LE PRINCE D’AQUITAINE Á LA TOUR ABOLIE
(THE PRINCE OF AQUITAINE IN HIS RUINED TOWER)

Beneath the colonnades
of the Palais Royal

the poet
takes for a walk

a live lobster
on a leash

of blue
ribbon.

How droll.

Mais, regardez le
...souvent
dans l’être obscur
habite un Dieu
caché

(But look at him
...often
the most obscure of beings
houses a hidden God) .

Allez chercher
ce fou...cet insensé sublime
un seul pouvait
au monde expliquer
ce mystère d’amour

celui qui donna
l’âme
aux mots

entre une monde
qui meurt
et l’autre
renaissat

(“ Go fetch
the madman
insane & sublime

the only one
who could explain
to the world
the mystery of love.

He who gave a soul
to words

between a world
that is dying

& a world
In rebirth”)

And yet
with an apron string

(which he imagines
is a garter
of a queen)

he hangs himself
from a lamppost

pockets bulging
with manuscripts

one
wintry
morning.

Consummatum....est!

...de tons conseils
l’univers
est
absent?

(It is...finished.
...the universe is
absent
from your plans?)

Ah, mais...
el desdichado
le spectre de fumée
vaincu se releva
plus grand
...qui tendit sa main
pure
des cieux

j’ai rêvé...rêvé! »

(Ah, disinherited one

the ghost of smoke
rose up again
greater in defeat

who reaches out
his pure hand
to the skies

I have dreamed...dreamed...)

“Here he is, here he is
back from Hell...
...the ghost whose heart
still bleeds with love.”

Pleurez...pleurer!
Le ciel est vide!
(Cry...cry!
Heaven is empty!)

And so
leading us
astray

vanishing from
his work

forever lucid

he takes
pleasure

in disappearing
from himself

in this
his waking
dream

lost between

the Gates of Tears

the gates of sleep

of horn
& ivory

and their
infinite horizons

the sanity
of madness.

Ah, la grande
Peut-être

...de omni
re scibili et
quibusdam
aliis.

(Ah, the great
Perchance

of all things
that can be

known

& even of
some others”)

Ah, hélas
le doux Gérard

M. Personne
(Mr. No one
& every one)

always writing
in your broken tour

JE SUIS L’AUTRE
JE SUIS L’AUTRE
(I AM THE OTHER)

You stare
out at me
from that daguerreotype

lost & defiant
in the camera’s gaze

Tu...le ténébruex...
...l’inconsolé...
ton Coeur desolé

constellé
dans ma tête

...est-ce toi
que
je sens
en moi-même?

(You...the man of gloom
the unconsoled

your desolate heart

constellated
in my head

Is this you
I feel within
my self?) .

Knowing the night
will be so black
& white

I wait up for you

Eh, quoi…dans
cette chamber bleue
je bois
Lachryma Christi.

(And so
in this blue room
I drink
The tears of Christ) .

I wait up for you

...’til dawn.

i'm just the one that says words that all sound like blah blah blah... i don't mind... i sometimes ease into a swagger and tickle avalanches into sounding like nursery: blah blah black sheep... i have to belong somewhere... even if my love is a communist leftism of the missing forearm, i still have to be an aware plantagenet gardener missing my normandy and my aquitaine... (tulip and jasmine respectively).*

where man speaks, there
lies the gods' onomatopoeia
akin to creativity
the plank of wood, the burning
coal in amber,
the twinkle toes of nursery rhyme
acquiring stars,
there too the shuffling bud of keratin
bundled to suitor the execution
of the banged uvula in
spare skull named metal for cranium
and brains;
ah multiplicity of tongues for a brain,
and no multiplicity of brains for a tongue...
let the one-eyed speak... i feel
i write with an avalanche cherub
swinging my gravity to the east of my central left...
let the tongue speak...
love said: love's not there!
faith said: god's not there!
existentialism said: "i'm" ~not "there,"
i.e. i wasn't
there... mind if i am?
mind my politics *******, i mind you
politicising while i sing my big lebowski soprano:
the elitist sure care for the palette of the caterpillar tongue...
and they care more if the fun is done free...
there's a messiah among
them thus... free ****?! we got them scolded...
butterflies are awry and suo gan beatified:
iron heated burning the skin load of cover...
we'll drive these ******* out till next november...
and next november we'll have the boxing match
before boxing day...
then we'll ku klux **** the turkey into
the burning cross and wait for the jew...
if the jew don't come we'll burn the cross anyway....
and say our messiah was a nigerian with
appropriation from lady madonna the pop **** of
15min ****** warhol...
then, should we feed being displeased,
we will gather the wood bearers
and ignite the ****** wood on affirmative spin
initiatives for politicisation of non-political affirmatives...
lest they come... party-to-the-last-one-hooded-one,
we'll wave the confederate flag like a 12" **** of a ****** hanging
to displease us...
frankly my dear... i give a ****...
all those cosmopolitan one-night-stands
that gave my marriage a hats' off trombone,
i was there, when
the treaty was sound and written down -
here i return to the vulture of culture in reprimand of tastes,
here i return to eagle eyes and hyena fangs,
here i return with the mole-sight or the arching stalinist
kissing the shovel...
here i re-enter with the prickly detail of eyesight external
of the hedgehog giving me guidance / giving me vectors to
spike and incisor the plum that missed the bruised eye /
here i re-enter with the skin-headed vultures of
sunken dystopia lived in a state of atlantis
below the coaled mark of signature
in watershed hours of exempt moralism testified
as a truancy - here the skinhead vulture
heeded prior to the lion's feast.

