A GRAIN OF SALT Productions Presents:
A Dr.Jekyll & Mr. Hype/TreeHouse Publishing Situation!
THE ZUGEBRIAN FILES
Edited by W. Marmoset Yarn
Co-Edited by Lord Godfrey Helpus
(All Proud Graduates of the Ben Dover Academy).
Poem 79/R (‘We Don’t Hate Yeats’):
We Tend to Blame what we Don’t Understand, on the Things We Can.
& He Wins who Dares, to Cut instead of Splitting hairs
At least that’s what I’ll tell my heirs
In case they don’t become millionaires
& Screw Up All My Plans.
If They Take up much of my Airs & Graces
& Step on my Sepulcher to reach beyond
Their Golden Faces,
Upon which Sunlight stares
Drawing Freckles from the skin
That connects the dots
With Aces, then I will find them places
Where they can ‘go within’.
One day they’ll be wearing braces,
While My Bones the Earth to Bear.
My Nimbus left to Open spaces
To Echo what I Hear.
& You & I
Will Both be There
It will be MY hand
Running through your Hair,
To Stimulate my thesis
That once I Loved You from
Kalamazoo to all the way
Where Greece Is
From the Ruins of Static Rome,
Now Scattered In Many Pieces.
Poem 239. ‘Mephistopheles In Memphis’.
The CROSSROADS are the point between the Lifetime Behind Us
& the Questions ahead.
But I Missed the connection on the next stop’s doubt, what was once a hip, hop & a jump
Is but another lump that I feel in the back of my head when the lights go out
(& I have to take a dump).
The nitrates crumble, & the Hammer’s Thorax
Plays host to the Butcher’s Bread Meats
Before I turn to toast. Whereupon I fumble
& Eat humble pie instead.
I MAKE MY OWN BARBECUE,
Mephistopheles Makes My Roast.
In Memphis Where my Burdens Weigh the Most,
& My Soul Already Dead.
“If it gets too callous
In the palace
It tarnishes the chalice
& Turns to Dread
All the rest of
Rust & Malice,
That wayward highways cross”,
The Queen Of Envy Said,
Before she went to floss.
‘The Aim of an Idiot is to Wear You Down with Repetition,
Which is to a Fool, What Patience is to the Wise, A ‘Tool’.
(They taught me this, where I went to school).
THE AIM OF AN IDIOT Is to Wear You Down
Now, Please Keep Repeating This Line Until You See the Light!
(I was taught this at the Ben Dover Academy where I Matriculated.
Although it Must Be Acknowledged that since taking the Proper Medications,
My ‘Matriculations’ Have Been Kept to a Minimum)!
IT IS BETTER TO BLEED THAN TO BURN.
But better to burn than to wither away
Without the chance to earn,
Staggering and flailing about
Looking for a page to turn.
Tequila flooded lip stained
Worm from Apples Fallen
From Trees he’s Already Picked.
Though Always One Less Orchard
Than he needs to Fix & One
More than he can discern.
The BEN DOVER Academy Poem:
Speak Carefully What You Say,
Our Mouth is our Master.
Though Mute quotations might kill you faster.
Pride Without Substance Is Cruel.
To Put Our Spiritual Needs Beyond Our Physical,
Is to place heaven beyond our reach.
That’s what they teach in school.
Don’t Be Afraid!
Just Don’t Be Stupid.
And Never Raise your Name to Nominate
& Do Not Place your Business
Before the Open Lips of Fools
Who radiate and spout
The most they know nothing about
There are Golden Rules,
Though the Silver ones discriminate
Before the Mercury dips
& Then trips the fire’s called to Incinerate
The Copper left to Cool
Along with other metals exchanged too late
That had lost their clout,
Deadened by all the lead they found.
What we believe we become
And then we shed our skin
Like salamanders beneath
Savoring the source
Of future hymns
Whose fractals make us one.
Poem: The LONGFELLOW Opinion17 S 24:
THE ‘MIDDLE WAY’ Is The Path
Between TOO MUCH & Too Little.
