Silencing Their Cure Critters of the gallows do still wallow In the last blink of a cold eye, As the winter turns to swallow All the cures of all our old crimes, And nobody seems to quite know Who to turn to with their foiling? This planet’s rotundity the sun still resists, As nothing comes to any real end. As long as nothing comes out of crisis, How can a day yet begin? Do you wonder why your trail recedes Every day, till it fades upon your feet? Does eminence embellish what lies beset The pain of a cure of a disease unknown? Enough you have tried to cure your fate Kill it shall, as it praised you to be born. Staggering under sleeping-pills, Ribs slackened against your breathe. What were you trying to cure? What did you think you could escape? Their eyes wary, their lips parched They have long searched for the divine touch. But now they are sleepy, almost restlessly… They have learnt to never feel lonely. The cure or the incurable shall always be Always very close to their heartbeat... Always very close to where no one speaks; Not the incurable...nor the cure.
2 comments:
'who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water fiats 'doating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night,
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo'
All these feelings...
Ooh! Angst-war! nothing to contribute other than praise for such inventive use of words... Splendid!
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