of indifference both he and I knew could evaporate in a moment, turning into the explosive

The timeless raising of an arm

But then he did walk 'way, quietly, not giving a damn

Kicking up some dust, turning his back, leaving me silent, mouth dry, heart pounding

It was high noon, and me the only fool not protected from the sun

The only fool daring to seek direct eye contact with life thousands of years old

A walking fossil, a two legged relic, a slave of certain human darkness

With me just such a slave, but one chained to modernity by that ridiculous briefcase

Still, between the two of us, who's to say who gets to stay, who gets to go on?

Do you know?

Or unharmed, each getting the space to walk away

A last accommodation?

 

Bernard

My dog Bernie has the arse of a cat

He’s very self-conscious about it,

avoiding even his pals

Who poke fun at him,

calling him a faggot

or worse.

He doesn’t get sniffed up much,

always sitting down when he can

No, he’s not tired,

just scared they’ll laugh

And I would too,

but I’m

a horse.

 

Rage

Man should neither live

like mole afraid

of darkness,

nor as someone’s slave

‘ been given

sight.

Only taming himself

by feeding not stealing his other,

raging at injustice

and at day’s end,

any held out

false

white

night   

Heritage

 

My parents giving me nothing else,

still would have meant the world,

and it wasn't that they did not think the world

of me, but often and so quickly

mesmerised by others.

 

So what then, you ask,

did they bequeath,

no 'nothing else'

not quite the case,

the answer

that what they

taught me,

gave,

decency

 

and yes,

attempted

grace!

 

Forza del Destino?

I feel sorry for fate

Trying to give me

a helping hand,

invariably

detained

by ignominy

of late

 

In Faith Lost!

 

All I have

- which is Nothing -

denigrated,

inspires

my fiercest anger

as

disrespect

for others

consumes

my

Everything

 

Whereby left

without my anger, my hatred,

not yours,

Nothing

counts

for Anything

 

The reason I must kill you,

as next to Nothing,

untouchable, invisible,

You are who

I won't

adore

 

 

A POST SCRIPTUM

 

If man at the very minimum cannot affect orbits, he truly remains nobody! And I'd be impressed meeting someone who's not a slow-burning chemical reaction, a walking bio-factory. Someone not taking in 3 times a day, excreting no waste, not having to breathe for a life. Someone equal to the Universe, no slave to it, not a senseless bubble. Without a penis as link, become a small roving planet. Yes, man the Planet, Planet Man, Man Divine, a true phenomenon, not insignificant, not even Promethean, so much more than little Emperors and small Popes...

 

 

 

 

 

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