Brevity Weeps, But LONGEVITY KILLS
With Levity playing the Captain’s Fiddle
While the Woodpile is Sawdust
After the Totems
Settle the Debts We Can’t Adjust.
Our Boldest Act of ALCHEMY is turning URGE into WILL,
To Take Our Ashes & Make Soil of Dust.
Living Long Will Kill You, Whatever Shape Your Pill.
NO ONE UNDERSTOOD poor FREDDY LIKE US
& Even His mother forgot his name.
Beano sent the Pirates back with Rum they had to Chill
Before the Wine Stains turned to Rust,
Bottled up in Treasure Chests that sank before they Spilled
Anything that Left Evidence that they Drank before they Rebelled
And Kidnapped the Captain while the Cannons Fell
& Exposed their Mood for Lust.
They who Broke like Diamonds before they lost their Spell
While Gathering dreams like Grain
(On a Yellow bus, more short Than Longfellow* & shorter still on fuss,
We Do What We Can While We Dream What We Must
& All The Rest In God We Trust & then try to explain).
Our Dragons aren’t necessarily Slain,
If they can be put to Work
Swords at the High Point Waving
Aimlessly At words
If Night Lays Down Its Shadows First,
Or the Knights Dream On In vain.
Shamelessly Mocked by the Famous
Who Feign Chagrin before they Grimace,
Or Lose their Foreign promise, Or Heaven forbid, their Thirst,
& Being Summarily Replaced by Pixels
That Pickpocket their Purse
& Who Can Never Change A Sentence of whatever they rehearse.
PRESSURE BUILDS TOMORROW
Sachets of Dissension like Fallow Roughage
Returned to Earth
In Olive’s Green
On the margins that grip her
Girth (as it narrows)
And the Vertical Slit
She Often Gains
But of which she also complains,
When not singing carols
Or Dismissing Senseless Parallels
That language has assaulted.
And When Immersive Sorrow,
Devoid of wit;
Intrusive in its Assumptive Swell
Comes at my furrow’s nest to Borrow my Pride,
I will throw it in the Fountain
And let HIM
CLIMB THE MOUNTAIN,
A fate I know Too Well
From Time Spent on the Mountainside
Orchestrating the Evening Bells
& Burping Broken Brides.
From the Tides of Kelp
That Circle the Waves
When his Trident
Returns from Hell,
Always looking for Help
When Not Torched by Thoughts
It is Hard To Change Your Speed, Once You Catch Up To It.
& Much Harder to Find your Equilibrium when your Environment
Has Lost the Plot & Vanished like Iridium.
And we can only change the need to feed
What We Haven’t Got,
Mindful we don’t turn to seed and become more noble rot.
The LONG Hand vs. the WRONG Hand,
The Middle Finger Flicking Snot.
AND OF CORSICA
It Goes Without Saying
Never Leave A Flame Unattended
Or it volleys up the backhand
Of all the time we’re killing
& No One Hip Would Recommend It.
I wanted to be Bob Dylan
But my pen wasn’t willing
Yet I couldn’t rescind it.
So here I sit chilling
Laying in bed with a Chilean
Of Malaysian Skin
Whose praying that her sins
Won’t receive second billing
After the liquor swilling & nicotine
Shifts the shape she’s in.
(As well as her ‘Mise En Scene’,
& Other productions she may have seen
While rebounding & driving down the lane,
Or Milling On The Village Green).
At least that’s what I thought
I heard from what I
Comprehend of the difference
Between Gladiators & Gladiolas,
Gypsum, Gypsy’s & the Gyre
And other words I heard decaying
While lost in ‘Gunga Din’
(& Formally Attired)
As she lost HER feeling, as textured
As Astronauts in Astrakhan
While my mind & tongue were reeling,
My nerves & teeth were wired
& My Patience Was Unpeeling.
OF COURSE THE BOYS WHO DIDN’T GET
THEIR COOKIES ON TIME
Are The Dragon Slaying Kind,
From kindergarten when their fists drew uneven lines
Lions, Lambs & Lizards, and the wizards they all go to,
Looking for the signs.
