metempsychosis

For Sweet New Orleans Lydia In Her Cottage

admin — Wed, 19 May 2010 11:27:00 +0000

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

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

Some Introductory Knob Stopping

admin — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 17:36:19 +0000

Move to me here now, where the sofa stores meet the sea,
And we will descend, sensually swirling, mistically, via wine poem
To the ghostly tracks of David Lynch's scenes Shot-enhauer shot shot
Shot-enhauer's real sexy hot -- "The Fatal Sure" Lynch-Honey Naomi
Watts re-making of Mulholland Dr. Josef Mengele? "'Here it is, take it.':
BANG!"
That line should have been in the office scene I just now read, but very few
See what I do, and nobody could know I'm in your shower, Alfred ii. I think
Better, wet; prefer wine to blood (or worse). Oh, I almost forgot: Eddie was
Betting at the track, using his own blood this afternoon; he was on a date
With "The German Girl". They won a tanker full of the rare stuff. Red Gold,
Baby! And lately, gibt es viele L.A.E.R. shots -- that Hollywood corn
Syrup spikes up the value, see? So they made out, I can tell you. With
Apologies to my pal, Bill Burroughs' as southern insular community kid says:
"Spiking with a heavy German Ac-cint!"

I had the Denny's guy's dream, kind of, but in mine I reach inside you to
Find the magic DOS of eternity -- amused by us all through a powerful lens:
Vagina. You and I were crying tears of milk, Darla, while the music swelled
Real poignant - like. In tonight's feature dream I star in a movie called "They
Paved Hitler’s Brain" -- another David Lynch knock-off, but what can one do?
I'm a union man -- I don't cotton to platel(et_[ss]) plagarism, even in those LAX
Dreams -- I will give myself this mulch credit as Poemauteurtraumer, I do not
Allow myself to dream of Betty or Diane or Rita or Camille; I'm a professional!
Albeit, Sal from Simple's Karaoke Bar in Burbank told me directly, quite stern
Of face: "One must either dream -- or find themself a nice little asylum in which
To scream." It's all ach-in' to the justice system in a small "town" in extreme
Western North Carolina. A County Clerk's "hid good" town.

In front of Ford’s Theater, this afternoon, at a hamburger stand near the track,
The beach nut gum trees cool the two's blood winnings tanker trailer, so gently. Eddie says, in a rare lucid moment, "It’s too bad I’m moving more and more to
The North each day, on a freight so slow, with no eyes for sofa stores. It's all
About blood money, now, German Girl: seas-of-it!"

As in the come-on HollyCarn[ai]Val Love Story: "Night descends on Los Angeles.
"Millions of lights down below twinkle like stars." --David Lynch
"Motel - Motel - Motel, broken neon arabesque. [more at: Nazi, sorry Bill.]
"Have you ever scene the rubes (Plötzlich Benutzer Nacht geöffnet Klieg Lights)
Take a [screenplay] apart, after they've wised up?" --William S. Burroughs
FADE TO CEDITS: "For Ezra Pound,
il miglior fabbro."
"Eliot's poem is prefaced by a quote from the 1st century A.D. Satyricon of
Petronius In Greek and Latin." And in Dave's Canal they would love you
To read It, for three reasons ["not specified here"]. PSA advisory-master Bill B.,
Read him instead. And stay the bloody hell out of "Hollywood's" theaters:
The showers.

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

Original post blogged on b2evolution.

Poem No. SP-324 For The Lost U.U.

admin — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 20:24:26 +0000

I'm going, goodbye, here is a rose to wear on your wrist at the cotillion.
Tomorrow, wriggle it down your erudite fingers in front of the Balzac
dressing mirror through which I shall always see you & I drinking
absinthe from the ancient and heavy glass goblets we bought that
night in Boston. Held each other in a moment before The Library
In The Storm.

In a black and white dream, Chirico buildings supplant the Aspen Music
Tent burning as in an old movie treasure parchment. A map of Edinburgh
Fringe the doctor snatched from me on Neptune ward, dressed in tennis
clothes, looking like a young H.P. Lovecraft, to impress the nurse in the
morning. She distracted too much by him for "cocktail time" meds at
"C# diminished" -in-the-afternoon.

I've a tattoo of the Wabasha Bar here on my filthy chest like a scary man
with a snub-nose. In Trombone Alley, Edna St. Vincent Millay makes her
lovely way and, she too, powerfully armed; then on down to E. Bishop
pouring poems on the river....which turn to sails; while I concatenate a
larger body of spasms, hoping she'll sing inside the hollow of my canvas
and poles.

I already feel the crows nest shout, James Mason's Bayreuth Titanic
hypobass of 1/220 millionth beat per second -- monolithic deep dream
in hidden love-depths in oil slick arabesques surfacing midst glints on
Krafft-Ebing's thanatosis tide. The doppelgnger: 2/3s water, 2/3s wine,
2/3s deck chair, I am William Wilson chasing Ulalume around that
nightclub in Belmar, New Jersey, like the Marx Brothers, all white with
sea moonlight showing through the cracks; where the Broadway girls are
so glamorous.

And Ulalume (Usher?) of Venice, CA remains by a worn wood bar there
so I can buy her sedatives -- British and sere -- for "the Unpleasantness".
Small ‘lectric ‘larm clocks: feels like soured garbageggs in my fingertips:
her frozen left-over L.A. corruption cat-blued bean sprouts' light tube
overhead; below, in Stockton, she must have been waiting for me, going
to wear know where nowhere know Weir no ware...

Would you like to come -- I know you'd like to... Are you already here?
Take a cruise ship, I know you'd like to; see how it's done. And, when you
come, bring a shower of golden roses from The Valley to our offspring,
Morgen Usher Brindle,

for her poem-papered chamber; verses from Venice writ in a Jersey bistro.
That other florescence, mine, full of raining-bows of 'lectric alarmists
charming the burn-scars into a wooden bar -- with its own cat -- a cat
of excess stealth, seeing with the gray eyes of a Miller Moth in the Fall...



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

Original post blogged on b2evolution.