The Book Of The City Of Ladies

There are jinns
following me,
ducking and weaving
among obsequious
white
collared
sleepwalkers.
I am removed.
Staked out and strung tight.
I play along.
They betray themselves
in faint serf shadows
painting the dull hearted
pavement
under this nothing sun.
This is an inside job.
Her code name is
Queen of Scotts.
The tail has tailed me.
Brass knuckled solipsism
cracks my ribs
and slaps on the cuffs.
This is a definition.
This is your detention.
"It's good to see you smiling."
My file is incomplete.
It stays that way.
Subinfeudation lets
me swim
so many dim leagues
far and free
from her ropes
but the courage gets screwed
to the sticking point.
Spied out,
surveilled,
summed up,
categorized,
stuffed,
mounted
and iced
with a blue steel
conversation piece
here
in the book
of the city of ladies.

Tell the Kids the Cops are Here

Cello cello cello
I'm retracing
well worn,
tube rectified,
bum-a-lum ha ha
footsteps.
We're gonna put
back on our
"fuck you Beatles"
guitars n smiles
for one more ride
before G-Black
returns to empty.
I'm remembering
pictures in stereo
of every ride.
This is some friendly,
hip shakin' rock n' roll.
Time is slippery
'cause I feel
so much sunflower
n butterfly
growing like rosemary
through the
past presence
of these songs.
Sometimes
words can't even say
the way I feel about you
today.
She wanted to know
what those Model Rockets
meant to me.
Love.
We are all the pilot
and it's good to have a friend
four teen angels
on a rocket ride
that never ends.

Spoiling for Darkness

We await

certain arrivals

with dust

and needles.

Let it come down.

Lord Bastard,

Roy the Boy

and 

Big Jack Alaska

approach

the west

glimmertwined 

and spoiling for

darkness.

Roll out 

the fucking kettledrum

and 

trumpet.

We will uncoil

an uprising.

We will enter

with alarum

and 

car crash confusion.

We will reign in reverb,

absolutely enervated,

threading the shithouse oblique,

ecstatic terrified 

and

falling through an 

emptiness 

thinner than air,

chained 

to our own 

vicious mole 

of nature. 

"Challenger, go at throttle up"

The hyena
in the spaceman's
spacesuit
returned
to the
home of the grave.
He received his weight
in flashbulb praise,
sold his spaceman's suit,
apologized
and
went back down
into the rain water well.
Down there
on black moss pillow
his breath leaves
faint footsteps
in the stale
cold air.
Dreams pass
above,
incomplete
and
incomprehensible.
The world is
reduced
to a circle
that sways
the light and dark.
The hyena exhales
every orbit
of his heat shielded
journey
from a clenched fist
lanuch pad
through warm acceleration
embraced by weightless
desires
to the ache of awareness.
Imobile and framed in
thick familiarity
the hyena shudders.
The puppet show humanity
he affected
burned up on re-entry.
Down in the well
with every scar
baby cheek fresh
and
grapefruit rubied
he will exhale,
attending to his
certain decomposition.

Foursixteen

whether vein

dim witty pearl

suffer slight hand coroner

past present suture

draft hearses

transition static

stye scrapper

winding sheep

channeled scab glands

hour year

severed daze

reel fakir

an upending knead

supper punch

yard stuck

haul change

out to see

ram aground

the head ache

shout of reach

heart of hearing

blurry fission

a tract shunned

phrases of the moon

qibla con

neverything 

that goes

up

can 

ever

come down

Semolina Pilchard, Climbing Up The Eiffel Tower...

I went to the 

red 

wood

sleepy 

cabin

and

The Girl

With 

Kaleidoscope

Eyes 

was there.

Remember

when I said

'uh oh'?

I meant it.

We sat

under a gentle

sun.

We dropped into

a slippery progression;

playing

hip-slightly 

behind the 

beat

and

blood-rushing

at the 

turnaround.

There were

more 

super-impositions,

teasing out 

everything

I ever

thought

and fretted.

Feel it?

Our embrace

is the 

most sensuous

tambura snarl;

so modal

and fine,

yet

ghost cardinals

snare the window

while I play 

hesitation blues.

Why?

Why?

She breaks 

all the way

through

with

her

fingers

and tongue

and voice

and eyes

and sun 

and lips

and trees

and hills

and leaves

and love

and hips

and art

My ears are 

enucleated

but

my soul

is smiling

and 

my 

heart is twisting...

Intermission

Catch up

cats n kittens.

Don't get left behind.

Yer friend 

and humble narrator

will be out 

of radio range

for a small

space of days.

When 

I splash down

back here again

bablelogue will

commence.

In the mean

time.

Soothe yerself

with these:

Watch Moonie at :58  Good mug while workin' the toms.