girl number 1
did the mistake of manifesting
all the love that she can imagine
and look where you are now
looking for it like a ******
treating treasure like a quick fix

girl number 2
was so pretty that she'd charm zeus himself
well, that's not really special
zeus came
and ruined it for everyone

now you're a cow

boy number 1
was so careless
he let locusts into his house
and his dear wife ran screaming
into another house
full of frogs

boy number 2
spent all his money
buying everything that could make him
into a top class superstar
now he's broke
and a buddhist
and somehow famous

boy number 3
had cursed hair that would **** him
if it was cut
he married a coiffeur in aquitaine
and shaved his beard after the divorce

cat number 1
pushed a beer bottle off the windowsill
GET OFF THE ******* SHELF, TACO
ok, he's licking my foot

poet number 1
drank gin after his cat
spilled his beer all over the basil plants
you can tell by how much
more stupid he progresses the thing
look, it was supposed to be a love poem from the start!

i understand: it takes time...
it probably takes so much time (in fact)
that the time needed
has to be allocated
to a post-mortem...

with regard to what?
readership!
one example is nibbling at
30-thousand views...

30-thousand...
i'll use cricket before football...
the full capacity at Lord's
stands at 28-thousand...
i passed that by eager
readers alone...
i didn't have to utilise
a stage and perform all
regurgitating nervousness upon
it... spill my guts...

no, i'm still strapped high-up
in my "ivory tower"...
it helps to inquire into
what it is the hell i have
"accomplished"...

it takes time, though...
i would sacrifice everything to not feel
this immediacy of "passing"...
of leaving something readily
available for scrutiny: for audience...
me and making a video...
not enough wine
for what i'd want to entertain with:
no exasperated staging of
ooh: ah... etc.

         there's never ever enough wine
for what's absolutely necessary...
but what has to be surrendered to is
this measure of dimensions...
a single poo'em of mine
managed to attract an audience
that... if ever the Lord's cricket
stadium could fill...
then England would have to be
guaranteed to win the Ashes...

ashes? some idiosyncratic tournament
that only matters on these isles...

it takes time though:
i appreciate the fact that i can leave
something freshly
archaeological...

    
let's brush this notation
under the carpet...  /ˌɑːkɪəˈlɒdʒɪk(ə)l/

it simply... quite simply doesn't work
on a bilingual...

it truly takes time:
of which i know so much
of so much i know so little but also know
that space can sometimes diverge from
time...
time can diverge from purpose
when the purpose of 5minutes is
to boil a runny yoke egg in a shell...

lately i transcended the bully
of a poached egg: perfecting it...
but having to sorrow myself
over overdoing the soft yoke
egg in a shell: prim-ready to be
poked at / dipped into by
toasted bread slithers of
"soldiers"...

i distrust words that gravite
toward grand events
of which they are not part of...
even if Homer was a cook
in the Trojan...
he evidently wasn't going
to be either Achilles or Ulises...
spare a thought:
if i were to go back in time
would i go back as a "plagiarist"
writing Shakespeare before
shaking-the-pear was...

    well: i i left behind something
from this time,
i'd probably leave much more
than a wince than what
some original arrived at
having it kept thus...
against what's kept
and can't be "invigorated" or denounced...
claustrophobic i
having to weave around this...

it is raining
and i'm only happy because that's
not important and because
i'm listening to Beethoven's
ode to joy on my earphones
and there's no gramophone
no opera house to usher
in an addition of volume...

