what do you call a spider without a spiderweb?
hardly a beef eating tarantula,
came the spider from his web
and scuttled along the pave- like
a missing shoe in a tsunami of
Oxford St. shoppers,
alternatively (like) a crack-******* addict
i happened to observe, with
a lightbulb in a red phone box
with me standing in it eyeing him
before the hyena dealers buchered
his *** for copper?
5am London is a twilight zone...
but hell, the tarantula lost
the ability to be arcitecturally
sound, dropped to the floor like
the ape off a tree with a pulsating
lilac mushroom...
and that psychedelic enzyme
theory of the fungus is...
wait for it... another way to sieve
through what has the San Francisco
stamp of approval for a Saturday
night in...
drinking beer and laughing
at your own jokes in a post-communist
****-show of a "democratised"
society... well... isn't, exactly to everyone's
taste...
'cos that: bang bang Nancy riding
horses made of sticks into Santa Fe...
went by like: woosh!
watcha know, Texans not too
lady-bi titillating **** rhetoric...
and in other news...
that chubby moon-key worth of
every subsequent Monday dropped
from a tree, with a tarantula kippah...
if the fungus took a free ride
so did the ****** spider,
who... had the gift of prophesisng
its future as, cushty,
conspired with the fungus...
'hell, this monkey will someday
build lavish aquariums for us,
feed us... pet us...'
hence the beef-eating venture...
and the missing spiderweb production
missing like footprints on a beach...
can't tell you that I don't see
a similarity, but there's a vital
bit missing...
no, because you don't exactly sit
around drinking beer waiting for something
like this...
it just drops out of nowhere
and your hands start moving out of their
own will, idle only a minute prior..
hardly a sort of conversation you might
have, drinking in a bar,
with someone, other than...
at this point even your own shadow would
run away and hide in a shadow of a tree,
forge peek-ah-boo, ******'s way gone,
and yes, only second beer in...
a blocked toilet that began with
a translation of English
soap operas of 40 years...
opery mydlane...
mydło = soap...
yes yes, sure, Finnegans Wake
"is": translatable...
a little bit of bilingualism doesn't
hurt...
unless it comes from monolingual
bureaucrats who deem it a:
split-eddie...
heart on my heart,
I've sat with dangerous psychopaths
doing an arithmetic exam,
while learning a lesson in empathy
at a St. John's Cross course for
first aiders...
one even laughed about bashing his
head against a wall,
and running naked with a sword
into the street...
but we had a laugh:
I started to think whar prison must be
like, esp. with the Imams...
soap operas though...
elsewhere they're known as
tele-novellas...
all in all...
this is just shy from my usual escapade...
into the zamarki / technicalities
of language,
notably in translation,
but notably in words that never made
it into the rigid rubric of ideology...
only recently i wrote something and
stashed it into a draft compartment...
niche intrest...
if i could counter the cartesian
res cogitans with res vanus...
surely I could counter Heidegger's
dasein with... daseit...
a tiny diffrence...
the poem remains abandoned like
a public grotto for grafitti,
waiting less for a nurse to heal it,
but for a squatter to move into
the abandoned space,
and become like a tarantula
trying to remember how it was
to weave, a titanium silk thread into
snowflake lace...
if only to find the squatter
to occupy
the scribble I might dare to call poem
that possesses all the qualities
of an abandoned house...
and like a doormouse:
not a peep-squeak out of me in
any fathomable elaboration of due
narrative,
when the difference is based upon
alternating the meditation invested
in daseiN prior, and now... ha ha...
daseiT...
i'm sure heidegger had
in mind 's (ist) within the da-sein compound,
as much as isn't (ist nicht)...
given there's the "talk" of time,
I subscribe to the being and form of time,
rather than to being and formlessness of nothing
(which, becomes non-being
and the form of nothingness)...
already a meditative language ensues,
much akin to my current
reading material...
dropping ashes on the buddha:
the teachings of Zen master seung sahn
by stephen mitchell (grove / atlantic Inc.)...
i'm sure I'll find a squatter
who will enter this abandoned house
of a "poem",
and elaborate on,
any inconveniences,
notably the missing conventionality
of: a poem is not a poem
without a rhyme...
yeah yeah...
and those poems that aim to
be "songs"...
seriously, Shakespeare?
Robbie Burns, zee baßtard,
has 'em singing ****** numb-skulled
silly, every Hogmanay and even
by the Thames, each year...
at precisely, circa, mid-night...
even if quoted a million
times, a millionth celt and 'glican will
know a one more
d'moor...
tip of tear
having exhaled a line from auld lang syne.
