My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.

Your collar bell jingles
And all the other felines
Look at you as though
You are a Queen
You smile and shake your head
The collar bell jingles louder
The sequins on the collar sparkle
The Lady Feline smiles deeply
I put a compact mirror in front
Of her face the other day
(Mind you, cats usually
Don't like looking at themselves in mirrors)
And the Lady Feline stared at herself
For long periods of time
Sometimes blinking
Sometimes squinting
Always smiling though
Such adorable vanity
And her collar bell jingles
As if she's trying to attract
All the male felines
And make them love her

*~Marian~

I

Wonderlandia, torn off the submerged lung
of a daydream diary.                   Reoccurs
as she does with silver eyes, weary Alice
during tea time--bullets burning past her
                                     like flowing nations.
Everyday similar tsunamis fund
                                     the lack of 20/20.
Nose to tail--the surge of angry engines
splits the ends of her blonde strands.
    Each one the last witness to maddening hospitality
--utopia never sweats as it talks and withers.
Amnesia blots,
new aspirin machines
vaporize apples and ***
on the other end of spectrum,
                                                     trans-positional labels--

Guillotine gargling teapots
       have no patience
         to the bushes of Olympus opiates
                                      bound in yellow barrier tape,
                     five o' clock traffic
               welcomes her back to what we are facing.


II


Dreary weather of late fall                       and her beautiful,
              powdered face

great mouth of atomic hell,
         when she speaks--80,000 deficiencies boil alive
                                                   --Trinity's teething test
                                                           on the tired bones
                                                   of a story-teller's raspy cards--

"None the wiser," she speaks,
                                "during the transition of ships
                   vermin turn into krakens culturing
                               on the surface of a raindrop.
    Heroes, villains, animals frozen together
                 after now eating for four days.
     The transition of one genocide
                                                        ­  to the other,
                the delineation of cat-and-mouse,
   mingle too long
   with the dead
   and its necrophilia."

                 Blind Alice wanders off the highway,
leaves her brewed cup of steamy static
on top of the unimportant saucer, sticks pins in her *******,
             and enjoys the sound of Cleopatra
             rolling over in reincarnation.


III

      Dear Alice smells
sunbathing, studded tangerines
                      assimilating liquor within the vast,
       empty, glowing nausea that is--
                        the warm germ

Oil                                    and                 ­          water
               rippled glass too silly for skulls
              made humid by distant salt water,

blood, acid, enzymes,
cheating probability
that runners with drunk kids
have blood between their toes.
                                                      Death­ to the distillation within
                                                    --the chronic diamond too polished
                                                       in *** to see the roses in her *****
    She curses these wood songs,
             heritage patriots with the pelts of wild lions
             with antlers over their heads,
                                                  faces advertising war paint
                                                applied by gargoyle hands
                    --sad memoirs always drink people
                                                  that use God as a cookie jar.


IV


  Gorgeous names
  on graffiti institutions give her a home
                                                         a market
                                                         a nickname
           still                  Alice only accepts Alice.

Grace periods where she misses tyranny
                  rise and fall like endorsed breathing.
    Now Alice feels her dress fall off,
                                  extinct years message future occupancy
                                  about what to wear.
New era, this era, past eras plead guilty
in a      clinic museum
             of forcing demons
              down the medical
              throats
of first graders. Court adjourns at 9:01 PM, Saturday

             The populus can sleep now,
                          but not her.
                 No one gave her clothes
                 to cover up the drained monochrome.


V

Instead she celebrates her flesh,
                                        the broken glass,
   and quakes and leads off to expose
           others to its potential vital prosperity.

         Instead
                     headlines like bumper cars read
                     about the beheading of weeks,
                     failing rescue missions,
                     and debates on teenage tolerance.

Nicotine intoxication points Alice
to over-extended memories--wards of music
sequenced to point out the extinction of marble tigers.
                        Only 550 expected to understand
                         tethered to millions able to survive.