egregious: no alternatively wiping my
own ***:
etymologically... egregious...
best in deutsche: for comparisons...
ungeheuerlich -

yes.. the usually assorted "oops"...
because that's how best to invest
in "looking back"
at structures such as words:
one minute an atom...
a word a brick...
then fudge or custard...
of spinach-spew...

octopus fiddly.. fickle and
morose: which could be a colour
code - associated with maroon...
or...
claret...
which is less diarrhoea onomatopoeia
than: any: syllable:
scrutiny...

or excess vowels with, borrowed,
ancient Pompeii and mt. Vizu-Visu...

it takes time and sometimes
it doesn't... luckily for me i'm banging on
prospect for: when i'm... ash...
god and no god...
dog to the leash...
cat held by a whisker's get-funny... va!

something terrible might happen
should very little be written...
i exact conscience (at idea: no
practice involving moral dichotomies:
if such could be allowed
to exist)...
on a small matter of:
purpose without perpetuation...

solo project scrutiny...
   Lenin i suppose was no *******
Mongol...
            Tartar... or Uzbekh:
                  heaving mother superior
and... the nibble of the Caucaus...
loot Siberia i still say...
even if salt is elemental in what's
required for food to transcend mere
animal...
if the sub-continent of India
was not sourcing gold etc.
then it had the spices...
blue indian spices
the mile up the skyline of Doha
or Dubai couldn't conjure...
for time and extending into...

              the crest...
"they" kept them counting teeth
and pearls and praise for
their advanced cuisine...
not much can be said
about the raw dough of the Cherokee...
can it?
it would it must be necessarily
allowed or ****-faced forced into
a cook...

they survived basing their strategy on
their cooking...
perhaps the whole Hindu
reincarnation dog-in-a-kennel worked
but i'm pretty sure
fenugreek and cardamom and
that plethora of spices worked more
miracles
around a broken elbow than...
Tibetan raw dough surprises...

lick this spoon, ******, Xi;
being dragged into the salt mines
an echo of.... EL-EVEN!
EL-EVEN!
              
         -  i can't find enough i what's enough
to be "trusted" / yielded
of an exasperation tactic
at best made summary within the confines
of a "haiku":

the wine is drunk... raw...
like a pepper or an onion might be
eaten.. raw...
no spices are added...
there's so much less of what's allowed
a breath and a living that might
gravitate toward a wage...

- toward the fore of death's grinding
grip... knuckle-counting
a clench that's a pear of a fist: too...
i heave a breaking of the tooth:
to craze for the marrow of bone(s)...
words to instruct:

stare widzi... mi... sie...

           contrasting contractions of:
pospolite anglo-saskie...
  bed the widow...
call her the ****** of Aquitaine...
call "her" otherwise
the nibble and tonsure sheath...
upon the altar
of the tongue the uvula
und bell...
ripe bleu tender meat:

warm ***** and well-done
doubly-butchered beef...
Wittgenstein & tautology vs.
the thesaurus...
red wine: for getting drunk: purpose
solved... raw carrots for
fluorescent teeth: for teeth that apparently
might glow with a tinge
of lavender in the dork-poise of:
exfoliation of schatten...

concentrated balsamic vinegar...
allowed a "hightening"
with a dash of:             dzius: juice:
               herbivore diet: peel me
a grape like than mythological blonde
jazz shinger...
tells you to: whip(ping) cream readied...

something about linear B:
like it might be cryptic and no one knows:
true:
few have, interest in this...
falling asleep to christopher young's
hellraiser soundtrack...

yes... so much effort for the otherwise
blaise
"omelette" /  shrivel of a floral bouquet
of a worth of ****...
like it might shrivel and god-forbid
a karma sutra excavation
of ***** envy... in reverse:
coalmining ****** giggle...
  
   she 'as a trout's worth of a length
& elbow... still she's screaming
******* und... creaming softest juice
parody pairing... with a poaching
of pears...

for the dog that's allowed to befriend
a leash...
a cat's must: concerning a pillow...
a grain of a mother's mother...
grand as prefect...
for no purpose other than...
making summary.

A couple of Pisces who by
coincidence were Gemini's
decided to get the gills and
go over to Finn's who was a
schizophrenic called Leo, his
wife was a Virgo from down
under or at least she said she
was, they both liked Aquarius
so they were preparing a move
to Aquitaine near Bordeaux
because they found Mallow
way too wet, hence an anomaly.