They clamoured in the Urdeck portals 
Knowing my name. I knew. Saw this: 
Fully 200 of them had begun Goq-tshee 
And, the reps we study? they looked worse. 
Moans rafted closer, louder; helpless, useless; 
I despaired for my crew, eyes and arms 10-D; 
No contraportals jiward nor floward - any D! 
Sustained streams of synthetic flesh flopped in. 
Indecent slop, easily 500 had achieved Goq-tshee. 

Through red blood tristed mist I saw Durrain, 
My Third Thoughtman, barely throwing them off, 
Struggling his way up to Urdeck, where I specked 
The Dimensions Inside Mind for some Tshei�raform; 
My trained calm was like glass: smooth but brittle. 
Durrain, he came through their middle, a fleet will, 
True Thoughtman, born for 10-D, a kin to The All; 
Throwing himself Path to me, while I hovered, agape; 
No doubt 5,000 slithepluck sounds sucked at our deck.

to be continued...

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

I saw in an old building that shield you wore and Byron was outside in 
the window with his elbow over the sill like a movie neighbor, or a man
in Miami waiting for word from a Woman. 

Ignored Poebirds in inchoate towers screeched at an incautious head.
Inside a cadenza of a man shaped like Fatty Arbuckle (maker of hallways) 
told us Elvis had not left this building. 

Then, a nexus: NYC brought me a prize gamine girl who was socially ill
yet vowed a hatred of alcoholics. You see, poets make good pets. I drank
a beer by a purple car thinking, "I'm coming back, I'm coming back."
The spot where John Lennon was shot, dark in the quiet night of October first. 

A member of the cognoscenti in Kansas City is translating all 245 episodes
of The Love Boat into ancient Greek. He does this wearing only tennis shoes
and a black leather tam - calls me for assistance with the more obscure
idioms - we agonize over certain passages in the fragile original and both
go crazy with expectations of how this may well help those people.  

Even so -- or perhaps, therefore -- I wound up at Dr. Alfalfar's office. He gave
me some pills he said were the Bronx Pelham Parkway. "Take one fifty-minute
drive by blue water before bedtime;" and it cleared up The Horrors, The Fear,
and The Black Dream - but it has not been effective in treating the oriental
Sick House Syndrome of Mr. Sib Ling, nor the hideous Pique Bug's Bile from
The South. Tonight I shall ask, in future tense, the Medicine Man part of whose
job description is to find the approximately 1 to 10 murderers who will have
caused any death in his village. He's closer than you think, my friend; and are
you going to tell his entire village of believers that he's bonkers?     

Returning one day from The Chicago Worlds' Fair S. & D. decided to do
the matchmaking they had planned now for so long. The dipsomaniac
neighbor lady of urban legend was carted off to Oz, and made presentable
for to meet the Friendly Man who had threatened to take an alien, Stage 4, 
wife out of dreaded dire lonely neediness. The happy new-lie-Webs now
run a bistro in Queens, NY, where they enjoy brisk trade from College Point
Yacht Club with one dog in the fo'c'sle - folderol all along the tales o' John
Barleycorn. ["keep it real in the fiel(d), righ'?"]. 

In nighttimes the slight splash slapping and loon loss of Flushing Bay caresses
their cove-home as inside lovers slip a little claret between lips of bare feet;
she with her ocean-voyages-planning charts and comely parts, and he sketching
stories for E-Queen Magazine and True Crime & Romance Fiends Monthly --
a rendering of sampler content. The glistening whispering in your nervous system
no longer nails on blackboard under the wine planes from La Guardia. Content
lulls them to sleep, in the dream-laden keeps of that nocturne, New York.


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

My eyes are hot -
Not from seeing, but the scene:
Alarm inside this helmet invades
A sound convulsing to displace me;
Even the callous breeze is shouted down;
Pouring over Munch's accelerating vision in desperate hours:
Nothing to put out the flame.
As if 'you're fired!' were an expression of unknown malaise;
Now the carefully painted trompe l'oeil pealing
Affection of wives comes off the walls;
Horrid revelation:
Nor does a wall stand behind!
Except the near one of jagged nausea
That knows the spider's space between two gibberish dictionaries
From a nightmare fingered third-grade helter shelfer whose fingers
Touch (from inside themselves) too many sorcerer's nausea eggs.
Below, sirens riot at the fiery heaps;
Shaking poets throw their cooling booze with daunting swagger aim
In the wrong direction:
Spray those liquors at the red hot bus seat
That startled Sartre, a kindled spirit, civil servant,
Classic, steady firemen all; pick-ax punctuators.
All of me
Inside thirty-seven floors
I try and climb the greased brass pole higher in
Clever suspenders, posed and clutching at myself like a lone telepath,
But the levels flip past, baroque pages raped by the elementary.
Standing in missing waves
Now lost audio invades
A cranium carved out by echoes,
Feed-back images interpose a scratching
Early Toscanni Wagner Ring Cycle
Breaking intervals to bits, bouncing needle
Rusty jerk tin stereoscope of my old self-portrait;
Burroughs' involuntary strobelight hands can't hold my splices -
He is roaring in ozone-smoke, circuit-blinding, clock-faced footlights; face-blur-Screams invisible world audio:

"Pain...can...be...neutralized!"