  Flood waters look at moral standards, a mean hurricane
                                   that collapses the death toll
     all patented 50 states
     have a dating service
     and huff paint as a way
                              to pray to art.
                                                      Double­-canvas faces
                                                      dyed in pixel     hope
                                                       that the media levees hold,
             but volunteer to herd sheep into poppy seed fields.
                                            She refuses to stay,
                    to watch the long night
                    of castration on men with mud-covered ankles.
                                      Television says eunuchs want
                                       to be prodigal's children,
                                       everyone wants to come back home
                                       to mom and dad, safe zones, away
                                       from themselves.
                                                     ­                 It says our ancestors want
                                                            ­          this for all of us. They worked
                                                          ­            so hard to tie up the hair
                                                            ­          out of Aphrodite's face.

                                     They treasure the silver eyes of Alice,
                                          but call them blue,
                                                  they issue her high cholesterol
                                          but pump sweet ****** into he stomach,
                                                  they tell her to put down the drill,
                                            so she can finish their orchestra--

her lightning
    is
     a
  string
     of
  souls



VI


     She decides to depart Sunday,
to discover the ordinary beginning,
                        painting WHY? on its delirium.
re-arrangeable viewers become
                      inserted sounds under percussion and piano.

       Caging various important charts
                                          undetermined
   ­                           as finished attention.
                                                      ­              Three movements in flux
open end the people                     vacuuming
                            craftsmanship blocks
                   from                                dogs and zen.

                                                 The
                                 suspended letter               is happening in 1951
   drenched in existential white                                            spacing
        ­                                                   the viewer
                        from integrated architecture.

Down
the
bell is a structure called
"the quarantined wheelchair."
                               Dead ignorance changes pattern
                               after six movements of the second hand.
Alice speaks, "To you all, know
                                       that this is an un-dramatic situation.
          Everyday windows with the same
           participants have girls drinking
                                                     orange juice, activate fluid,
                    both exist as objects
                    and caught propaganda."

                                                   ­                      Six tunnel
                                                          ­      audiences are watching
                                                        ­        drown in the plastic silk
   her                                                       built by the motorized collage
                                                         ­                                        spider.

          Alice, a kinetic mannequin pop star
                        is limp in the glass point.
             Rhythmic flux is objectified war torture
                         censored in fitness magazines
by simple toilet literature.

                                        Six tunnels worth of eyes
                                 latch to the *******
                                           as a way to bury **** protesting.
                                  A coat of pepper spray
                                   works in front of the exhibition.
This stage is shaded by moans.


VII


      Alice the female, has a door-to-door friend
                                                          ­    over the sea
of the cathedral's ceiling               who died of disemboweled
pulchritude             at the mutilated nuclear other-place.
                     Her friend was a synthesized example
                     of staged catastrophes. Her friend is her, silver-eyed
                                                     ­                                             Alice.

            ­                     She performs herself and herself
                                 but they are played by polished, scored poets.

Everyone of them incorporates the events
                                 of a dancing gunshot. Everything rests
                                                           ­ at an intermission

               but after fifty minutes of pondering,
          the lost audience remembers
         her name is Alice.
                   So it comes back on with a shower of sweat
                  and this clear
                                  substance
               ­                                 called
                         ­                              patience.
       This composing, peering vulnerability
                        psychologically destroys the flux tension
              like analog genocidal dictators.
                                   Ultimately this is dream liquor

     commentating war to the war tree
      using trauma and chairs as humor.



VIII


               Patience on the water level lives translucent
                                            on networks that brand flesh
                                            with displaced identity.
Alice convinces us all that pickled ***
                                                             ­               takes eight years
                     to ****** and we accuse it
                                         of being fake. Afterwards, her character dies
in confident silence.


IX


     Not majestic, but she does cough
                  to mock the earth.
        The seeds of Alice are ripe,
                        harvested early, and now her children come out and dine
        like speaking tongues on gibberish.
                          The room is fat with hair

and kindness. Feeble, mundane hands chew on each other,
                                                         feet stand proud.
We even call her Alice or "the beautiful *******,
                                             a black cloud feasting
                                             in orange."
                       Everyone feasts on the nectar
                                                         she has, but never the rye
which makes her round. Juice is squeaking and her children laugh
                         as in competition.

