The Tune

Once I sat by the light of the candle
with a billion strange thoughts in my head,
and the priest I'd invited played Händel
or some other composer who's dead.

And the tune was a breeze on the islands,
and the grandfather clock at the wall
ceased its ticking and listened in silence,
not to tick from that evening at all.

On the vessel of sadness I floated
where the pensive composer did pause,
for he must have been loved when he wrote it,
wishing I could have been where he was.

The pensive king's emboldened mummer
lies on the railroad tracks she paints
and holds her mirror of the summer:
the world is dying with the saints.

The pauper's brother's gentle daughter
swims in her tears, and as she faints
her uncles gather in the water:
the world is dying with the saints.

The Servants of Themselves are frowning
at me as their princess acquaints
me with the man whom I'll be drowning:
the world is dying with the saints.

And did I live on peaches only
and bathe in roses every day?
The heights of dawn are cold and lonely,
the other peaks too far away.

As large as life, it's three foot seven
and comes in portions hardly known;
too far from Earth, too far from Heaven,
it has a level of its own.

In wild dismay I pull my dagger
while all the knights of darkness sing:
for seven nights I was a beggar,
for seven days I was a king.

If time existed for a reason
and were a transmagnetic loop
around the universe, each season
it would be leaping through that hoop.

The gravity of such a motion
would certainly lead time astray,
but since we're atoms in time's ocean
we wouldn't notice, anyway.

The force would leave the barrier brittle
and throw all space right out of place
but not affect the grain-sized tittle
of room we occupy in space.

Outside observers without stricture
may watch, but they will never find
our world because the bigger picture,
I'm sure, will not include mankind.

This must be the strangest feature
my conviction ever found,
seven days away from Nietzsche
and a furlong underground.

From the hallways of spare neurons
it approached me to release
what we now call Epicurons,
those transmitters aimed to please.

Life is such a useless teacher,
and uncertainties abound
seven days away from Nietzsche
and a furlong underground.

Leaving mortals none the wiser,
life departs, oft unannounced,
from both squanderer and miser;
thus by life and death we're trounced.

One last time I heard the creature
make its captivating sound
seven days away from Nietzsche
and a furlong underground.

When precisely was the dawn of time?
Was it when the universe once more
started to expand, or not before
creatures rose from thick primeval slime?

Was it when a weary humanoid
gave his hands a rest and walked on foot?
Was it when the first smart caveman put
on a fire he and his mates enjoyed?

Anyway, it finally dawned on us
that there's time, and that it's moving on;
yet one day (or night) it might be gone
like a jaded driver from a bus.

But what time of day of time is it now?
Are we living in the noon of time?
Is it dusk already? Will it climb
out of sight just like the sun, and how?

We don't know; the end of time, we learn,
may be nigher, may be farther than
we believe. Nobody knows its plan,
and it may or it may not return.

Slowly our destiny unfolds,
briskly our minds are getting older;
we wonder what the future holds
as we grow fragiler and bolder.

Though the elusive lady hides
within the fog that has enshrined her
since time began, where'er she strides
I figured out where I could find her.

I saw her as she ventured out,
indulging in her New World diet:
the future holds a pint of stout
and hostages to keep us quiet.

After creating California, God,
responding to suggestions to adjust
his work, called San Andrea with a nod,
the patron saint of this world's upper crust.

'Just move this plate against the other one,
gently connect the topmost points with it,
leaving tectonic lakes between that run
for many miles,' he told her, 'bit by bit.'

But she just had her nails done, so instead
of fingertips she used her palm, and straight
away, amidst the pale onlookers' dread,
she lost control of the Pacific plate.

Just where it smashed into the other's side,
a fracture of enormous length appeared,
which is what happens when two plates collide;
God facepalmed while the saints and angels sneered.

And the conclusion of what only can
be called the slip that put a grinding halt
to God's tectonic reconstruction plan
today is known as San Andreas Fault.

When you call the quantum mechanic,
the uncertainty principle, I'm
quite convinced, does apply, and you’ll find that
he'll arrive in his own quantum time.

Then he'll set up the scene for his mission,
take his particles out of the box
and the photoelectric cables
which, entangled, can generate shocks.

Testing string theories, he'll involve you
as you offer refreshments, and full
of potential energy, huffing,
lift a finger and ask you to pull.

And his verbally weak interaction
bores you stiff since his wisdom contains
not a lot of quantum coherence
as he firmly dives into the mains.

With weak force he starts looking for constants,
quantum tunnelling right through the wall,
before saying, ‘I’ll finish this Friday;
for the moment this would be all.’

Now the quantum state of your kitchen
would induce Castro's lifeguards to freak,
for he's left you a quantum chaos
you'll be tidying up for a week.

First pack the doggy bag and take another
spoonful of that mature primeval soup,
have one or two more ribs and get up slowly,
make your excuses and depart the group.

Now what? You could go home like many others
have done before you, sit and watch the clock
for hours or look pathetic in the attic
while staging Teddy Bears’ Picnic at Hanging Rock.

You could embark on one last great adventure
and gather roddenberries while you may
on Groom Lake’s bright but somewhat barren shoreline
at which no human children ever play.

Or you could try to get on the Johnny Cash Show
for which a lot of hopefuls still rehearse,
or you could teach the Saxons how to angle
or visit one more parallel universe.

Or, as a family man, you could be taking
your scary godmother for one more stroll
across the Styx or maybe the Red River
to see the other side of Rock’n’Roll.

Or you could go where rest is mandatory
and, since you’re temporarily alive,
surprise the dead and tenderly prepare them
for the occasion when you will arrive.

They have called me the Trojan Rider
when I rode the Aegean tide,
and the Ilian gates opened wider
as I entered, concluding my ride.
Using horsepower rather than force
I was riding the Trojan Horse.

They still call me the Trojan Rider;
like a wombat in combat you try
to get out of the intricate spider
web of contracts you signed for free pie.
Those who started must finish the course
as I'm riding the Trojan Horse.

You will fear me, the Trojan Rider,
when your screen takes a life of its own
just because you clicked ‘Ads by Provider’,
though you should already have known.
While you count on your system restores
I'll be riding the Trojan Horse.

I'm forever the Trojan Rider,
crossing walls that aren't guarded with care,
your unseen excitement provider:
unexpected, unwanted, but there.
Without any delight or remorse
I am riding the Trojan Horse.

I’ve often pondered on the meaning
of May 16th, 1972;
it’s been called pointless, and I’m leaning
towards the opinion that it’s true.

Nothing has happened worth recalling,
no one was born of whom we know,
most things in progress have been stalling
or, at the best, progressing slow.

So it became my sole ambition
to find the purpose of that day,
but every lead throughout my mission
led not to triumph but away.

And now I ask myself the very
question: what did it leave behind,
and was it really necessary
for the advancement of mankind?

Persephone picked flowers in
the fields, and as she twirled,
a cunning Pluto carried her
off to the Underworld.

And once the maiden had calmed down,
Pluto professed his love
which was requited, but the girl
still missed the world above.

