The Poetry Marathon

The philosophy of freedom fading as I am hasty,

my body contaminated,

my brain holding forgotten manuscripts.

You shouted terrible, measured things at the islands where the displacement of water meant something.

Demons drive on coffee, wine, gasoline with their sad dimensions of the theatre.

Sailing towards preoccupations of hopeful love as her boat lands in Greece

delivering sanctified saffron robes.

Our western cargo of debts slung in geometric stone patterns leaning to the left of art.

Golden

blue hued hypodermics reflected our poetic destiny.

Nevertheless;

words and comets and revolution and god and lingering lingers…

Driving the curved road we have confused service with orgasm.

The sea is deader than dying

stretched out

too everything for living…

i want to write a poem of all the vans and all their colors and all the places they saw.

i want to write a poem we can climb into as we relive the living, resurrect the theatre, sing revolution,

for the rest of my life…

Once we were slaves in the land of Egypt.

It hurts my eyes to look through a telescope as His reflection joins me in the mirror.

I feel sentimental over champagne, whispering until

1, 2, 3

In the morning.

The prison lets me keep my notes, my personal effects feel nostalgic.

Watching the guards I see how it is called madness.

I see how I have secured myself within my own nothingness same as walls.

We began painting the loft as you stated your reasons for not wanting to see the doctor.

I am patient as his sorrow feels the troubles he was served at breakfast.

Majesty but never madness,

mother,

your paint covers the smell of my sins…

All individuals, if remembered, will enter instantaneously into illumination.

Traverse the various worlds of existence.

The dreamer dies consciously as the guru gives instructions.

Hallucinate orgies, experience desire and disgust, float gently with the stream.

Plan a session to ask four Classically Hinduism possibilities-

the setting is your preparation for a psychedelic séance…

Remember my friend the three Bardos.

Remember three states of ego and their loss.

Remember clear lights of reality.

Remember hallucinations.

Remember on re-entry a new ego.

NOW WE WILL MEDITATE ON THE VOID:

all consciousness is part of my substance

which is

unceasing vacuous unborn

meditate

rest your mind in an uncreated state

pouring water unto water

assume the mental posture

clearly vibrantly unmodified

maintain

rebirth into routine

meditate

until you are free

The actors rise in pairs. An executioner stands with his back to the victim. The audience participates in The Rite of Universal Intercourse.

I am not allowed.

I am not allowed!

I am not allowed?

(to- smoke marijuana, take my clothes off, travel without a passport, stop wars, live without money)

The actors gather. Sitting in the center. Forming a spiral to meditate upon. Listen,

The Rite of Study.

To be free.

To be free!

To be free?

(of- love, food, property, violence, jails, money, revolution, system, lies, prejudice, law, state, classes)

The community develops a relationship to the individual. The individual supports the community. A voyager abandons himself to the trance. Take the trip,

The Rite of The Mysterious Voyage.

Return to dark, to the dark, to emerge fresh, clean, recharged, reinforced, purified…

As the spaceship moves we see our fiery bodies appear before death.

Blazing!

The atoms rush in to the flesh of living as our native tongue torches our poverty.

Blow your life mind!

Blow out to pluto, mars, the eighth kindling. Another galaxy stretching over a large theatre

and

As the last words are spoken the inner space disperse into outer space…

Back in London the performance was spoiled.

Pearl’s harbor had no mice playing on the tracks.

Later, on the telephone with Julian, after Pere Lachaise, we tried to figure out the meaning of the cosmos.

We have never grown up but, at least, we can laugh about it.

A funnel of dreams spiraling through Ira’s homemade pipe.

ALIEN REGISTRATION OFFICE

Open, open, open for business.

Business as usual.

Business to guard the ship from sinking in the storm…

We leave chalk outlines in the glow of a burned out light bulb.

A certain glimmer turning more and more gray.

Same as the Parisian sky.

Same as the still birth drowned in her mothers poisoned amniotic ocean.

Gysin plays at the Louvre.

As if those monolithic figures were in dream time.

As if gypsy’s polish tarnished gold.

As if Notre Dame casts our sins into the seine below…

Lakshmi chips away at the catacombs.

Junkies shiver in the metro.

Living humans are sacrificed.

When I tried to pin him down he conducted an out of tune orchestra on my behalf.

I felt-

spoiled

vulnerable

extreme

Serious people consider themselves pardons of indulgence. He will go out of his way to talk for an attempt at scholarly validity. Impatient with individual blindness.

Confront it head on. Stormy waves broken with great mountains of gigantic fish. Mythological subjects airy in imagination.

The feats, the fates, the proper history of the world fabricated as his-story! Forecasting the day men propel themselves to penetrate and kill. A wrecking excrescence she exudes from between her thighs.

Cadaverous human communities sold for thousands of generations. She commits suicide as we murder her. She is a broken delicate crust as we are trapped whales squirming to find blame.

Despite beautification, despite death, despite human beings…

the gunpowder and the rum are stronger than the horses

The king does not cry for us but for the Capital and Technology. The legendary cries for everything he touches turns to gold. Even his tongue.

But, not his humans.

We bow down and turn to death. Shriveling into ships that will carry conquistadors along with rats over the seas into a fiscal ruin.

Disease is our weapon. Rampage our faith. Foreign lands our home.

consumption ran by itself

a chaotic constellation

nothingness

a statistical reality

translucent in my crystal ball

the masses are

swirling with currents and flows

natural matter

natural elements

in the image of-

so, at least, we are represented

In the madness of the eyes my senses fail and reason is lost.

This is the miracle fire.

Our days, our misery, our bitter lovers.

I am paradise.

I live in paradise.

You are the father of affliction.

Ripping our flesh as teeth kiss.

Red ropes cast spells.

Standing here frozen.

I warned you to twist your heart.

I warned you to witness my cracked open room with a view.

and the mints

the miners of money

and the girls

whose breasts are covered

and the attributes of god

wide planet of people

and the issued passports

i am going to hurry

and the voyager

always between reality or utopia

and the blacks in africa

planting poetry instead of potatoes

and the mother committing suicide

nationalism forbids union

and the quiet falling rain

like dying workers in gas

and the complacency

the body is a cliff of beauty

and the bite out of beauty

as we hum these songs of

revolution…

Capitalism is the triumph of the gang.

The starting point, the domination of concepts, only mystifies the passage of time.

Can you avoid the dirt in intercourse?

Can you lose this fixed character?

The human community conditioned by the material community derives to valorize itself.

So, as to guard against a veil of modesty, we must seduce in order to recruit.

We must belong to the desire for so called practical men.