     It's a distinguishable game as the mixed
                                                           ­      couple up front
              begin to play whistles as
                                         everyone eats
                   the pride of the silver-eyed Alice's children.


X

                                                ­ The children's souls
                                                       bow and say
                                           "Thank you for barely growing."
                                                   and dissipate after five minutes.

          "Curiouser                                   ­                                      and
           Curiouser"                                                       ­                   they
           say                                                              ­                        as
           they                                                             ­                       leave
           this                                                             ­                         homage.
                  The decimal backbone
                     of each of sweet Alice's
                                   blonde strands
                   divorced by the gust/ of a green light's/ allowance.


XI Epilogue*


  The day crawls away
                   a vigilant pest
     of the nocturnal project
                   --suns beam down still, like
                  stomachs of grinning felines
                           at Valentine's day.

toxic-dyed fingers
                        soldered
to bodies pittering across rainy streets

--legionnaires with hearts on stones
                         we are waiting for her orders,

     thistled-teeth clench,
                                         but did she
                                          actually
          ­                                ever come?

Spent the last 3 nights with 4 girls,
I’m tired no spare tire I’ll spare you the details,
riding ***** in the fast lane,
trying to drive faster than the Evils,
didn’t even know the girls nor did I protect myself,
so I hope I don’t get a virus like an email,
on E she’ll flood like a sea swell,
caught in the rush blinded by the light so I don’t see well,

meanwhile,

while we’re free as a dolphin or a bird,
high in a hive liking life like where the bees dwell,
they as in the ones that hate are outta water,
like a fish or better yet like a beached whale,

well,
if you’ve got stories pray tell,
and if you don’t then please step aside,
and let a real Story teller tell the tales,

see I go through it do you don’t have to do it,
all in all the time see I saw my chance and I took it,
because life is a one way street there’s no rewind or repeat,
so take every opportunity because you never want to have to say you blew it,

I really do it,

I worldwide travel with the girls I gather,
life’s a trip that’s why we stay fly,
head in the clouds feet on the ground,
if you want to find my you can check Cloud 9,

doing fine,
with some fine felines,
at kitty corner with a *****,
intoxicated from their provocative nature no need for wine,

and don’t get me wrong,
that’s kitty with two T’s not two D’s,
see I like my women fully developed,
I like a nice bush and a good pair of *******,

here kitty kitty,
I know I’m a dog but I won’t bite,
what I will do however,
is give you the ride of your life,

and that’s no lie,

and please don’t fight,
see I’m man enough to satisfy 4 at the same time,
while most men can’t even satisfy one,
at home with a limp **** and a wife that’s dissatisfied,

but hey cheer up maybe you should go the queer route,
because it’s obvious that you can’t please the women in your life,
with a physical addiction to ****** that that’ll help your ***** condition it’s sad bro,
see really men are just born with the skills to please we don’t even need to try,

that’s why I spent the last 3 nights with 4 girls,
I’m tired no spare tire I’ll spare you the details,
riding ***** in the fast lane,
trying to drive faster than the Evils,
didn’t even know the girls nor did I protect myself,
so I hope I don’t get a virus like an email,
on E she’ll flood like a sea swell,
caught in the rush blinded by the light so I don’t see well,

and that’s fine because these Divine Felines support me well,
and in return I support them too,
I’ve got their back 100%,
anything they want I’m willing to do,

they are my reason for being,
they are the breath in my lungs,
they are the motivation to keep proceeding,
to succeed in getting things done,

so when they call I come,
and when they’re on they come,
and they help each other out too,
because that’s half the fun,

fck,

almost feels better when I feel the pleasure,
of two women coming together at the same time,
than when I come myself I mean I’m over that,
I’d rather hold a cobra cat’s back as she has an ******* attack up her spine,

completely addicted to the feeling we get when,
we’re all coming in unison moving in tune as one,
it’s really the only reason I live I love every part of it,
everything else is just moments that happen to and from,

seriously,
everything else other than sensuality with me **** C’s,
is just external experiences that happen,
during all that time that is in between,

every meal every movie every drive every hike,
is just the decoration around the core of my life,
see the core of my life is the women I love,
which explains why I was with 4 women in 3 nights,

and just to be clear they were all together,
friends that wanted to share me and have no other man,
see all those fantasies that other guys have,
well that’s my real life so blessed that people are like “****”,