Demeter, her splenetic mum,
demanded her return,
but back above Persephone
for her lost love did yearn.

And so they reached a compromise:
six months of every year
she'd spend on Earth at Mother's side,
the others with her dear.

Demeter still preserved her grudge
and grew it in a pod,
claiming her hated son-in-law
is but a heartless god.

Three thousand years have passed, but now
the truth we can impart:
the new horizons clearly show
that Pluto has a heart!

She thought they were a god scent, all the perfumes
secret admirers mailed and she dispensed,
but the aroma of her connoisseur fumes
left me cantankerous and frankincensed.

Once the doubtful door proclaimed,
‘I'm aware that I've been framed,
if you will excuse my railings;
I'm aware of all my failings.

‘I'm not sure if I'm supposed
to be open or be closed,
and the tenant is a vandal
with a touch that's hard to handle.

‘That's the reason I have cringed,
and I start to feel unhinged.’
It was taken out thereafter
as the doorbell rang with laughter.

I have promised you a castle,
and I shall, without a doubt,
build it while we're still together,
though the sands are running out.

First I try it in the meadow
where the fretful bitterns shout,
and the moat is almost finished,
but the sands are running out.

Then I try it in the forest
where the hidden mushrooms sprout,
and I work on the foundation,
but the sands are running out.

But today I'll build the castle
you've been asking me about,
for I'll take you to the seashore
where the sands can not run out.

On that warm day when Theia
ran into us to bring
this planet's panacea,
no birds would fly or sing.

The impact left us reeling
with fear, and before late
her relics were revealing
the fingerprints of Fate.

And when Pangaea started
to fall apart and shift,
there was no noble-hearted
friend as she went adrift.

But those who were not staying
home managed to locate
her few remains, displaying
the fingerprints of Fate.

Forensics in their millions
were able to create
a profile from the billions
of fingerprints of Fate.

And now they build the scaffold,
of mindfulness bereft,
though one fact leaves them baffled:
all prints were from her left.

Once the mainstreamlet has gathered
speed and force and other rivers
and cascades across its weathered
bed and forcefully delivers,
it becomes the greatly feared
mainstream, dreaded and revered.

But its fast and forceful torrent
and its rolling from the distance
and its fierceness, most abhorrent,
and its self-absorbed existence
will be gone foreverly
when the mainstream meets the sea.

The town of Reason oftentimes was flooded
by the large Mainstream running through its heart,
leaving streets, windowsills and gardens mudded
and causing pain and damage off the chart.

After a flood particularly horrid
it was decided that a dam be built
to redirect the Mainstream through the torrid
fields that could do with water being spilt.

The Mainstream was quite easily diverted.
The dam was built; the Mainstream picked up speed,
roared as if angry, gathered volume, spurted
towards Reason and intended to succeed.

The dam broke under hydrous forces never
observed before; the raging Mainstream slammed
into the town and buried it forever.

And that is how the Mainstream has been dammed.

When reason is in season,
the foxgloves will come off
and bluebells will be ringing
amidst the others' scoff.

When reason is in season,
the shy forget-me-not
will softly be remembered
by those around its plot.

When reason is in season,
cowslips will be cleaned up,
and there'll be lots of churning
inside each buttercup.

When reason is in season,
the crane's-bill will be paid;
meanwhile the melting snowdrops
stay strangely unafraid.

And as the sun is setting,
the nightshade will be cast;
once reason is in season,
this thyme could be the last.

The funeral of reason
was an adverse affair;
the undertaker acted
before the nurse was there.

No wake was held before they
removed him from his place;
none of the congregation
could bear to see his face.

A rout of keening women
wailed loudly to drown out
the subtle voice of reason,
should it still be about.

And soon the world's first cleric
said a few words, alack,
but none of resurrection;
nobody wished him back.

No plaque amidst the graveyard,
however overgrown,
reminds us he existed,
no marker and no stone.

Yet since the sad occasion
twelve guardians surround
his resting place, ensuring
that he stays underground.

We know not where he's buried,
and we don't even know
if there were any mourners;
it was so long ago.

When the aspidistra landed
on the townhouse’ window sill
and the great adventure ended,
to escape its grip, his will
caused him to quite eagerly
face responsibility.

He’d tried freedom for a while and
had to scrounge but came to see
soon that no man is an island,
though it’d be the thing to be;
there’s no middle ground or goals
left for whom the houseplant tolls.

Nowadays he tends to highlight
his conformity, and oft
through the window in the twilight
you may see the tall and soft
aspidistra burning bright
in the soothing firelight.

Sure, there is monotony in numbers, all the same I've dialled
and expect delivery in twenty minutes like a child,
I don't mind, however phoney, all those jewels on your wife,
but I want more pepperoni on the pizza of my life.

Where the way is long and winding, I will pay the vintner's cost,
grooming memories and finding stuff that no one yet has lost;
though the road is rough and stony I will not avoid the strife,
but I want more pepperoni on the pizza of my life.

I'll forget the current pope and Taoiseach; after I have signed
and the carton box is opened, I who really doesn’t mind
meat from pig or cow or pony, cut my slice with sharpened knife:
yes, I want more pepperoni on the pizza of my life!

At the location of the Sphinx
near the deserted Theban wharf
you'll always find a little minx.

Nobody listens to their shrinks,
to Richard Wagner or Carl Orff
at the location of the Sphinx.

For inspiration, friendship, drinks
and holidays in Oberstdorf
you'll always find a little minx.

It's hard to stay in shape, methinks,
for any girl and polymorph
at the location of the Sphinx.

Her bust combines woman and lynx,
and once you brushed away the swarf,
you'll always find a little minx.

Don't overestimate your jinx
and make an ogre of a dwarf:
at the location of the Sphinx
you'll always find a little minx.

The cows of the dungeon had gathered
around the Sicilian bull
as the songbirds were tarred and feathered
and the quails reimbursed in full.

Then there was a call for the warder
on the Tucker telephone
who received the momentous order
to vacate for reasons unknown.

And amidst the complaints of the peon,
the dungeon's swansong was sung,
for the cows disappeared with the eon,
and all that is left now is dung.

When we don't feel complete, and we're cracking
up because we are lost, we can find
the essential parts we are lacking
in the Scrapyard of Mankind.

Many come to this secret location
who for their relief find a valve,
or some wings for their imagination,
or a door to their innermost self.

Some buy leads to ignite their numb spirit
or a pipe for a quiet smoke,
or a wheel for their cattle to steer it,
or, just for the laugh, a choke.

Some have come to obtain a spare tyre,
for their soul a mirror to see,
give their partner a brake or acquire
a bonnet for their bee.

I myself got a headlight that searches
for my way, but I now understand
that, just like you can't trust a new purchase,
you can't trust something bought second-hand.

‘The last train of thought will be leaving
from platform six at the back
of the station at sixteen twenty.
Have your tickets ready!’ We check.
Choo-choo! goes the engine that winds
down the bends of our one-track minds.

