Poetry: July 29, 2008

Forsooth (dear Horatio) 
And though long in tooth 
My tongue is steamed 
And dancing on its own roof 
The marbles dismissed 
From the mouth of my youth


Smoke ring halo’s 
(increased in the math) 
Crowning thought bubbles

Distant thunder rumbles 
(or was that ‘fart’ in bubble-bath?) 
A Sphinx fades into Pharaohs 
( as worms one day become 
Their sparrows) 
And if by aim he charters truth 
He catches up to arrows, 
And stumbles from the booth 
The absence of words 
Is the presence of mind, 
When living on borrowed, 
Deconstructed time.

If you just saw the ‘blue flash’, you are in! Welcome!


Short rock and roll poem # 1-

IT COULD NEVER WORK 
Because you are a lesbian
(and I am a Les Paul man).


IT AIN’T LOVE UNTIL IT’S BROKE 
And while it is neat and tidy, fresh and free, 
It is ‘infatuation’, but cannot be the birth 
Of love, until it begins to bleed. 
Until the heart has gone limping 
It cannot begin to live, until it is broken 
It’s cherry stained with purple bruises, 
It can only hope, dream, but stand outside itself 
The hole you sucker punched in my soul 
Spit out brushfires that singed my throat 
(we sat within a sulphur bowl, and 
blacked out all the things you wrote!), 
Now I pick my teeth with your lance
With your virgin muses I now dance 
And settle our debt with your goats 
I scribble this out in longhand
(while I nap) reduce the meaning to shorthand.


THE ANTI-CHRIST IS BABYLON! 
Just as in Egypt in the days of ‘Moishe’ 
( and to counter the beast of his inertia) 
All manner of ‘tricks’ and distractions 
Were deployed to foil the attentions 
Of announcements made, every day, 
New wars, new stars, fresh disease! 
Not from the core, but from the 
‘peels’ are written our ‘histories’ 
But what is new has already been 
Your front door sees me out (yes yours!) 
My trap door sees me in.


I CAME IN A TRAIN OF THOUGHT 
( though I couldn’t afford first class) 
And this lyric on a t-shirt was all I bought 
The mind, overwrought, ran out of steam 
What to do ? Floggeth, floggeth, 
Out cometh cream! 
But what to name it, Gladys or ‘Hannah’?
(since the flame itself was ‘gratis’).


WHAT ELSE IS THE MEANING OF LUST 
But the desire for less of harsh mother? 
By turning us away from the bust 
We milk our tears for cradles of lovers 
And strand them in the begging hour 
When will is torn at random 
Blood and needles stab at trust 
And pinches its veins beneath ‘rubbers.’ 
This could be me, this could be you 
(it’d be you if I had my druthers).


VERILY, HERESY! 
Dances on the roofs of tongues on fire 
Flies fly vividly beneath ferns 
The more florid is the language 
( the more money ‘Beckwith’ earns) 
Because the foxtrot of words pay well. 
Then the alarm clock rings (and so I dream)
And then I wake up in Hell.


SUSPENDED BY A DEEPENED HAND 
Vengeance, through and thrust! 
The barley house blues song sang off key 
By the convicts still left in the band 
There once was said to be a ‘masterplan’ 
Though it went up in smoke once tried
After that, they ‘improvised’, once we called
Him ‘Big Willie’, now we call him 
‘circumsized’. Naturally, he’s less 
In demand. Once reanimated
I called for the doctor, he for 
The priest, so we fed him
And he ate well (at least).


O HOW BEAUTIFUL LIFE IS
When your wife is!


A muggers lament: I TRIED TO GRAB HER SATCHEL 
But she hit like Joni Mitchell. 
It took a while to see the aftermath.

As I had little education.


…these short attention span poems are longer when you take longer to read them! Do go at your own pace!


How lovely the legs are 
How long they do get 
When the summer heat 
In Milano pets 
Calves that blush with 
Sweltering pride 
The calories locked inside 
And placed upon pedestals 
With pedal pushers, haggled 
And touched by bush leaguers 
Flush with the need to display, 
Though rushed, it’s mark 
And this is why the season 
Contains more daylight
Hours than dark.


Life is flex, mind is reflex. 
Life is action, mind is reaction.
Life is exclamation, mind is question mark.


For sure, there is a time to 
Simmer, a time to boil
Then detach and walk on.


GET MORE SMARTER 
GET MORE WISE 
AND YOU TEMPT
(from life) 
A HIGHER PRIZE!


HE HAD NOTHING MORE 
THAN A POETS CHANCE 
WHEN HE CAME TO 
JOIN THE DANCE 
They say he drew 
Blood with his quill 
Until the curfew 
Scattered the parking lots 
I was dead still 
Sat by the punchbowl
Looking for my pants…


Nuance 
As it beckons 
Reckons it owes 
Its viscous rebel truants 
A shuffle in their drainpipes 
Though rattled by their ruins 
Corroded are the dandelions 
Whose roar has slovenly wilted 
Cheeses in the cupboard have 
Gone from blue to stilted, my 
Digestion surrenders to science 
( it too seems in ruins), and 
Slowly releases a ‘backflap’
Fart, to fluff up my affluence!