“How do you do it?”,
well I start with the truth then move with the music,
you either have it or you don’t and I’m a Natural Born Lover,
I’ve been blessed with these gifts from God and I use this,
to caress every princess that’s in distress from not being pleasured,
see I’ve realized that most of the men out there are stupid and useless,
their sensual sentiments have been censored they don’t even know how to enter,
students without a mentor detectives without any leads in other words they’re clues,

while I’ve realized the Divine Nature of the Divine Feline,
and how to balance extremes,
see there’s a fine line between Love & Hate,
which is why most women want to both moan and scream,

there’s a fine line between treating a girl like a ****,
and treating a girl like a queen,
because a lot of women like to be both in control and controlled,
you know what I mean,

they want to make love sometimes,
and other times they want to ****,
they want you to be gentle with them one day,
and then the next they’ll want you to be rough,

there’s almost a form of mental telepathy,
to fully be able to communicate in a way that’s correct,
but above all else please remember one thing,
before anything else there must be respect,

so have respect for every women in your life,
and the rest will likely naturally follow,
and then one day maybe you two,
can have 4 women together in one night and feel like you’re Apollo,

spent the last 3 nights with 4 girls,
I’m tired no spare tire I’ll spare you the details,
riding ***** in the fast lane,
trying to drive faster than the Evils,
didn’t even know the girls nor did I protect myself,
so I hope I don’t get a virus like an email,
on E she’ll flood like a sea swell,
caught in the rush blinded by the light so I don’t see well…

∆ LaLux ∆

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Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets
as they try to hide from the two-legged monsters,
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

Now, these cats are innocent beings, but the world still sees
these rulers of the night as demons, the haunters.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets

to pray for poor Lulu, once a gentle and upbeat
stray, now nothing more than a beaten piece of meat, a goner.
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

These two-legged fiends thirst for the warmth of blood, to defeat
the plague of evil omens these cuddly harlots seem to foster.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets

sick and mangled from the Devil’s calling group, two-legged deceit,
what was thought to be love was in truth, an imposter.
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

A fluffy body hung from the balcony by a copper cable marks the ritual complete, the black tufts of fur serve as a reward to those monsters.
Black and bruised cats are collecting in the streets,
Onto the frigid ground these felines lay so sweet.

A friend of mine was attacked by
her homicidal cat.
Apparently,
cats are quite toxic.
They are also really evil,
in a naturally stupid way.
Maybe it's about time we
seriously considered them
parasites.
Practically venomous.
This I guess is half poem,
and half cautionary tale.
Your furry friend is an *******.

Of all creatures that exist on earth,
I think the cat is the most fascinating.

We take them for granted
because they are so common.  
We don't give them a second glance.

It is said that pound for pound
Cats are the earth's supreme
predators. I agree with this.

The big cats are the most beautiful animals.
But I'm talking about house cats, now! :)

I am especially intrigued as to how
Felines can be sleeping and suddenly can
do extreme acrobatics.

This seems impossible and yet it's so.
A magic trick with no smoke, no mirrors nor
any explanation.

The cats who own me, are three.
Mocha, Peanut, Qweeny.
Mocha and Peanut are on my profile photo  

The cats who own me
Are indoors, strictly
But I have watched feral cats
Hunt things as big as a rabbit
Felines can take down prey
that are half their own body weight.
That is truly impressive.