We ride through the forests of vision
and featherbrained ideas,
the ravines of imagination
and the cliffs of our innermost fears.
Choo-choo! goes the engine that winds
down the bends of our one-track minds.

And on we go through the quagmires,
and we stick our heads out of the coach
as we ride past the ocean of reason
and the hills of sound judgement approach.
Choo-choo! goes the engine that winds
down the bends of our one-track minds.

We get off at our cabin at sunset
while the old locomotive rolls on
to the Casey Jones Museum
to retire as soon as we're gone.
Choo-choo! goes the engine that winds
down the bends of our one-track minds.

Emile enjoyed his cheese and tried to write,
but no idea would call on him, so he
summoned Athena, ‘Goddess, hear my plight
and be my inspiration - answer me!’

‘Thank goddess,’ he declared, surprised she'd yield
to novelists, but soon was filled with dread
as on Athena's awe-inspiring shield
he recognised Medusa's ugly head.

The petrified Emile observed the stern
expression on its face and uttered, ‘Please,
if this is it, I beg you do not turn
me into stone; just turn me into cheese!’

- When you enjoy a cheese plate with your cola,
remember who created gorgonzola!

When the number of passion was seven,
red the colour of love's heatless flame,
I heard harps that resounded in heaven
and a voice that was calling my name.

So I left my abode and my haven,
over mountains and valleys I came,
and I heard the sharp cry of the raven
and the voice that was calling my name.

There's no change in the seasons of yearning,
and my hunger and love are the same,
and there still is a temple that's burning,
and the voice is still calling my name.

I will not put my thought in a paper,
I will not put the world in a frame;
as a bird shan't be caged, I won't taper
the strange voice that is calling my name.

But one night all the larks will be crying,
and the tigers and wolves will be tame -
that's the night everything will be dying
but the voice that is calling my name.

And I know not my name and profession,
and I feel neither pity nor shame,
for I follow the cast of my passion
and the voice that is calling my name.

The funny things Life gave to me,
if strung like beads upon a thread,
could help me inadvertently
to build the cabin of the dead.

A little peephole to the West
will do; no skylight and no vent,
no door suggesting that our rest
is any less than permanent.

And in the storm to take mankind
we will be sheltered who have fled,
and we will be at peace of mind
inside the cabin of the dead.

The Trinity of Reason lists
doubt as a virtue and compels
us to ask questions; it consists
of knowledge, sense and something else.

Once I allowed my vanity
to study a humanity
and lastly set it free,
but soon the sheer futility
of challenging senility
became too much for me.

The trinity observingly
stepped in as my unnervingly
doomed project fell apart;
a quarter of the trinity
remained in the vicinity
to drain my bleeding heart.

The Trinity of Reason
had saved my life that day,
although it’s out of season
and many miles away.

The Trinity of Reason
can save your life as well:
prevent internal treason
neath its unmagic spell.

There's a talent in the water
with the wings of silver breasts,
and the mountain's smoky daughter
builds upon the moon her nests.

Satin lips and eyes of leather
and a tail of golden scales
match the silence of the feather
that she drops in lonely vales.

No, she never heard of thunder,
brain or of the love of man,
but when she is sitting under
her own shade, she hears the fan.

And her leather eyes would glisten
close behind those iron bars,
and devoutly she would listen
to the falling of the stars.

Three potatoes on the table
look at me with brownish eyes,
but I'm sorry I'm not able
to respond to this surprise.

Who on God's green earth created
praties or a plastic bag?
I have never meditated
on a pratie or a bag.

For the one thing that enables
me to rise above the skies
can't be put on any tables
nor be seen by any eyes.

When at last the hills stopped rolling
and the cows went out again
and the massacre of Bowling
Green had been avenged, and when
time once more began its cycle
and the king became a pawn,
there was not a sign of Michael,
only unangelic dawn.

Six Badgers in their burrows think
of what a bat might like to drink.
The first replies while pinching flow'rs,
‘What business would that be of ours?’

The second one won't stay inside
and takes his banshee for a ride,
the third agrees to herd the sheep
and takes his in-laws' lunch and jeep.

The fourth one doesn't care at all,
turns in his hammock, and he'll fall
asleep before the barn's decay
will welcome yet another day.

The fifth is too afraid to talk
and far too busy eating chalk,
but one bids house and home adieu
to sail around the world with you.

Like a chieftain in the night,
watercolours come and go,
and the train is long and slow
that will bring our heart's delight,
and the moment falls to rhyme
like another drop of time.

Hands and elbows out of sight,
traders bring the thoughts they know,
and the winds of Hades blow
hard in Aphrodite's spite,
and the moment falls to rhyme
like another drop of time.

Willows gather in the light
where the sleepy poppies grow,
and the tender lilies show
merciless extremes in flight,
and the moment falls to rhyme
like another drop of time.

Unbidden guests invaded my
delicate brains today at four
and had a party, claiming I
at two times twenty should know the score.

I left them where they were and took
my mental diary to the dome
and told the dancers, ‘Come and look -
I'm going insane: I'm going home!’

That day I was riding my nightmare
to work as morning fell,
and my boss decorated my office
inside the Department of Hell.

Since life hasn’t been his buddy,
we ascended a staircase which led
to the catacombs of Abaddon
where we both were surprising the dead.

And a spirit arose from the magma
in which she so awkwardly swam,
manifested in front of our faces
and said, ‘Do you know who I am?’

I just turned away from the creature
until she turned back into gneiss,
for to lie in the face of beauty
is a crime one commits only twice.

Lift the ban on Swedish girls,
that the sky may seize the mind,
and the exterranean pearls
find their place in humankind!

From the heavens of the fields
clamp the frogs between the sun,
that the heathen bottle shields
every shoulder that is one!

And the hucklebuck shall fill
every creature with dislike,
so the oceans will be still,
and the lark can ride his bike!

Then we'll fly across the nuts
with our shovels on our eyes,
and from our abandoned huts
see the things that we despise!

Shun the desk of vivisection,
leave your herdish past behind
and desert the road of action:
hold the Harvest of the Mind!

With the hawthorn and the laurel,
with our breasts and souls entwined,
we will sing the lunar choral
at the Harvest of the Mind.

He who walked in silk wears cotton,
he who once could see is blind,
he who worried has forgotten
at the Harvest of the Mind.

Liberating from its fetter
everything that was defined,
we will make it strange and better
at the Harvest of the Mind.

We will gather crops of pleasure,
two or five of every kind,
and our labour is our leisure
at the Harvest of the Mind.

We will harvest without reaping,
we will search and never find:
dreamers who are never sleeping,
hold the Harvest of the Mind!

As God is my witness, my talent
was perfectly clear from the start
when I, a mere toddler, recited
De Rerum natura* by heart.

And as surely as Jesus has risen,
I have played with the Beatles in Rome
in the days when Naomi Campbell
and I called the Louvre our home.

And I walked across the Grand Canyon
in one night in the time of my youth,
after which I swam the Pacific,
and that's the gospel truth.

