everything is heresy

In the city where my mother was born and where I have
Never been an infidel could hide
Behind a blade of air or cut the world into thin slices
Just for a grain of sand any vagabond could
Detach the roofs and towers from the sky and walk
Away laughing
Cursed by the snore of the empress
(Time on her temples dried faster than submarines after rain
Than the wine made on the fifth day of creation)
People ate rat tails and had sex with demented horses
Local angels were eternally out to lunch
And the street campfires smelt like the tongues
Of soused storytellers wrapped in blankets and towels



The sound of a broom sweeping
The sky, of eyeglasses
Breaking under sparse raindrops.
Should we protect ourselves?
Should we run away from the highways?
Let’s build a house of the books
Written by idiots. Let the gods throw
Swollen meaningless words at us.



The real fun begins when you suddenly realize
That Nag Hammadi is just the name of your neighbor’s mutt.
Then you try to read your poems to the prairie dogs
But they only laugh at the sun, and each bus you see
Is ready to give birth to a stinking intelligent puddle of hooch:
Are you nuts enough to drink them all up?



There is a myth, long forgotten, of a centaur
Who came from a barren planet to taste
Potato chips, dandelions and whatnot.
Before he lost his conscience in the slums of
A city with the name too banal to remember
The residents didn’t know what to do
With their fingers, toes, tongues and ears.
He told them that history was pure refund,
That animals had the right to forgive,
That dreams belonged to the pool in the middle
Of Saturn, that all the Martians were stark mad,
He told them some other nonsense too.
There are years and centuries inaccessible to the wise.



a madwoman gibbering in a library makes all the poets of the world
sound a little less boring than they usually do



It is like walking on very long spindly legs cut all over
with a swiss army knife in the moments of primeval
bliss and unease: you never know how many
long-haired heads and long-winded hearts have exploded
in the sky too clear to contemplate.

oedipus the aeronaut

In a tale for monstrous children and dead archangels
The blind Oedipus flew to China on the wings taken from that suicidal scoundrel bulging with riddles
And Death surrounded him like a cloak and kept him alive.
The journey was a breathtaking drag, the Sun blown by dragonflies,
No Olympian bullshit, there was
Neither Greek nor Chinese, Babylon fell long ago, only a bunch of Scythians captured by the Amazons
Chewed the strings of the balalaikas in the stinking dungeons far below,
And Mandelstam and Chieh Yu, both mad and peaceful now, were feeding tigers with the breadcrumbs
Stolen from their cellmates far away at the mouth of the Amur.
He flew to become a laughing stock for his incessant inarticulate harangues on objective reality,
To become a centenarian often seen lying on the roof of a tiny wooden wellhouse,
His ugly feet with the nails longer than scimitars touching the ground,
Staring at the Sun blown by dragonflies after Guan Yin returned his sight.

{after the comments on behind}