the most informal
and disorganized of clubs -
the ambulators!

there is much to remind yourself
of other's dazed concepts
like coming to terms
with your own madness;

The Smiths
    and this cigarette
reading Life Alone
     by R. de Ungria smashing
my head blood sprawling
   across the page
blasting in my ear a fecund dark.

what am i to do

  with a hand,
           the spindrift by the sea
  blowing against the windows,
     with a thigh,
   this palpable quietude

all mornings arrive
     with a hatful of shadows
vulgarly obtrusive
    
with the night,
        a den of thieves.

     Caligula rearing the ******
to Nero, and I to myself
     in front of the mirror
still
       clawed by the same
beast maimed
     behind the bush.

Strange! Never noticed it before
distance from bed to door
in footsteps one per word
paced from sole to soul
"It is over for good."
Each a precise dagger throw
expertly tossed in the dark
piercing deep hitting the mark.

I  live on the mountain
Below the silver mist
In the valley, full of magic
Where the sun has rarely kissed

I am called a smudger
I live on what's left behind
I have been here near forever
I'm the last one of my kind

Below the mountain major
Lives a dragon, fierce and bold
Sleeping now, and dreaming
Of it's hoard of stolen gold

Eleventy years plus twenty
I have been here on this earth
Cleaning up the dragons droppings
It's how I justify my worth

The dragon's ruled this mountain
For a thousand thousand years
The silver river that flows through it
Is full of snow melt and of tears

Once a generation
Someone comes from down below
Gets the villagers all riled
Says "The dragon has to go"

They go and fight the dragon
Try to take his hoard of gold
And that is why, it's me the smudger
Who knows how the story must be told

The fighter leaves the village
Full of gusto and incensed
Saying "justice for the village"
or close to that....condensed

The dragon then awakens
Flys around and burns the town
Leaving nothing left but ashes
everything gone or burned down

Now, I, your local smudger
Cleans up the dead and done
It's a profitable existence
Since I am the only one

The dragon knows there's nothing
Much more of value to behold
The villagers were poor folk
Owning neither jewels or gold

I've cleaned up more destruction
Caused by villagers who go
On up to face the dragon
And get killed with just one blow

Now, I make candles with their bodies
I use their skin and body fat
I weave the hair not melted
And I make a nice new front hall mat

The bones I grind and scatter
On the mountain in the trees
It helps the ferns all grow strong
And keeps the trees free from disease

What little money I find
I leave half by the dragons den
Over time I have left there
Money from five thousand men

I've swords I sell at auction
When I travel, but that's rare
There is really nothing for me
That's not near the dragons lair

It's a relationship existing
On destruction and of greed
The dragon burns the village
And I get the things I need

They rebuild and they recover
And a generation may pass by
When once again some young, strong fighter
Wakes the dragon, makes him fly

I guess we need each other
That's the way it's always been
I'm the smudger on the mountain
I'm the one who's never seen

in another dimension,
it's your birthday.

young things are leaving
the party through our legs.
soon, no one is left but us,
and in the dim light of the staircase
i am giving you something tangible.

in this dimension, you're asleep---
and i love you, wherever you are without me.