(* in Latin, of course)

When we went on that day trip to Sanity,
with the wind and the flies in our hair,
where we tried to save Sense from Humanity
and the handful of merchants who care,
we got caught in the trap of your vanity
with your kids and your buxom au pair.

Where American English is spanishing,
we rejoiced, having been in the wrong,
and the interim people ceased banishing
the buffoons, and we left with a song;
with the lights back in Sanity vanishing,
we went back to the place we belong.

When Thor lost his hammer,
all hell broke loose;
the gods walked on eggshells
on hearing the news.

The thunder god's weapon
to crush our sad world
was gone, and his anger
and wrath soon unfurled.

The likeliest suspect,
Loki hid in the hills,
while Freya assured him
she hadn't the skills.

The culprit thereafter
hit, revenge on the mind,
the nail in the coffin
of all humankind.

The thunder god finished
the gods, as he would;
with his toy gone forever,
Thor lost it for good.

‘We made some spears, now we can go a-hunting,’
some of the men proclaimed, ‘and kill gazelle
for food!’ - But all the others were confronting
them, ‘How will you get close to them, pray tell?’

‘We’ll chase them till they’re out of breath, a stressful
experience, and kill them then.’ - They went
to try their luck, but after an unsuccessful
long chase it was the hunters who were spent.

And since they couldn’t move their legs, some others
were forced to bring them back to camp: their strong
brothers who, ordered by their worried mothers,
at moonlight gathered hunters all night long.

Thus they became the undisputedly
first hunter-gatherer society.

In Times of Hundred Joys I take my lyre
and sing the sources of my lasting joy
with tunes that move me backwards towards the fire
which gives me warmth and comfort to destroy.

In Times of Noble Deeds I take my sword
and swiftly walk across the empty hall
where ladies chant my praise with one accord
to hang it on its place upon the wall.

In Times of Rippled Love I take my heart,
and take it firmly, and I change its form;
a song upon my lips, I hone the dart
and call the gods of Thunder, Fire and Storm.

In Times of Virgin Grief I take my eyes
and bathe them in the beauty of a thing
and let my lifeless pupil exercise
the triumph march around the deadly sting.

In Times of Hollow Fiends I take a pin
to interrupt their dwelling at the pole,
and with the mind with which I let them in
I open all the windows of my soul.

In Times of Constant Change I take my past
(even the parts that don't belong to me),
and, knowing that my present will not last,
I keep on changing, changing constantly.

In Times of Nine Abodes I take the tenth
(the tenth is what we claim for tender care),
and Passion's longest measure is its length,
its width the calm a single world can bear.

In Times of Lust's Embrace I drop my pen

With sweaty foreheads from our poaching,
we're riding in the Sun of Death
and see another group approaching
- hold your horses, hold your breath!

Now blow the horn (don't worry which) -
here comes the train of Dooh Nibor,
the brave defender of the rich
and prosecutor of the poor!

He knows not what a logic bomb is
and doesn't use his parachutes -
he is a man of many a promise,
a fine designer of birthday suits.

But when I beheld his lady,
all my fears subsided soon
as she led me to her shady
camp beneath the virgin moon.

And she took me to her bridal
crypt and softly tucked me in;
I was feeling suicidal
and a little peregrine.

We lay down and worshipped Luna,
and I felt her bosom swell
o'er the cavernous lacuna
her left breast concealed so well.

At the shore the reminiscent
waves caressed the sleeping boats,
and enchantedly we listened
to the singing of the goats,

‘Death is a handyman. He has a butler,
a row of crossbones on his window sill,
a sable coat that couldn't be much subtler
and eighty bedrooms in his mansion still.’

‘Sometimes I wish I were a psychopath,
at peace with my disturbed mentality,
enveloping this planet in my wrath;
I'd set my latent demon soldiers free
today and take a blood-and-bowel bath,
commemorating those who messed with me!’

The Fates have shown their faces,
the gods have swapped their places,
the sirens spread their graces,
and passion is no sin!

Here I shall lick and taste you,
here I shall trick and baste you,
here I shall flick and waste you
unless you let me win!

The stories are narrated,
the zeppelins inflated,
the girls intoxicated,
the party can begin!

The bells will be ringing
in autumn and spring,
the elms will be swinging
when Harvey is king.

The crabs will be bringing
the scissor-like thing
to which they are clinging
when Harvey is king.

The priest will be flinging
the house on the wing,
the doves will be stinging
when Harvey is king.

The dogs will be whinging,
the bluebird will sing,
the cats will be cringing
when Harvey is king.

A bird is nesting in my brains
and keeps on picking the remains
of what they call the ratio;
she seems so merry and so gay
and sends her fledglings out to play
on my subconscious' patio.

Their rapture is an awful sight.
I watch them every day and night,
a-cursing and a-grunting;
tonight I'll leave, like sun and star,
the front door of my mind ajar
to let my cat go hunting.

Arise! Arise and cover
your eyes in mild despair,
for you will find your lover,
the empress of the air.

Arise and be alerted
for hundred years or more;
the belfry is deserted,
forgotten oral lore.

Arise and tell your people
that you have seen your head
circling around the steeple
and mingling with the dead.

Arise, Atlantic floater,
and search the Velvet Rose:
Hell cannot be remoter,
and Heaven is too close.

Arise and sing your dirges
until the mornings break
with swans beneath the birches
and clouds above the lake.

Arise, arise from under
the blooming willow tree
to hear the mermaids thunder
and feel the rambling sea.

Arise from peaceful runnels,
from mountains wide and deep,
arise from Grecian tunnels,
arise to restless sleep.

To games with Master Lonnard
arise, and you'll be thrilled:
the losers will be honoured,
the winners will be killed.

From here to other places
Elvira's fame has spread;
arise to her embraces
in spirit or in bed.

And yet the coaches linger
around the barren field;
arise! Arise, my singer,
and say we'll never yield.

Who was around when raging waters foamed
against the wizards of the broken dreams,
when Irish moose and Celtic tiger roamed
the plains and forests of a thousand screams,
when hunting woodnymphs cast their poisoned spears
and put an end to all their victims' fears?

Who cared about the fantasies that died
in the trenches of the war of sexes, who
reversed the changes of the ice age, cried
for poverty in times of plenty, knew
that nothing would undo the miller's spell
unless one sent his daughters straight to hell?

It doesn't matter. Things will never change,
and if they do, they won't; it's all too late,
yet it might take some time to rearrange
the foundations of the Earth. And while we wait,
I want you to approach on bended knee
and let me know you'll spend the night with me.

I walk beside the bridge since you are gone,
I fly along the traces of the swan
and laugh at harmless faces.

I breathe the scarlet air of anarchy:
I want my velvet passion to be free,
my one and sole possession.

I send my flowers out from here to late;
alone I drop the curtain of my fate,
for fate alone is certain.

I hug the cushion of my bravery,
fight for my right to live in slavery,
betrayed and unforgiving.

For no more woman I will ever fall:
I curse their stubborn fickleness and call
the doctor with the sickle.

