Sucking jujubes
In a bathtub a suicide. Drowning glory of a wingless swan. Bobbing in the soap. Dead for well over a night but looking alive. Up and down went its head. Oh how peaceful it looks, how serene, cried elise and producing a napkin from her valise, she wiped a tear. She shed those drops thinking great beauty poignant in the wash, great emotions swept her thoughts and she rushed out into the garden and picked a berry. At her window on the outside she paused. Lifted her head once to the sky and picked a chrysanthemum from the brush. A silent prayer of benediction of thankful humility. With a berry in her mouth, a flower in her left she wiped the mud on her right on the side of her dress. And rushed to our deceased friend the swan. She called him sweet and called him pretty. She called him darling and stooped to kiss his head. But alas. Our swan. My swan. Its dead. After the funeral (where everyone put on black) she only made one appearance, at the races. In a top hat and a strapless bra. Off shoulder gown and a ring each on her little fingers. As past her all the horses sped she clinked her glass and made a speech. To swannie my love of a few years past. He had no business going a swimming if he had no hands. Fanny Adams.

for when i know all speech is banned or unnecessary i will start yelling. as for now it is the satisfaction of gratuitous vanities that drives me to slur. of course now voices cant be overruled summaraliy like it were a pornstar talking of fidelity. but then whats wrong with a pornbabe on chastity. whats wrong then with no talk only quiet.
it is difficult to talk with jujubes in the mouth. no one told me so. i know. jujubes are a good trick.

the thing to do before writing anything at all is to go to grave quietly. when people of any consequence understand this it will be too late
Again I think they’ve fired the first volley. Teargas shells. To cry I feel like a disgruntled rebel. Why the fuck attack the eye. No matter really that this has happened, I remain unconvinced and the fighter. Every year im obstinately certain theres a discovery. This year too there could have been a search. Now the probabilities of finding upon search are quite slim because there is no knowing what I might do upon finding. If my search were a rabbit and I found it I would promptly put a rose in my knapsack and set out in search for the girl that lost it. But what would I do if I took it upon myself to find the rose. Where would I then find the rabbit that the girl has lost. However on the whole I like an improbable search. Or how else will I get up and leave. The adventure is just awesome. The feelings no dimmer in intensity than the mixed fright that might seize you just before you left earth for outer space. These surprises on a small planet are our apricot, plum and peaches. Nice little small little. What is surprising is that they have a seed at all. Now the leaves might be scattered or the plant uprooted, but what is important is that the fruit warn’t sour. It never is though to be honest. What happens is, through the eyes of snoopy, of course, a season comes and another follows, and so on and so forth. Not really come and go if you know what I mean. Just come and then lost in the fking ether if you are crazy what happened to them. Like it came and stayed behind. No one took it home. No one cared for it enough to look for it after stepping down from the ferris wheel. All these years all these years. They just came and stayed and I use my compass every time its back again to look for the past ones. Theres no finding them, theres no finding jack up the beanstalk.
Because even when running ahead on that overbridge, winning the race, I knew let no more be said. In the time to come il feel a greater pain.

Now if you think carefully though better you not, because all thinking is fraught with ideas of an antique stamp bearing marks of worries time immemorial. Bearing scratches of doggie paws with the bone on the inside of the door. So it appeared to me when in this august time of the arrival of her I read that all of them are lonely, dejected, depressed, dislocated, desultory, disinclined, indisposed with the sign of rain over the window, and their mind arrested in that sunny time back home. like they are ticklish with melancholy but not sure where to scratch. And it absolutely is no match for the reading public, the discerning readers, who innocently turn pages for inspiration and vigour to find a cockroach on the bed that was human before waiting for breakfast. Or a goat just about with his head above the water in the well that was quite a swimmer before. No no it wont do at all to say that lonely is the new lovely. No no to say im not coming back home. The lay reader doesn’t know that you are feeling bad, sorry, frustrated, disappointed, dissatisfied with no direction home. He is a cherub (if it’s a she oh then what can I say — bellisima?) who doesn’t understand these things. All of life’s mysteries were laid bare to him when that girl back in the time of apples for breakfast had told him peter pan wears no undies. Now all you metaphysical poets cant insist word in and word about this regurgitating heart of ours that you are very lonely. Write when you next to say that you’ve been in the rain and heard a mother tell her child, while crossing the street, are you blind. Couldn’t you see there was a puddle there. But stick mostly to descriptions of that child seized with the imp of mischief.

Very shortly il become a piss artist in las vegas, and while my show will be at late nights, only for five or six days, it will be on the margins. I don’t expect many to attend. Because this time it is not my gig, I am not headlining. This time while Calcutta turns out like vegas, il be staining the glass of my soul with an image of some icon, or be hanging upside down from a ceiling painting the temptation of Christ. Something that is of little worth at the present, while its being made, but which will draw great pathos in the very very distant future. Then obviously il have wonder and sympathy, things which I don’t understand now, and hence which il have to borrow. In that time il not be there.
This time the milky city will be someone else’s. Like a whore it will readily give love to those that come asking. It will ask no questions, it wont open a bedtime book, or between passions be afraid of flashing bulbs. She will tell whatever love there is is in this moment. Then die, and if you can, be unborn. It will not pretend that there is so much more. Calcutta will constantly remind there is so little. She will be ready for them that have suddenly become butterflies. For those that don’t know this yet, but soon will when past midnight of an undying day they suck the honey from secret mouths. And boys and girls will be surprised like they were sleeping in the meadow and a star brushed their cheek. For boys and girls when they sit in the lovely like the owl and the pussycat. My clock has sped up, and il find myself downstream. Very soon. Then too, as is now, il be wishing more than anything else for relief, for a crowd. For all my friends. For the bottle, and the bong. Then too il be wishing pujas.

defenestration (only if for love) no 1
he picked up a paint brush and with an elbow on a palm and
a palm under the chin
thinked how things really are
and how else they could have been
just that was the intention and the search
was for a way to begin
just then came the shout
dinner is served
have it hot and then we tuck in


ps— love is not a piggy and therefore needs no riding
sin is not the sinner and hence needs no hiding
if i like i need love and i need to love to like
but all that love there isnt only in me
it is around the world beyond the milky way on the road from my city
and all the aliens in between peck their sweethearts and they dont even have lips
if it aint beautiful it doesnt mean theres no beauty
and ugly is a word that begins with u
if you want to shorten it then of course its curiosity
but the short and long of it is that if you spread your arms to their limit
it will always be embrace and never be a gimmick
love may or may not have a limit but is everywhere between

there are these things that tunnel the light into my eyes. like a bright spike that pierces them and sends the light colliding with my soul. this light is a conscience transcending, reason defying, meaning bereft wake up call. like rock on today. and god knows what else, and what else about it than a smoke signal. from an island hidden among the waves while im at sea.
the epidemic is widespread, like elliot's yellow london fog, licking its tongue into street corners and curling up about the house before going to sleep. but these horrid morbid tales arejust stories narrated to pass the time, and men become dragons. god becomes the devil and each day becomes the next just as easily as truth becomes marmalade and my beautiful lovely jelly quivering on a spoon.
but the light from the sos fires seem like so many wigwams that have left a fire burning for a weary traveller at the end of day. im not the traveller not(yet). im waiting for travellers to return, and waiting all the same to travel with them that are waiting to travel.