Then they unwind their defiance of the damned
Determined to swim along their livers, even better
If they live near rivers whose banks slope toward Science,
& Whose Heather Gives Birth to Arts & Letters.
And if when boys they got their milk
Their ties are made of silk,
You will usually find them with the rest of their ilk,
In Random Squares Exercising their Compliance.
Next to fichus they once saw
Confucius Covered in Mucous
Discussing their General Alliance,
With a group of Men On Bikes & other bearded seekers.
Drowned out by the Sound of the Splashing of the Breakers that depend on our Reliance.
THOSE WERE NO DAYS, THESE ARE THE DAYS THAT ARE!
And our friend ‘Cerebral Cortez’ says:
“What Noah Knows & When He Knew It, No One But Noah Knows”
It could be ‘SZECHUAN’ & A Half Dozen of the Other
Before It Even Blows Your Nose.
‘ A HARD HEAD SUITS A HARD ROAD’
(Though it could always do with one less of one
when the lesson comes from ‘Lecithin’ or a B12 overload).
They Told Him:
“ Son, YOU AIN’T VAN MORRISON,
Hell, You Ain’t Even ‘Van Morris’,
(Just In Case He Might Suppose
An air of hubris before he’d Sung.
Because If you are going to get them
“You Have To Get Them While They’re Young
Or There Won’t be many Takers”,
I learned this from
A Woman Who Inherited Her Bread
From A Family Of Bakers.
(I called her ‘Pita’, though her name
Was Anita* & I was her favorite spread).
And once we get bored with our old story
A new one can begin unfolding as a
Morning glory waving in the wind hissing
Like cobras whose hoods & teeth are missing
Especially after 40.
(I once had to murder my twin before he managed to abort me,
And only won my last trial because my lawyer’s name was ‘Courtney’).
Even Undersea They Don’t Agree
Whether Baked or Fried
Or battered by the Salt that
Borders tide from Riverside.
Yet Seahorses are corralled
By waves of current that swell
& Burp the foam above them
Whose gulps of Air Usurp
Melodies That Shape the Sandstone in the Wells
With A Vision that Comes to Bathe in A Faith that Never Dwells.
But for the ‘Halibut’
It’s said that Swordfish Never feint,
Their fight is based on Countering
& All the Carp go on about is how much
They are Floundering
‘Salmon This & Salmon That’
They may be Overrated,
At least Salmonella gets publicized
& Salmon Rushdie* Compensated.
And Minnows, though highly prized
Must come circumspect & circumcised
Or lose their Worth as Bait and even as
They are mating, Seal their Fate if they
Wait Too Late and their Skins for Gills
They’ve traded in someone else’s eyes
Erased by all ‘Bitter Pilsner’
Swallowed before the sunset faded.
What Lies In Another Hand
Can Only Be Abused!
And this is why love is for sale
And far more often ‘used’.
This is also why ‘Stasis’
Stays close to Dionysus
& He to familiar places
& Wears his woven clothes,
Dressed like Pan to suit the day
In the wool that the sheepskins
Grow, I Once Was Lost there,
So I know.
DRINKING GOOD WINE
Keeps Us Close to God
Would Otherwise Nod
I’m not talking about
Me or you, but those other
Bitches that spoil our view,
Upon whose opinion we dare
To trod while uncorking a
Sparkling ‘Grand Cru’,
Putting ourselves to shame,
Putting THEM on the spot.
IF HOMER WAS HOME
WHEN I WAS SOBER,
How come the bases were
Never loaded when I came over?
Especially deep into October
When the leaves turn trees into poems
PHANTOMS into thieves
Who FIND THEIR Destiny
INSIDE THE CIRCLES they roam.
Was he grandstanding or was it a slam?
Dogs find future glories imagining tomorrow’s bones
The rest don’t give a damn
Digging beneath the blushing clover and the sunlight
It condones as Pantomime speaks the language of lovers
Furiously shaking their phones.
& Cursing One Another.
The thing about HOMER is that
He’s ‘Odd To See’
Winks Every Time He Looks at Me.