So holy was the hour we parted,
so playful was our last goodbye,
that every new thing that we started
reminds us of the heron's cry.

And from the island of the gifted
we hear the smoke; it sounds the same
as in the days we gladly drifted
in silver clouds to play the game.

And from the mountains we are stealing
the blossoms that no man can see,
the incarnation of a feeling,
too real to be reality.

And playful still is every moment
a lover tells me we are through,
and holy still is every moment
I think of love and you.

Sinful Dreamer, in your peaceful
sleep I saw a lustful smile
that adorned your face with craving
like the flood adorns the isle.

From the bright lights of the city,
from the shadows of the past,
from the battlefields of yearning
comes the dream that has to last.

Now the pictures on the table
and the way they say your name
and the monkey in the garden
nevermore will be the same.

Since the rose of Sharon flowered
in your eye, that holy ground,
all my memories are buried
deep beneath this thirsty mound.

You may sleep or you may rise now,
I am everything you see:
Sinful Dreamer, drink your Lethe,
Sinful Dreamer, dream of me.

Once all the evergreens are spoken,
I'll offer my surprise
when all the mirrors have been broken
in one another's eyes.

Those who did not remove their splinter
don't know what happened to
Mary Celeste in that cold winter,
but you and I, we do.

The sun is setting, and a day of beauty
comes to an end; only the poet's eye
will make this day immortal. For this duty
I need a glass of whiskey waiting by.

'The day was sunny' - yes, that sounds immortal,
'and early daisies flowered in the grass.'
That's excellent: I'm standing at the portals
of poet's fame and of another glass.

'The birch was bending down to touch the lily,
and touched her with the softness of a lamb;'
that's lovely, though it sounds a little silly,
and with a sigh I fill the glass again.

'The blackbird's house was covered with weeds and shabby,
his virgin daughters were stern and wild' -
George Byron never thought of that! I'm happy,
and once again the tiny glass is filled.

'From the floods a king bee was ascending
and spread the mountain's penetrating odour,
but silently her husband was lamenting' -
once again I fill the glass once more.

'The stars shone darkly in the midday heavens,
the purple sun was green with yellow spots,'
and now I have to see dots on the paper where there were no dots
and pour the glass of rest into the whiskey.

'The buzzing bees were buzzing with a buzzer' -
yes, that is a very brilliant line, I know;
I will continue this next year tomorrow,
but now it's bed to time to go.

The embrace of the city seems lighter
as we thrive on her unspoken lies,
and the sun in the heaven shines brighter
by reflecting the light of her eyes.

And the rosebushes bloom as she passes
to compare with the red of her lips,
and she's turning the heads of the masses
when she's dancingly swinging her hips.

Now sweet Eros must empty his quiver,
for the men are bewitched by her style
as she's walking her breasts at the river
whilst caressing the world with her smile.

With his arrows he's doing his duty
while with lust at her features we gape,
for she pierces our eye with her beauty,
and she slices our heart with her shape.

Larry tried to tell his wife,
though not knowing when or how,
that he led a double life,
one of which he’d end right now.

When the skeletons came out
of the closet, Larry cringed
since his friends would laugh and shout
and his wife become unhinged.

But she simply left the room,
packed her things and left the house,
and she left her former groom
with no dignity or spouse.

In the meantime more and more
skeletons seemed to enjoy
dancing on the bedroom floor,
girl with girl and boy with boy.

Larry severed his perhaps
frail attachment to the past
and, with small uncertain steps,
joined their danse macabre at last.

Wolf, you bossed a hem
and nim foxes till ace won
ere he met a hot doom: a gem
(a gaze - we rise, do not stir!)
of doors ajar - a pun,
a very plait-punned log,
a no-go bat: ask Leda,
so sad is a qasida,
so sad elks at a bog
on a golden nuptial pyre -
van up a raja's rood,
for it's to no desire
we zag; a megamood
to hate me here- - no,
we call it Sex of Mind,
name Hades so - buoy, flow!

Love is what we make it,
Life is what it is,
Beauty how we take it,
Poesy is this.

In the blonde October
of our narrow minds
our creations sober
up with sore behinds.

Falling with the planets,
waning with the moon,
sailing with the gannets,
Yesterday'll come soon.

And against the mocking
of a cheerful crowd
she'll put on her stocking
where Salvation bowed.

The secret winter dawning
within the hermit's cell,
afraid of the next morning,
I dread the night as well.

And at the flameless fire
I dream of burning fires,
the unfulfilled desire
for unfulfilled desires.

The joy of Life suspended
above me in the air,
Love's vessel sank and stranded
after I've paid the fare.

When the trial was said to be over
and the staging of life had begun
there were ladybirds there and the clover,
and above it a radiant sun.

But the sun went beyond the horizon,
and the clover and ladybirds lied:
nowadays I can barely lay eyes on
all the beauty I once felt inside.

And the djinn in my bottle grows moister,
granting wishes he'll never fulfil,
and the world is the shell of my oyster
and my body a ship on the hill.

The sound of a woman exploding
is the signal to run for your life,
an ill omen for husbands, foreboding
that they soon will be covered in wife.

And the drops on the hand of the suitor
fail to fall on the flames he ignites
as he tries to transform his computer
into neo-Darwinian rites.

Once beneath a time there'll be
dentists in the Irish Sea
who will try their skilful paws
on some formidable jaws.

Through the caves of my heart I was lurching
with my briefcase, my conscience and all,
and examined the paintings while searching
for the writings on the wall.

And the chill of the den made me tremble,
and the pictures of Death as she waits,
and the pictures of Life that resemble
the rest of the world past the gates.

No alignment has ever been clearer
than the forces surrounding the cave,
and each hour I'm aware she comes nearer,
and each breath means one less till the grave.

Now she woos me, and burdened with candy
she warns me to flee from Life's wrath,
bows before me and calls me effendi
as she goads me to follow her path;

Now she shuns me and tells me I'll never
be able to conquer her realm,
that I'll sail Stygian waters forever
in wide circles with Void at the helm.

If those pictures were making me dizzy,
if I fainted from hate or despair,
if my blood would just boil or get fizzy -
if I only could feel I were there!

Through the caves of my heart I am lurching
with my briefcase, my conscience and all,
and examine the paintings while searching
for the writings on the wall.

Bleeding Moon, Bleeding Moon,
must you leave the night so soon?
Stay for me and make me sleep
where the sirens dance and weep.

Bleeding Moon, so white and gay,
when your gentle moon rays play
with the image of our hearts,
nothing ends, and nothing starts.

Bloody Moon, your tender light
sings the secrets of the night,
and when daylight meets the shore,
I won't see it anymore.

I saw a rainbow in the night,
and all the most unpleasant things
are suddenly rememberings.
The blackness of the sky takes flight,
and what was dark is turning bright.

The sombre clouds went out of sight,
the spectres flee on raven wings,
and far away the moonbird sings.
I saw a rainbow in the night,
now everything will be all white.