High up on a cliff, the vatic response as I fall through is
A slow-moving slate of grey clouds behind
Three distant silhouettes, firing-squad figures
Shouldering large calibre trombones -
Numb Götterdämmerung; no golden tones, but slush pump sucks
In these players.
Splices spin to the realization that Klaus Kinski has cut
To the circling scene, his
Rattle saber goo soft within a hard amber mosaic of Aztec insects
Microcosm of a sticky hardening stuff (cf. film: "The Creeping Unknown")
Oozing from that meteor under U of M
Window Sans Ginsberg's
Once gentle grammar life (Pats-her-son), fine lace, now acid-stain horror inside
People
Whose berserk carnival ride hell-ucinations stun
Non-Whitman floats of lifeless parade: I
See in the crowd
Mutant crows micturate in formations along Fifth Avenue
Curb in a trance, channel for the grateful red engines;
Raising a beating, yellowed vortex.
The 1897 Mary H. Kingley jungle arrives soon and violently.
For a while
Spies with the wrong heads on - heads of historic hunter fen-fen friends -
Discontinued because of association -
Bend to Fon tribe ad witch doctor murder perp finders, Sierra Leone,
And yet not one TV in the hut,
Hold a net for the fire fighter;
But, soon, even the doorman is gone, and now...
Looking down again, only spreading orange and blue shadows
Of flame.
The flapping white coats rustle
To a blazing barn I'm trying to save.
Riderless schizophrenics
Have frozen in their stalls;
Preempting motion on either flank with powerful magical thoughts -
Far beyond feathery hoots of harlequin-sophomoric Psch-owl-o-jests,
Try to hypnotize Sulfuric Acid in a paper cup.
Still moving on the beach,
The drum inside and slow thighs;
Once supercilious colorful peregrinations of the fireman now reduced
To Voodoo Fetish charms
Can't drive away these flaming shores.
And sunward, stranded, futile warriors gobble
Campbell's Soup can wrappings. Naked backs in the din.
His last headline glimpse is of a crackling hemisphere
In the Grand Central Businessman's Restaurant,
Staring through an empty eye,
Closing early in the middle of a dark forest - while
Fish scream the only clue, quietly fireproof in streams
Of consciousness;
With the diner alone at his table
Sunken-cheeks and bloated, burn-black belly,
In smoldering rags, lovingly seasoning a Wharhol/Klee filet.
Off...somewhere, the firehouse Dalmatian barks in a friendly way.


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

Right as W.C. Handy will I fit on your other far farm arm --
Make scenes in the Stockhausen morning naked --
Shout at the dusty dog who likes to play around that pick-
Up full of bean sprouts and Telemann --
Listen for the errant Lohengrin hidden away in your woods
That contain a dream of enfabled Venice
You lost to the Trojan stewardesses.
Sing Die Winterreise to myself and a mannequin-quiet cornfield,
Distant clouds scattering in the sky within like pages.
Be your introducing broker when you speculate on precious metal flutes
In cowgirl pork-belly bags
You’re resonatings contained.
During the night,
Watch 72nd Street subway riders disembark in your sink
Full of symphonies and breakfast dishes.


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

“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.

I had riches too great to count, could boast
Of a high ancestral name,
But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,
That you loved me still the same.”

Cut to the drama:
So when rappers and Moore ca’tween Parrish’s door,
Columned at 6-4-3 Civil War Street,
Their hands reached ‘gain to your mind’s 3rd floor
With a ballroom — not Beale — underfeet,

“Hoochie Mama,”
So what’s the probba?
"How many mo’years have I got to let you dog me around?”
This be (bluff cities’ elite) behavior discreet?
And a boquet of loonies to boot…
Your Orwellian ‘creptitudes hardly have rectitude;
Heart from "The Fly": Vin Price beats;

And Georgias’* 905 peaches who belong in a pound.
One hand claps back-to-back with Nixon copt' sound;
Carpetbagging ain't just about loot —
I, die Eule, counts rounding up hoot.

Thank you and Goodnight Everybody!
— Danny Chicago
_ _ _ _ _ _
*GORGIAS: I like your way of leading us on, Socrates, and I
will endeaver to reveal to you the whole nature of
rhetoric.


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