The entire teraverse was in my stomach, and too,
All ancient timestrophe through the sons of Vonnegut in there,
Like Dresden scene in Slaughterhouse 5 film; they shot the doll soldier
Dead! Quite unrequited, lay Dresden; my love. -- He said to a graduating
"Class, be prepared from here on out for things to get
Unbelievably and undeviatingly worse." Anyway, close   
To that, Al "Bene" Nero fiddles with my chorded neck
While the phone burns.

So much so, that drilling into your frozen photo and a year's electronique
Oil Shale -- you with avant-garde shades -- compiles now (felt it land tonight)
A snowflake that I missed feathers me to understanding. It strides the Unreverse
And kicks Capricorn's Goat in the rich substance of her connect-the-strings cat gut. 
I only hope you are still free, I only hope you think of me, as once you
Did "high in a sycamore, glad and away," I only hope you dream hour
After-hours of dance: mambo, salsa, cha cha, waltz, in a little black dress.
Dance, not dream. Dance not, dream.

Samba... yet, churned up tigers don't turn to butter, if you will not melt, I mean.
Don't show me a love that ripens out of the Medusa's ten tackles. Suffice to say,
There is a part, Unique Lydia Flake, suspended within the cool air of The Great
Chambers Of The Liquid Night, never better than when he ruled it -- and he did rule:
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski. Near absolute zero, solid, not a lingerie-bikini
Pundit man, but selected for any wind O! wind oh why! why! The great Russian
Futurist did not see it coming: perfidy. It abideth not with his young dreams!

Once in a chauffeur's flop I drank some pleasant beer, quite alone, in Milton's "bliss
Of solitude" -- hard to find in Bukowski's War All The Time, yes? -- I was glued and
Listening to her simple big-little Johnny River (gave me a g-string in Ellsworth, WI,
In the beer storage cool of ad hoc green room, my nose had started to bleed on-stage;
saw his eyes widen, so I only used "the drama of it" for a couple moments)
Like the city-town's Tennessee people reading me a newspaper on the air, much as the
Missing chauffeur in "Sunset Boulevard". Magical; I warmed to those voices
In a charming chair, quite away.

But I returned. I, Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovski, near absolute zero, very fine
Tuned In Quick! Hide! 1938 Radio. The second Gloria, Antonin Artaud, treated me
To "the Theatre of Cruelty” ...And Its Double in that horror; prolegomena to the
Other -- insane horror -- a Hans Christian Anderson-Ville
Next Door Street Opera Memphis.

© W.D. Brindle
 ________________
Home: www.gobi-igloo.com
Work: www.esperancesp.com