"...and Death to me subscribes--"



(sonnet #MMMMMMCMXX)


How fragile light draws shadows up to fence
Our passage to and fro, ne groundhog's scale
Of is't author'ty? as blue heavns avail
Long naked boughs where last Fall leaves' brown sense
Half shivers or just waits in dead suspense.
This eye of April whose bulbs know th'exhale
Is but a whisper of frore breath own bail
And, buried, shift now to the hours' intents.
If I had inked how gloaming 'gan to stir
As rosy blushes warmed the vacant blue
'Lone on the West ah, what?  I could not, fer
All that, yet wondered as I sifted through
The flour and leavning if dawn would be poor
Or sans a blot as lo, tis for that cue.

02Feb18a

There use to be  
                meaning to the word  LOVE
                                Now; Love's meaning
                                              is to use people
                                
                           Selfless is now;
                                     being more
                                                  selfish
                                            
                                        Once there used
                                                      to be a woman
                                                               who loved
                                                           ­            LOVE  

                                                         She got used
                                                            ­   to being Used
                                                                ­   & now LOVE is no longer
                                                                ­                          welcomed here
                                                                ­                               ANYMORE!

Vasili Kandinsky, Sally Rand & the Bauhaus
were way out ahead of their times,
the Beatles & Stones were retro then & avant-garde now---
**** is instantly retro;
not just any music is avant-garde but any naked woman
is no matter what she does or is currently doing,
Bettie Page & Marilyn Monroe,
Virginia Woolf even in their graves
Are ahead of their times;
Marquis de Sade & Masoch avant-garde;
Jean Genet retro---Blaze Starr avant-garde,
Lili St. Cyr modern & retro---Paul Klee avant-garde,
Marilyn Monroe both Modern & retro (A Gibson girl reborn---Elmer Batters a throwback w/ a camera---
To Diamond Jim Brady he & Lillian Russell were avant-garde---one day we will all be rich & naked,
dripping w/ jewels & connoisseurs)
Sol Lewitt retro; Judy O’Day modern,
To the DPRK, Kpop is avant-garde---
No one called William S. Burroughs a Modernist---
Not to his face anyway, nor Hunter S. Thompson
but the critics did call Thomas Wolfe a Modernist
& avant-garde---F. Scott Fitzgerald heralding a new age
that passed away w/ Zelda in the madhouse inferno
& Scott trying to write screenplays
but movies were retro by the 30s
& the avant-garde already history---
Modernism vanishing decades later w/ Basquiat
& Warhol & Schnabel & Fischl et al---
Martha Graham was Modern, Isadora  retro
all the way back to ancient Greece naked & barefoot---
Robots get smaller & put u out of a job,
yet so efficient fembots become a reality---
Putting women out of work in a world
where no one needs strippers---
living in a technological delusion w/ the illusion of religion
confusing their imploded minds---
The world will always need stripper retro,
modern, avant-garde & beyond
from the beginning to the end of all time,
in the Crazy Horse multiverse,
When no one needs prostitutes
only drugs will do---drugs & technology, global psychedelia,
Nationalism, racism & violence are all so retro;
Modernism has simply ceased to exist
& the avant-garde has yet to be---
Women would dance naked for drunken men---
Not anymore---now it’s fembots playing virtual games
w/ video ******
Toulouse Lautrec & Eugene O’Neill
were avant-garde but not modernists---
Dita Von Teese is postmodern as am I
& Lady Gaga & Bettie Page & Blaze Starr to this day---
Let she who is w/o sin cast the first stone
at the ghost of go-go---
No one ever complained
about an old-fashioned cooch show
except the girls that were in it
although they loved it & would do it again & again
well into their sixties, seventies, eighties, nineties---
No one complains about long forgotten stag films
left in boxes on basement floors
showing grandma w/ the neighbor
circa World War Two and into the 1950s---
No one complains about ****** harassment
unless they’ve been harassed---
No one complains about ****
except those that have been ***** & not always then---
No one complains about ******
except those that have been murdered---
No one complains about postmodern burlesque
Although the rule is ‘if anything moves, **** it’
& if any man reaches for his *****, arrest him---
The Modernist/postmodernist Marcel Duchamp’s
bride stripped bare by her bachelors even
gets no complaints from MOMA or  any other mother---
I can’t wear this mask anymore
& there’s nothing behind it---
If I kicked ur door in & shot ur mother dead
several times just to be sure
she was ******* deader than dead
& said I must have made a mistake, would that be cool w/ u, officer?
The Frankfurt School & Fassbinder & poststructuralism
are the heirs to Maria’s estates
from Frankenstein to Superman,
At the school of the Soviet fembot---
her Japanese mother is a witch who is not a stranger
to myths of night; eating off ***** plates on the floor---
Her name was Amelia then---
She’s a pig tonight---
I & the son are one
with the background radiation---
Getting people to help her
carry her ***-stained mattress
around campus is neither modern, retro & or avante-garde---
Its plain disgusting, help me carry my *** stains across campus
So you can see where my period bled & I said no---
(The ancestors of the the fembot are not strangers
She is named Emma tonight,
she is the pig tonight)

…mebbe not, cuz I’m not the only parched soul, apparently.


(sonnet # MMMMMMDCLXVI)


Of water, be it silver orbs which thence
Shine in dawn’s matin eye, dew resting, pale
Upon grass’ thicker carpets as the veil
Lifts oer night’s realms, the fluffy white whose sense
Of children jostling in sheer play fr’intents
Falls swiftly through grey’s mirky light t’avail
As snow ‘non blankets, or that which we hail
Where puddles shiver to soft footfalls,...whence?
Though we—our sins as scarlet—lie as twere
Sans help, how Thy salvation clothes us to
Effect, Thy people as the dew which fer
All that yet waits for none, and rain we knew
To cherish as Thy Word, what shall I stir
When boiling for tea all that speaks of You?

02Oct17a

I know you more than I thought. I was able to sit here and blend my thoughts into yours as if you were here, or as if we were the same person.  At this point, I could imagine your heart beating my heart, your bones moving under my skin, words lost under all instinct.  You are within me.