Where the wolf who cried boy made his ultimate statement,
the embarrassed Messiah explained his belatement,
where the Lord of the Goats poshly drinks to his cleaner
and displays his exclusively common demeanour,
where the rats gobble up the old keel of their clipper
while their queen tries to please the first mate and the skipper,
there our housebroken master has made his suggestion -
but if love is the answer, then what is the question?

I went out to the hazel mouse
because a fire was in my house,
and cut and peeled a hazel tine,
and hooked a berry to my spouse;
and when white Goths there held their thing,
and Goth-like cars crashed in the dark,
I dropped the berry in a stream
and caught a little silver shark.

When I had laid it on the floor,
I went to blow the fiery flames,
but something rustled at the door,
and someone out there called me names:
it had become a glimmering girl
with seaweed blossom in her mouth
who rose and called me names and ran
and faded in the brightening South.

Though I am old with wondering
about nanny goat and billy goat,
I will find out where she has gone,
and seal her lips and cut her throat;
and walk among long dappled grass,
and pluck till time and times are done,
the silver crayfish of the moon,
the golden crayfish of the sun.

My heart is a lake which is hidden from sight
by the Hills of Convention that keep out the light
of the sun, but at times when the wolves howl their tune
the valley is lit by the light of the moon.

And my mind watches over the hills and the lake
which is never asleep and is never awake;
he's a watchman who won't interfere, but he's bound
to keep record of all things that happen around.

And my eyes are two priests who would leave me behind,
very often I'm finding myself hard to find;
my heart is a lake which is hidden from sight,
but I know you went skinny-dipping last night!

The tentacles of winter grab
the gentle breeze of spring,
and with an icy steel they stab
the swan's auspicious wing.

They firmly take you by the hand
and, wrapped around your neck,
declare you're cool and you're their friend
and pat you on the back.

Their friend you are, I know it well,
so follow them and run
to clutch the icebergs of their hell
as I await the sun!

Since I was born they've done my head in:
they meddle with my toys
and dart across my brain and bedroom
to look for secret joys.

The skibby men go through my drawers
and tear my home apart,
destroy the stuff they have no use for
and put it on a cart.

I stand and wonder in amazement
at all the bits they find
which I deemed lost or non-existent
in the Burren of my mind.

And every now and then they journey
down the forgotten track,
and I'm at ease, but in the evening
the skibby men come back,

Unloading from their trucks the heavy
scrap iron of my soul,
they throw it in my memory's landfill
where Beauty takes its toll.

But when their day is done, they sometimes
light campfires in the dark,
sit on the corners of my pillow
and answer my remark,

‘We didn't come, so we shan't exit,
we're barely here but last:
we all are fathers of the future
and children of the past!’

Since man began
to count his own achievements,
betrayals and bereavements,
he also counts his mates.

And while the smile
of lovers is misleading,
we think that we are breeding
a species that relates.

One call ends all
the visions that could enter
our brainpan's creamy centre,
and every dream deflates.

Today we pay
the price for not embracing
ourselves as we are facing
the Mother of all Fates.

How do we know a door is open,
how can we see a bird is free?
The question's answer is the question;
if you're confused, don't bother me.

When autumn holds a mental harvest,
the trees turn over a new leaf
and bend their branches to the sunset
like anarchists who face their chief.

And when the world and all is over
and peace again has found a way,
we will be gathered round the campfire,
remembering this scarlet day.

The trolls of the woodland in Phoenix
aspire to evolve into elves,
and the trigger for this aspiration
is they have no respect for themselves.

So they're tying soft wings to their shoulders
and, while flapping their arms up and down,
they are jumping from cliffs at the ocean,
each one wearing a delicate crown.

My old granny collects them at ebb tide
amongst driftwood and many a clam,
and she sells them for scrap to the army
where they make damn good soldiers of them.

We took the last bus to Atlantis
and boarded for Hy-Brasil,
and Ziggy, the praying mantis,
just looked at the sea and got ill.

We set sail in the looming sunset,
we sailed for a day and ten nights;
all that time we were watching the nuns at
the stern who were mending their tights.

And the merchants of doom set the table
for the crew at the end of the trip;
they came down, and they opened the stable,
and we hurried to get off the ship.

And the mist on the island grew denser
as we looked for a place of our own,
but we knew that the vapour dispenser
would be empty before we were grown.

And after two years and a battle
of wits, we enjoyed the blue skies,
and Ziggy was minding the cattle
while we were minding the flies.

For trees the word is winter,
for clouds the word is gate,
and every sword's a splinter
in dolphins born too late.

I never asked the seasons
to care for bread or milk,
but they must have their reasons
who dress in shirts of silk.

It's nice to dress a reason
in silk to make him look
presentable, and treason
will get him off the hook.

But where the streams are wilder,
and where the salmon leap,
fatalities are milder
and puddles dark and deep.

At Hazelwood the salmon,
convinced that they are cursed,
swim with a slice of lemon,
preparing for the worst.

The traps of understanding
are set, the orchids lit,
and there will be no mending
of what our thoughts commit.

From Skreen to Polynesia,
from Delhi to Loch Ness,
from Cairo to East Frisia
man sees the stars, I guess.

And yet a clouded vision
begets a clouded mind
and leads to the collision
with every world behind.

The conscience that befell you
will not move in, I fear,
but who am I to tell you,
and who are you to hear?

Of all things bright and pretty
there's one thing that remains
after the death of Pity:
a bonfire in our brains!

Where all greeting is competing
while the old and wise are messing,
in the middle of that riddle
lies the truth in blue cheese dressing.

They barter their oath at the market
for that wind chime they urgently need,
then they're selling the bricks of their houses,
the mouths of their children to feed.

As we smirk at every kirkhead
in the playground of the grown-ups,
we can witness all the witless
adults bowing to their blown-ups.

They celebrate Death as their saviour,
they put their balm where it hurts,
they took the L out of Christmas
and dressed it in polka-dot skirts.

They're forgetful, not regretful,
just like little Hip-Lun-Mivvin;
as they sell you, they will tell you
it's the real world that they live in.

The square has left the town and runs
up to the distant hills;
the streets pursue him, shoot their guns
but only scratch the mills.

The town hall watches silently,
the houses cheer the square,
the shops insist without them he
won't make it anywhere.

It's on this square where autumn holds
her jolly fair each year,
where local merriment unfolds
like it was always here.

The magistrate who owns the town
once won a poker game
against her when the blind was down,
and was the blind to blame?

She had the chance to strip, but though
autumn strips flow'r and tree,
she would not strip herself, and so
they both came to agree:

That he could take what he desired
at any place and time;
he took the things she most admired
and didn't give a dime.

And autumn hung her head in shame
and claimed it wasn't fair,
but he maintained that in this game
he won them, fair and square.

The streets chased with a roundabout
the square who tried to hide;
a little market place jumped out
and pulled him to the side.

And in a nesting box at ten
he scored with her right there;
she was a born piazza then,
but now they are all square.

There is a limit to inflation,
especially on Friday when
I'll get my first imagination
and have to seek the vulture's den.