We hope the desert cured whatever
‘Ills He Had’ while Sketching HIS Sorrows
Everybody comes back from Cordoba
With Grenadine fantasies that adrenaline
Whets & Then Sustains.
St. Vincent takes the tracks,
Smokey Robinson* takes the trains
Even more convincing
While stretching his golden back
From the Tip of his Tongue to Ticonderoga,
He blows the smoke from its stacks.
From Mississippi’s girdle & on through the loins of
Memphis & Minnesota
& Throughout the Western Plains.
NEVER GIVE UP GAINS
Even when at the doorstep of Trieste.
Bonfires favor confession
Even among those who give their best
Until they find their rest
(If they are lucky & Heading west).
THE BRASS BANDIT Awaits
A Thick Oil Lubricates Well Most Debate!
Splitting Hairs between the Arrows
That Escape Cupid’s Bow’s
& The Bends that Narrow
Heaven’s Gates and the
Smoke it may have Sown
For sin’s if not its own Sake
When Hell had gone for Broke
& All The Helen’s In The World
Were but ashes that the fire poked
Before too late in the game.
First, I’ll sip some sake
& Then I’ll watch a little hockey.
EVOLUTION IS ALL ABOUT ‘COSTS’
RESPECT YOUR BROTHER’S CROSS
No One Has Managed To Avoid This,
Or Family Trees, nor an Albatross
Like a skeleton, blown about by
Barren Winter’s Breeze.
Which only serves to entice
More Barons than one can please.
The Prometheus & Pandora Poem # 6:
THE MORE WE LIE,
THE MORE WE Find We Have To.
FALSE INDIGNATION ALWAYS Plays Well On TV.
The Bigger The GUILT, The Bigger The DENIAL.
And Don’t Forget to Smile,
Especially in HD!
(To Humpty Dumpty, even
Stevie Wonder* would have to be
Blind not to see a
& Leather upholstery)!
And We All Know the Game,
And How We Are All Expected to Play It,
While accepting the BIPOLAR
World we are tossing around in
Like coins in a can,
Backed by policy, if not by demand.
Coughed up by Pandora’s purse
And worse, all the Currency we can Count
But with nothing left to pay it,
Whatever the Amount.
WE ALL KNOW THAT IT IS CRAZY,
But won’t say it out loud,
At the risk of sounding crazy.
Because the crazier it gets,
The crazier you look seeing it!
And to say it is to risk sounding insane,
Since only the insane say what they see.
‘Re-Framing’ Facts is called ‘History’
& Always covers its tracks.
While uncovering new rules for the game
& When in doubt;
One Can Always Accuse the Blacks
That serves to shift the blame,
There is always a slow boat assailing!
With many fresh fools to hang
Choked by their own slack
& Then buried beneath
A flock of daisies that
The more we resist calling a thing what it is,
The more power it siphons from us and then
Uses to contain.
All Of Our Pasts Have The Right To Be Forgiven!
& All of our Horses the Choruses to Us Refrain
Before We Jump the Cliffs of Devon’s Heaths,
Constrained by Sunrise to Somerset’s leaps
& All that the Soil Has Smitten,
Hidden in the Dust Storms the Hounds of Hell Have Ridden.
(Vouchsafed to me, thy golden waste
Before our lips lose their taste & our flavors become forbidden).
From where Prometheus & Pandora,
With laurels replacing their halo’s aura
With the Flow of Fauna, the Leaves of Flora
& The Smell Of Marijuana.
Raising their young ‘Sabrina’
To be Chaste from the Sediment
Of the River Severn
That bore her,
While severing ties with
(Though Not In Haste)
& Tethering the Sighs
Of Anna Karenina*
To those who would ignore her,
As She Was Being Written,
Cut From The Cloth Of
Carved from the Scales of
& Other Dragon Tales.
There is great wealth in poverty,
Just not for the poor themselves.
Lilac Poem 18:
Roses are red,
Violets are dead
At least that’s what
The Florist said
Once my ear became his grip
Trying to change others is our favorite trip.
CHANGE YOUR SOCKS INSTEAD.
COPYRIGHT SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA
MILANO May 13th, 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED