Joan Vollmer Learns to Dance
Where are you now, William Tell? the bard is spinning his characters
in shadowplay of sin and I ascend on a staircase of lead
as epistemophiliac professors spouting Camus and scratching
nonsense poetry into the gizzards of the soul taste regret
on the speeding lips of death
Outside itself the body is wrapped in visions of magnetism,
the body is the architect of our renaissance
and the body will not be silent
Sing your love songs at Man baby,
the body is yours the cryptic deliverer;
Dalí stands at the foot of the bed and laughs
as camembert clocks ooze and drip liquid time,
howling at the universe from the spinning eyes of
the marionettes in the bullet ballet.
Visions of England
Bear me away you skeletal white saints of the night
as the dawn’s red tears break over my bed,
funeral dirge rising from the electric larynx
of hairy-armed poets who make love
in the swirling heat of gonzo journalism
and England’s apocalyptic dream-vision!
England you are the trigger and the blood!
Empire’s sperm will shelter your eyes no longer
when you kick away the chair and double-vision knowledge
of the seven circles guides you around your head
England soon you’ll know that the world belongs to those
who hear the wind singing in Greek;
who speak in great rambling streams
and sweat verse into their steaming post-coital shrouds;
who hollowed out their stomachs which now echo with chorus of poverty;
who share a single eye and watch the people carved from stone
as they cook Death in a pot with rare herbs;
who know that Fate ran away years ago and nothing ever had a reason;
who were begot clinging to melancholy’s pendulum as it swings
and cheers with every tear that jumps blissfully into the abyss;
who drink nightly of that intoxicating draught
the liquid smoke of burning lust;
and who dope up with Ginsberg’s angelheads
and throw the covers over your grey dying light
England please believe us you’re beautiful
but it’s us who exist not you
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