Chariot, come here and carry my stacks 
Pegasus fell in war, he cried, I swear 
The other soldiers died in packs, while 
Marching out their backs. Letters were 
Written, stamps were mailed, the cowards 
That were found, beaten and jailed 
Tweed candles burning as lamps 
Traitors nailed, slammed against fire escapes
while trying to cover their tracks.


Witches don’t like me, which is how I prefer it. Why? because: 
I SCREAM MYSELF HOARSE WHEN I’M RIDING MY PONY 
AND THEY CALL ME ‘THE OWL’ WHEN I’M SPOTTING A PHONY. 
A ROSE FROM THE GRAVE WHOSE DEAD TREMORS REMOVED 
THE ASS FROM THE BOTTOM OF THE GROOVE, I’M BURIED IN MILAN 
EAST SIDE FIRELIGHT THE CRYSTAL BALL CRACKS, ESCAPE FROM NIGOR ISLAND
The School of hard knocks had fewer big books, I repeated my courses due to the girls second looks (and I had a teacher whose tits were always smiling)!Camel toes and sheepskins, give me my diploma, I graduated MAGNUM CUMS LOUDLY for the exuberance of my ‘boner’!


Every other word which 
Spills out from her mouth 
Is a lie, the other words 
Are alibis. What cannot be 
Spoken, she cries, croaks 
Craves (and craven are the 
Deeds which by their needs 
Promotes restraint). What 
Cannot be culled, she chokes 
With curdled vituperative moans 
And what she cannot bleed 
She headstones, her heart resembles 
The marble pressed upon my grave 
Her fuming assuming rattled like 
Snake charms, so the smoke rings
I gave.


Reduced to but 
A red flag to rivals 
And hanging by 
The loose stains that 
Stitch up our survival 
There was nothing 
To do but wait, get wasted 
And master-bait fresh 
Hooks for darting Silverfish 
With writhing, wiggling worms 
Similar to like my life was
When it was on your terms.


Love got taxed 
Fate got robbed 
Richards turned 
Out to be ‘Dicks’ 
All my Roberts 
Were paged and 
Bobbed. A Chaise 
With a bleeding 
Leg, where ladies 
Sat and sobbed, 
Admonishing 
Themselves for 
Their tricks. My 
Prime time show 
Was ‘axed’, while 
I was shitting up 
‘ex’s’, and growing
Too lax.


Last poem 46: 
I AM A TSAR, 
BECAUSE I AM
A DYSLEXIC STAR!


(…But I am not ‘rats’ 
Because I’m not scrambled
Like that ).


….AND IF UPON THE RISER 
YOU SEE THE QUEEN, 
DO NOT CALL ME KING! 
RATHER CALL ME KAISER 
I’VE HEARD SHE CAN BE MEAN 
AND LAST TIME I SURPRISED HER 
WAS CAUGHT BETWEEN THE GALLOWS 
AND THE THRESHING BLADE AND 
SPREAD LIKE FERTILIZER. (AND ‘FATWA’ 
TO THE FABLED FOOLS WHOSE FATAL 
FOLLIES SEIZE HER) , AND THEY SAY CEASER 
HAD SEIZURES, THOUGH PROBABLY ONLY 
TO AVOID VISITING KAISERS, BEFORE DITCHING 
THEM AND SPENDING SOME TIME BAREFOOT AT THE GEYSERS. 
( ACCOMPANIED ALWAYS BY HIS DOGS, HIS WIVES 
AND HIS FAVOURITE SCUBA DIVERS), THOUGH 
THERE I LAY BENEATH THEIR TIES, THEIR LACES, 
DRIVERS AND LITTLE WHITE LIES, EXCHANGING 
GLAMOURS WITH THE GHOSTS, SCATTERED BY 
THE LASHING RAIN USED TO TAUNT MY HOSTS. 
IT WERE A PIG ROAST, A MERE APPETIZER 
THE LENGTH OF A LIFE, THE LENGTH OF A ‘TOAST’, 
CHEERS! (AND NEVER WRITE VERSE ABOUT ROYALS
AFTER TOO MANY BEERS-UNLESS YOU ‘ENERGIZE HER’).