However, cats can also be prey
And a large hawk or eagle
Can end their lives.
So while they prey upon rodents
They also make themselves
vulnerable to predation.

I find this predator/prey aspect
of their existence
To be fascinating.
Natures balancing act!
A great study for Evolutionionary
Genetics of felines.

More of a cat person than a dog person
Loving their velvet paws
And loving purring
Over the constant panting of dogs

Cats are the cleanest animals and
Just one more reason to love them.
I admire this quality of cleanliness.

Cats were worshipped in Egypt and
I feel it's a sacrament to care for cats
You are contributing to the Divine
in this simple way.

Purring is a blessing.
One cat who owns me,
Purrs all of the time.
She never stops.
She is in my top three
animals I have ever loved
In my entire life of
53 years.  

The cats that own me
Are Beautiful.
They are Burmese, Siamese
and finally Tonkinese.

They are obviously very important
And one if the best things
In my life. That is why I'm writing
About them.

They are not only important
But also paramount.

I often think, that if my husband
Would allow it, that Id like 10 cats.
Id like to be a crazy old cat lady
Dressed in a faded purple dress,
With sacred beings prancing their way
Across my living room!

They sooth me, in a way that
Humans cannot & in a way dogs cannot.

I never cease to be amazed
By the qualities these cats imbue

I feel fortunate that these
Three cats have adopted me

I feel a sense of love from them,
from some very wise beings.

I love them, too.

They are now all senior cats
I won't have them forever.
I am facing the fact that humans
simply live longer than critters.
The number of animals I've lost
In my life is truly staggering.
Each death as painful as the one before.

On the other hand, one of my
cats lived to 22 an I hope the
current kitties will be so lucky.
I can only do my best to care for them.

You have to love fearlessly
As if you've never lost.
I will suffer when they die
But I do not hold back my love
for them.
You have to be courageous to
Love sometimes.

You have to face impermanence
By losing your loved ones
And in this way
The three cats that own me
Teach me valuable
Lessons of life.

A huge lesson is not to cling
Another is to accept death.

What else can I do but appreciate their love
And love them in return.

I never take them for granted.
I am always appreciative
Toward these blessings in my life.

They are both Holy and Divine.
And also, most revered spiritual teachers

~Arianna Darshani

for a heart's worth of stone,
will the mind
hardly succumb to
the sponge...
             easily ingested,
yet hardly
          perforated
to give off a worth
of a translation...

                         let alone,
        a chance to print less money,
and more,
postage stamps..
               my heart to no mind
belongs, even if it's the crucible
of my own...
                 the mind goes one way,
the heart, another,
    and by death,
in pristine inversion,
relocated to their former
bearing...

              the heart begins to speak
for the mind,
   and the mind:
"forgets" to speak for the heart...

   my worst "fear" of death,
is that...
   it will never be the akin justification
for taking repose,
   for sleeping...
how,
   somehow death will
                transcend sleep...
and i will be forced into...
        dignifying,
or undignifying dogmas,
based upon the whims from
a dream...
   conjuring...

                    i can stomach
a forever-slumber,
    when it comes to death...
but to have to put up
with...
           fears of dream
being realized?
             cats don't sleep
during the night,
they pretend to,
            you can pass one by,
and he or she is: "snoozing",
with eyes half-open...

                     peering at shadows
of shadows in the daft night,
then...
   also...
                  prying on
the eternal silence of man's
rested set of comforted body
to bid him and his fellow:
a good night...

             audacious, some will meow
akin to the sparrows come morn,
but between the 11pm and the 4pm
mark?
     the house falls silent...
a drunk shuffles...
     itching to tattoo his fingertips
with texture of the wallpaper...
a cat sleeps...

                    i can almost always,
find myself,
   ascribed to a haunting,
           like the atypical english
out-suburb house...
  a house, whereby the natives
care so much for a garden...
but then actually use it...

             glued to their "castle"...
bonsai felines...
ever notice, that they have
eyes, akin to reptiles?
       large cats have mammal
eyes..
   when their pupils constrict,
they are not akin
to their bonsai counterparts,
i.e. reptilian slits?

