it’s saturday night and it’s that time of the week
when all the days disappear into diapers of new births squatting
with umbilical chord necklaces,
i open horace’s book, maxim something then close it:
‘too pedantic,’ i think then say it:
pictoribus atque poetis quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas,
which means i’m living in england when prog-rock was heaven sent -
where did the englishman disappear to, the 1960’s?!
then comes glasgow with bukowski (i found
him there with ivan karamazov) and i like the fact
that i’m drinking whiskey at 3am
with the neighbour’s kids watching from across the patches of green
while i: drum with my fingers against the collar bone,
weep over singing in german, wear sunglasses to dim the night further.
you know, many lucifers came with the crucifixion of words:
hitler, stalin, mao... jesus (the jews really took the golden calf
seriously now, although it’s pinned up and
it’s very diabolical to say the least - well d'uh...
torture for iconoclastic reaping of the knees to bend) -
but few satans - who came with the motto: the silent waters
nibble at the shoreline.
my grandmother said that one, all credit to her,
so about me and the lamentation of singing in german,
a little bit of enlightened thinking: brehta - which in silesian polish
means... he’s laughing... very close to schprehta - he’s talking in a foreign language -
good for commerce.
then i forget the strain and feverishness of lying in bed listening
to the clock tick tick tick...
i stand up and undress myself from the monkey suit worried
about tigers and mammoths and fleas...
i stand up, plug in to the ploughing of sounds, smoke a cigarette,
have a drink... and play with the kids across two garden’s worth of length
pretending to be the madman.