And I shall then translate a saga
from modern Hybrid into Greek
under the influence of lager,
but there's a Wednesday in each week.

I am a man who needs a mission,
like braving social etiquette,
but then the lack of malnutrition
will quickly put an end to that.

There's nothing wrong with being bitter
for one whose bed's not made of hay:
for those who live in gold and glitter
life has a thousand shades of grey.

And who are they? The animation
of little men, half king, half gnome;
they have their luggage at the station
and leave their overcoats at home.

Their railway tracks are quite amazing -
jump on my train of thought and find
the hairy demons who are raising
the bushy brow of humankind.

The day after forever beckons
the ancient future as of late,
and with the love that waits and reckons
let us remember how to hate.

When all is dead that has been living
simply because it failed to please,
we will remain the unforgiving,
we still will have our memories!

The skies are closed for lunch. The sun is in
a conference and cannot be disturbed.
You'll have to wait. Another drop of gin
for Peter, the receptionist; he burped
several times now, but to quench his thirst
seems quite impossible. Then, after hours,
you ask him for your turn. He tells you first
you’ll have to pick a number, and he show’rs
his throat again. You see on the display
that there are hundreds more before you. As
you wait your turn, your thoughts take off and stray
to what you left behind, and to the mess
that was your life... Newcomers constantly
squeeze on the bench beside you, ‘Sorry, Ma'am!’ -
Then, checking the display once more, you see
your number has been up already; damn!

Not every man is home where he was born.
Some do not mind, and some set out in quest
of their own country with a compass made
of finest gold to point the way. Their reason
is wrapped in silver lining for the way
that brings them to their lives. In olden days
they had a horse as well, at least a mule,
but now they hitch from place to place to find
their native land. They steal the things they need
from those who will not miss them, and at night
they light the fires of passion in the country.
The local girls then dance around the campsite,
take off their clothes and run into the woods.
Chased by the bold adventurers, they lure
them into bogs and moors from where they can't
escape and meet their doom; they're slowly sinking
before the eyes of those they love. They do
not try to save themselves; the smile of those
who brought them there is all they ever asked for,
and so they perish with the certain knowledge:
I am home!

You're a hero made to measure
from the consecrated place,
and we're grateful for the pleasure
to have met you face to face.

You have found the one solution
to the problem no one knew:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

Leave your keys at the reception,
leave your worries at the door
and hand over that contraption
the director asked you for.

You have made your contribution
to the future we went through:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

Nice young girls will entertain you,
nice young men in clean white coats
will sufficiently sustain you
with analysis and oats.

You prevented the pollution
of our doctrine from the pew:
welcome to the institution,
we have been expecting you!

The recipe straight from our manifesto:
you take some gold, titanium and just
a smidgen of samarium - hey presto,
here is an individual to trust!

He lived in the city. His pleasures were few.
A pint in the evening, on Fridays some more,
a fag after work and a girl now and then.
On Sundays he'd sit in his small empty room
and wait for his Monday to come. Downstairs
old ladies would meet and have biscuits and tea.
His dream was his home, but he didn't remember.
A long time had passed since he'd been there. The clouds
came in through his window, he fed them and sighed.
The indigo carriage of gods of the country
was certainly gone, and the bread of the fairies
would never arrive at his house. To the castle
the ravens and swallows would fly, but not him.
Embracing the memories that he had left
and counting the blessings that life had rejected,
he dropped his old shoes at the bed. In winter
he'd sleep in a carpet that Granny had bought him
in happier days. From the frame of the door
hung down something yellow. His socks and his mornings
were as dark as the night of a greyhound in gaol.
He once had to sell his collection of hymens
to get his small television repaired,
but soon it was broken again. His betrayers
allowed him to rescue the rest of his teeth,
which wasn't a lot. He was good at his work -
not excellent, though, but quite good. In his fridge
he stored what the landlord was never to see,
and down in the village they all didn't know him.
The mountains, the oceans, the birds and the graveyards
were far, far away, and he couldn't be bothered.
He sat in his room and was chewing his fingers
and waiting for Monday and looking outside.

I have seen the rugged mountains,
fountains in the blooming meadows,
shadows of the nymphs and fairies,
berries of the quicken tree.

I have seen the crystal ocean,
motionlessly watched his magic
tragic silence as he's bringing
swinging life and singing death.

I have seen the tiger lily,
stilly woods and lively alleys,
valleys where the poppy quivers,
rivers where the swans will die.

I have seen the crowded city,
witty priests and earnest peasants,
pheasants hiding in the flowers,
towers that no man will climb.

I have seen the heights and hollows,
swallows in their flight and egrets,
secrets that the sun uncovers,
lovers for a single day.

I have seen the Field of Mourning,
dawning spirits of the highland,
island winters, hostile waters,
daughters of the King of Waves.

I have seen the goddess' faces,
places that I wandered sadly,
gladly grazed the realms of Beauty,
fruity pastures of the past.

I have seen the gods in stitches,
witches hasten, angels tarry,
merry hells, deserted havens,
ravens croaking o'er their prey.

I have seen the heavens wasted,
tasted from the fruit of Hades,
laid as food of gods before me,
stormy darkness all around.

I have seen this world and many,
many more, but still I wander
yonder, wond'ring why I never
ever see you.

When you are sitting through an
important interview,
perfectly tense and anxious,
your common sense perdu,
and struggle with a question,
not knowing what to say,
a random act of weirdness
will go a long, long way.

When in the overcrowded
and strangely well-to-do
emergency department
the person next to you
looks down so they don't see you
and scrolls on their device,
a random act of weirdness
is bound to break the ice.

When you're the lead bassoonist
of one big orchestra,
and during a performance
you realise you are
entirely unfamiliar
with what the others play,
a random act of weirdness
will surely save the day.

Years ago, when Fate installed him,
he came down from Omaha,
and this is what people called him
where he went to, near or far.

Whitney was a model, climbing
to the top on high-heeled shoe;
as she'd always been two-timing
they all called her W.

When they met, there was a massive
earthquake, but he had to fall:
Omaha was quite possessive,
which she didn't like at all.

Bentley, Morrison and Peter
had to leave their part-time wife:
they were not allowed to meet her
while her new one was alive.

Whitney found it boring what she
tasted of monogamy,
and one day they found his blotchy
entrails in the lemon tree.

Bentley, Morrison and Peter
dressed up for the funeral;
now her life will be much sweeter,
like a Lerner musical.

With a naughty simper Bentley
combs his hair and shines his shoe,
turns around and mumbles gently,
Ah, a model like W!

Morrison gets up and slowly
combs his hair and shines his shoe,
gets his coat and mumbles lowly,
Ah, a model like W!

Pete who's always been a stirrer
combs his hair and shines his shoe,
and he whispers to the mirror,
Ah, a model like W!

Absinthe-mindedly I wander
up them stairs to find my way;
on that lonely trip I squander
many dreams to make my day.

In the mem’ry of that wood
where I sought eternal gloom,
shapes aren’t dancing as they should
in the quiet of my room.