                   i sense there's a spy...
what was once a serpent,
became a bonsai tiger,
a cat...
    when these felines
are bound to rest
i almost alway find them suspect...

         pandemonium spies...
i never allow myself
to be comfortable in
the presence of a cat,
                spy of: beelzebub,
spie of moloch...
  and the whole milton litany
of names...

               i don't trust them,
they're mammals...
but they have reptilian eyes...
esp. when the pupil slits
appear...
   a normal mammal would
have the same shaped
     pupil dilation and constriction,
like a lion...
but little bonsai tiger over here?

            venus in furs...
reptile in fur...
             i think the dinosaurs did a sly
one on us, when we arrived
with the capacity to breed these
bonsais...
                
         you'll still find the cool kids,
"petting" / more or less: keeping
snakes, lizards, chamaleons,
      spiders...
        i honestly don't think cats
are that much different...
             were you ever fed a deception,
so good,
that you, "somehow",
began questioning the authenticity,
after many years of
convincing yourself it was "true"?

        a cat, a bonsai tiger,
is about as much mammal...
    as i'm a ******* cyborg right not...
it's a reptile, in a mammalian
disguise...
   a bonsai doesn't behave
like a mammal...
     not even a mammal...
that hasn't been domesticated...
esp. a mammal that was been
quasi-domesticated,
    for the worth of cow,
or pig...
             or horse...
                        sly little *******...

i'm suspicious of cats,
and the cats i "own" are suspicious
of me...
       they're nothing more
than a dinosaur remnant of a spine
and a brain in a pickle jar
of lost eye-lids (snakes)...
  with a taste for fashion,
furs, masochism...
                
           cats are deceptive...
looking at their eyes...
they're ******* reptiles!
                        that and the birds...
pseudo-mammals...
                reproducing via
the aid of the reptile egg...

         hell... sure... "it's all about
the bees and the birds"...
more like it being about
the cats and the birds...

    why else wouldn't a reptile fake
"being afraid" / or seek to find a mammalian
reply for: endearing?
  than expand their slit eyes...
into a fully dilated pupil?
           as a mammal...
my pupil either contracts
or expands... it's either
                                    o or O...
a cat's eye?
                        O or ()
    and that's still stating a "compliment"
with the () curvature of the slit...
       that's not how a mammal's
eye should behave...
   fur,
    and as much does for birds...
also with fur, but no female womb,
instead a plot of egg
                    and greedy omelette...

    sure sure, i could have owned
a snake, if a wanted,
    or a tarantula...
   but cats just freaked me out
to begin with...
   that whole fur bit of *******
is an act of subversion...

               as is the whole bird:
feed me a budgerigar clock...
   because the whole beak...
was never going to be akin
                                  to a horse's hoof...

cats, when they're faking it,
turn all O puerile with their pupils...
but then they revert back
into their reptile calculating
demure of the slit ()
                                pupils.

big cat,
                 elephant, dog,
the eye dynamic is either
from o to O or from O to o,
to conscript their allowance
for the traffic of light...
    once again...
      whatever categorical divisions
we have constructed
to process information?

               to me,
cats are the old fashioned
fabble of a hushed variant
of chimera.

Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

Contortionists, gypsies, and malevolent magicians
All twisting to a dance played by faceless musicians

A night in Tunisia or a place above the Siene
Where else but all in the shadows of dreams?

Enchanted, redolent wonder of festive illumination    
Her eyes absorbed, glimmering in the lush captivation

Enveloping, engulfing silk around our bodies
Days, nights measured by tragic commodities

Arpeggios, rippling across glistening string inventions
Bowing cellos; cellists bowing with audience permission

Masks, costumes, carnivals and the golden mirror
Cerulean dripping limbs that slither while near her

The alabaster piano played by a three-armed puppet
The statues turn and welcome us for a crumpet

Maria Callus sings Ave Maria backwards then stops
The statues and demons laugh while playing with props

“This requiem for the living, begins with a kiss”
The statues said in a tone of voice I could not resist.