BOULEVARDIER 
I KNOW YOU WERE 
A WITNESS HERE 
I SAW YOUR HAT THERE 
AND IT’S FEATHERED 
PUNCTUATION. ALL AROUND 
WAS SENSATION, TAUT INEBRIATION 
WHILE CLASSROOMS DANCED WITH 
THE SPOILS OF INNOVATION 
THEY SAID I PULLED A GUN, 
THEY SAID LEO DID THE BAG WORK 
WHILE SAL WAS ON THE RUN 
THEY SAID VEGAS VINNIE ORDERED 
THE HIT, SINCE KANSAS CITY HAD 
RUN OUT OF PATIENCE, HAD GRWN 
TIRED OF ALL THAT SHIT, THE NUMBERS 
WERE DOWN, “THE END OF IT“! 
SO HERE I SIT, THE ‘FINGERED’ MAN, 
I COULD BE IN INDIA, WITH AL-QAEDA 
IN PAKISTAN, OR WITH WAL-MART 
PACKING THE RACKS, SELLING 2 
IN ‘SINGLE PACKS’, GETTING MY 
ROCKS OFF WITH MY WAX, 
STACKED HIGHER THAN THE
CRIMES OF HACKENSACK 
ACCEPTING THAT I’M NOT 
REALLY WHITE OR BLACK 
THOUGH STILL CUTTING MY 
JOHNSON NO LESS SLACK, 
STILL STROKING IT FORWARD 
WHEN NOT PULLING IT BACK! 
BUT BOULEVARDIER, THEY’VE 
GOT ME PINNED, LIKE A BUTTERFLY 
IN A BOX, THAT MOTHS WERE 
SPAWNED IN, AND BORN, BEFORE 
THEY BEGIN THE DANCE OF FIRE 
THEY WOULD ANYWAY SETTLE 
FOR LIGHTBULBS, FOR ME 
ONLY VESUVIAS COULD
SHAKE ME HIGHER.


JULIUS CEASER 
WHY MUST THE COST 
OF TIME BEAR THE BOAST 
WHERBY THE STAUNCH 
ARE CONSIDERED LEAST 
AND THE BRANCHES OF 
FOLLY, PROCURED THE MOST? 
YOU’VE LESS MOMENTS FOR 
QUESTIONS NOW, MORE 
TORMENTS TO DETAIL 
THE WILD COASTS OF DENIAL, 
TO TOSS AROUND A TEMPEST 
TO WAIL AT SUBAQUATIC BEASTS
BENEATH THE BRINY BREW THAT 
GIVES LESS LIFE THAN IT DEIGNS 
TO BORROW, AND SENDS MESSENGERS 
OF BLOATED BLISS WHILE THEY PICK 
THE POCKET OF YOUR GAINS TOMORROW 
BUT OF COURSE YOU’VE LESS TIME TO BROOD 
SINCE THE ARMY IS THIRSTY AND ARMED WITH 
LESS FOOD, SOME I’VE HEARD ARE EVEN 
SELLING THEIR GUNS, EXCHANGED FOR APPLES 
AND CINNAMON BUMS. Some are tired of fighting, 
Their Greek blond women tired of dieting, their African sons 
Tired of rioting. And some just want to get stoned. So wrap up 
The ‘claymores’ and send them home! ‘Sic Semper Tyranis’,
I am sick and my temper is tyrannical!


And were the bells not in tune with their own accord 
They’d still be in tune with their Lord, the ‘soundwave’ 
Master, they do in fact call it, this matter between it 
And what there is of the other ‘it’. They squeal like piglets 
With corn on their minds, and droplets of rain in their ears 
Being sung to by the ‘soundwave’ are the cherubs of metal pleading 
In this there is no bleeding, but a draining of wounds, non-plussed, retreating. 
Somewhere in Spain there is a church, where tears do not lean, 
But lurch. And gathered on it’s dusty crown is a dome of redemption 
That works, and for as long as these bells ring, even in silence the sullen
Solace that seeks my confession sings!


Alliteration! 
At thy foamy fingers I fade! 
And those luscious lotions 
That lick the ‘lingua’ when 
The cunning in me trades 
Dice for rolling numbers 
A slice of the local grade 
Trembled the hand that 
Thrust upon itself it’s 
Crippled accusing point 
And holds itself against 
The wind which otherwise anoints 
And castes spells of reminiscence 
At the stroke of a joint, and endows with 
Mortal traces, those looks that stir memory in
Yet another refrain, while the samba 
Hipped siren in sequins retains, what of 
Obsequious obnoxious remains can be wrapped 
In the forgiving heave of her buxom cleavage. 
With just ‘a little rationing’, I could 
Startle her, but with ‘alliteration’,
I’ll choke her chain like a chipmunk challenged.


IN THOSE WHOSE STARRY FACES THE MIDNIGHT FADES 
Let your numbers rest, that your hearts be sure, what is best, knows cure! 
IN THOSE WHOSE TEMPERS, THE CLOUD VAPOURS LISP 
Know that there is magic in the kiss, that would stiffen the fibre 
Of annuity, and tickle below our knees for bliss, only fate does this! 
IN THOSE WHOSE DARKNESS CAUSES URGENT SHAME 
Re-train the mind to re-frame a new refrain according to the rules of 
The modern game. Restrain the methane of the low strains, from descending the 
Method of your meditation with pain. 
IN THOSE WHOSE TALLY IS SHORTER THAN THEIR MERCY 
Begin again now, isn’t it so wonderful to finally be alive, and able to feel 
How real and vital life is? And to know the trellis between toil and trifle. 
It’s canopied starlight, the mists of Heaven’s braid, 
IN THOSE WHOSE STARRY FACES THE MIDNIGHT FADES.


COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA 
MILANO 29th JULY 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED

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