With that heavy taste of sweet
mint and menthol on my tongue,
I keep wondering ‘bout the treat
of which ancient ones have sung.

But my mind won’t grow an image,
it instead grows small and dumb,
and my mouth feels like the scrimmage
of perpetual bubble gum.

It reminds me of the medicine
I was taking as a child;
while the army brought the Feds in,
centenarians went wild.

There was a young waitress in Sligo
who swore that she saw a wendigo
who sat on her patio
with a mind-boggling ratio
of hunger to brain size, amigo!

Faced a maid at a
deli ere I led a tad:
I am a decaf!

In poetry, a universe is but a single line.

(Make this song your favourite 1 by writing the music 4 it yourself)

1. Anne is now in love once more,
Norman like he was before,
abiding there behind the door.

2. Reinforce my loveless mind,
capable of Latin grind,
harum-scarum love-declined.

3. Yako knows not how it feels,
fury hinders all new deals,
overhear my love appeals!

Chorus:
Won't lovers tell Latin-mad Yako,
won't lovers tell Latin-mad Yako,
won't lovers tell Latin-mad Yako
about what love is like?

How the rain, how the rain
dims my view from the train,
worlds seem sad through the pane
in the rain, in the rain.

How I live, how I live
on my isle, wond'ring if
all my gods will forgive
that I live, that I live.

How I die, how I die,
with that thorn in my eye,
she might see, passing by,
how I die, how I die.

Where are they going,
those who stand by?
What are they showing,
those who deny?

When are we leaving,
we who must scorn?
Why are we weaving
clothes that aren't worn?

Now, my friend, we close the curtain
on the future of the past,
and the die that should ascertain
our envisioned doom is cast.

We have challenged Fate maturely
from our castle in the tree,
but the comets' lot is surely
not what it's cracked up to be.

There's no aspidistra flying,
there's no smoking at the bar,
and the dreams we had of dying
play at every cinema.

53 95 102 75 16 81 99 16 52 89 1 68
74 67 27 89 2 16 67 7 99 81 39,
53 95 90 85 7 68 66 6 75 85 92 75
90 85 3 23 99 8 7 84 99 39.

At night I'm lying in my bed
and think of things I haven't said
and things I haven't written,
of all the things I haven't done
and all the things I haven't won -
you know: once shy, twice bitten!

And many a twisted vision drifts
across my minds like scented gifts
dispersed for Atalanta;
I would, had I the energy,
write a bohemian tragedy
of Boadicea and Santa.

‘This is bizarre!’ - I know I ought
to hold on to this train of thought,
but I don't heed my warning -
‘I'll take a note,’ I say in jest,
‘but first I need to get some rest...
remind me in the morning!’

But I'm aware that the idea
is gone and never will appear
again between my temples -
now shapes and faces take its place:
sometimes it's Daryl Hannah's face,
sometimes Naomi Campbell's.

And never in a world so loud
did I expect the goddess' shroud
to be so underrated,
and if her spell had not expired
(and if I only weren't that tired),
I'd have her cause debated.

How could, without a single moon,
the birch tree be removed so soon,
and how without his branches?
Now, with the heavens out of sight,
he doesn't see the swans in flight
but daisies in the trenches.

The worries of a broken tree
have never meant that much to me,
but certainly I wonder
'bout selfish shellfish that she'll sell
at sunny seashores since she shall
pursue her trade down under.

And never in my wildest dreams
(and this is one of them, it seems)
my thoughts came into fashion,
but here they stand with mouths agape,
their memories bent out of shape,
with exoteric passion.

The men around me clank their tanks;
the archives of their murd'rous pranks
enable rough emotion.
I shall dismiss the pirate crew
and bring my plaintive worries to
the table of the ocean.

The traumatised blonde coffers are
shoved round like many a plywood jar
up to the point of fainting;
but there's no point in letting them roam -
as words themselves don't make a pome
colours don't make a painting.

Fair play to you! May you survive
to keep your publican alive
for many years to come -
your redneck liver and iron will
will make you big and strong until
McAbre shall beat the drum.

We, while expanding into space,
search for ourselves in any place
where fears and doubts are perching,
we analyse or ask the elves -
then finally we find ourselves,
and find ourselves a-searching.

And in a mystic sunlit place
tall girls of every land and race
are kneeling at the river
and drink, and on its mirror gleam
small breasts that barely touch the stream -
and as they do, they quiver.

Too bright, too bright to comfort me
is your austere sincerity
and your disturbing beauty:
your look is far too luminous,
your mind is far too octopus,
your taste is far too fruity.

The freedom of a leprechaun
starts when his chin and nates are shorn
besides some other features,
a fairy that has skinny-dipped
may find her tiny wings are clipped -
these are the poorest creatures.

Yet nonetheless, the fugitives
who hang on to protruding cliffs
will never be awaker;
‘The way is longer going down
from here to smash our skulls,’ they frown,
‘than up to meet our maker.’

But first things first, and naturally
they made their way from A to C
via this small stopover.
Now they have nowhere left to go;
their spirits feed this poem, though
their bodies feed the clover.

When ladies in Calabria
expose their breasts to any tsar
or postman in the village,
their jealous husbands seize the day
by sailing westwards where they stay
to plunder, burn and pillage.

Too many miles have now gone by,
and every time I try to try,
my eyelids still are twitching -
and then I hear a little noise
between the heater and the toys,
or my left foot is itching.

This should not be the end, at least
not the beginning of the beast
that ambushed heaven's roses;
this is the nervous anxious fear
of man when his own spouse is near,
but none of them discloses.

The trigger-happy marching band,
a-marching through the desert sand,
got ready for the slaughter,
and as they played the battle rag,
one soldier shook his rattlebag
and took the colonel's daughter.

To savage to a merry tune
young kids beneath the April moon
is fun; there's no denying
that music raises the brave boys'
spirits so they may share the joys
of killing and of dying.

And yet I'm very much in doubt
if all these things I think about
I've thought this night already,
and as I think of what's behind,
another thought just crossed my mind -
but now it's gone, like Freddie.

The quagmire of unwithered brains
takes in the flowers and regains
its undefended power
from little goblins in the holes
that drive away the rats and moles
to build their hearts a tower.

In the rainforest where we dance
upon the sidewalk and perchance
change feet with one another,
right in the gutter we can see
the litter of humanity
a-playing with their mother.

They all are here: Cheer's cheerful cast,
the Ghost of Christianity Past,
thousand Dalmatians arfing,
the father of the dying sea,
his daughters down on bended knee,
and everybody laughing.

The Galilean couldn't win
his fight to be a god, and in
the wake of his surrection
they doubt that in two centuries
he'll father a religion; please,
he's not a man of action!

The zeppelins and wakemen sink,
the bay leaves and the bailiffs shrink,
the love god is retiring,
and in the purgatory of night
there's one remaining source of light:
the fever of expiring.

Farewell, ye all! Farewell, ye all!
I clearly hear the boatman's call
who will, without a warning,
take me across, so far away
that no one else can come nor stay!
- I'll see you in the morning.