“Our overture shall be a ******, a nail in the coffin; a death.
All while you swallow the nectar on your lover’s last breath.”


Needles protruded my head
And I watched as my love was torn
Limb from limb
While the jackals and ballroom guests
Fornicated on the spilled blood and guts
I cried and they cheered as the lights dimmed
For All I could see was the sight of them leave
Into the darkness.
But the noises were as loud as ever as hands
And digits groped my body.
Moaning voices and rhythmic thrusting
And tongues in my ear
And teeth gnawing on my neck
Pain felt, endured, experienced
Then
I was released into the middle of the scarlet draped room
When the phlegm of ****** fluids whipped into a dried crust

A sharp edge stabbed me in the back of the neck
Running along my back, through my spine, down my skin and ending in my ******.
Mechanical hands ripped apart my skin  
I slid out of my flesh like a serpentine ******.
I stood there
shaking from the excruciating, unfathomable pain
the grid and design of my muscular system bare and seen.  

From the pieces of my departed lover,
the master with the many mechanical hands
slathered the slips
and sleeves of her skin onto my own.

Needles and thread went to work.
The puppet master sewed.
The healing plasma
the drying blood
the encapsulating tears lubricated my whole

Once he was finished, I was dunked into a pool of clear gelatin.

For hours I soaked and became whole again.
Then I rose and I was dressed
the finest garments, from across the globe.
I sat once again at the table where the statues invited me.
The musicians, the magicians, the demons, gypsies, masks and serpents
Watched and gleamed
while I sipped my tea

I out spread my fingers.

Layers of skin and stitches

No more hair.
No more nails.
Not just a regular face
but one all shall remember.

I was born as one

Then made from many

In the imminence of zealous devils in my wake
Of the attrition I have forsake

Now as the curtain rose and the spider-silk strings hoisted me up on stage
The master showcased my story to all whoever wished to engage

“Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

I am Vincent Andromeda
Your Strangelove phenomena.”

Many people rip on me for my “not-so-great” luck with Women.
But, jokes on them.

I’ve had some ***** before.

Until I had to get rid of them after I discovered I was allergic to felines.

every single cat is autistic by nature,
they're rarely looking into the dajjal eye
of television or eye-to-eye,
scattering eyesight the feline scattered eyesight
darting;
they're creatures bound to the dream world,
more apparent there,
than necessarily lazy here to
sweat no tug of plough like horse
of harvest or war...
these lazy bonsai predators are here
for reasons that ridicule ownership of canines:
leash and long walks, constant friendship
and constant regurgitation of happiness
of the waggling tails... felines are no canines...
just ignore them and yourself be content.
oneirocritica (interpretation of dreams),
oneirocromancy: the divination the the sleeping body.

I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.

I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
***-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******,
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?

And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******.
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of *******;
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.

I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.

These days I long for
the times we drank for hours
getting dolled to the nines
in between shots and dance
moves. Weaving our way
in and around bodies
dark and in shadows,
prowling. We were the big
cats, the ones they keep
in cages for tourists to gawk at.
The ones they fling whole
carcasses towards, to be devoured.
Soul searching eyes and manes
longer than the Nile. Stopping
grown men in their paths with
a single glance. I dream of
the nights we could have talked
our way out of cop cars and into
furry handcuffs with a twist
of the tongue. We would twirl
boys around like tops, wrapped
in dorm room sheets. Winking
and taking them out in the morning
like black bags of trash, one after
the other. Blowing smoke out
our windows and giggling, our
own secret language. Setting fire
to our own bridges and dousing
the flames in tears and liqour.
We were the biggest game,
hunters being hunted, dying
to be laid out like skinned rugs
and ravaged like last meals.
In the end, like lazy zoo lions
we were left with nothing but
the shadows of the Queens
of the Jungle we used to be.
Licking our wounds
and cleaning our paws
in the sunlight as the world
goes on without us.