Heavens were pregnant with the flutists of Azathoth devouring a dragon once in a millennium
Later the angels used to urinate on Harappa and Babylon to chew the strings of the harps
The muses especially Calliope loved to play with rats and motel pillows
Good tea was an embittered enemy of Venetian lute music
The musicians threw the instruments into the canals stones at the listeners on the banks
Now let’s celebrate the horrors of the country we happen to live in
The freedoms of not being happy wastebaskets and dumpsters
Brimming with artistic sensibilities and rainbows and holy shit and the moon
And the smells of eternally young horses that can emanate several shadows and souls at once and
I keep my best obscenities for dusty sunflowers
That meet the sky at a corner of the wind.
I know that spirits don’t need footwear for
Walking across the face of a friend,
Nor ancient stories about soaring underpants,
Nor sacrificial air wrapped in rancid cutlery.
That wooden heads rise over the dry grass,
Like autumnal voices, warily.
When snow women ride deer
It is too much for any bird
And the heart’s desire is to
Peck out each key from each harpsichord
The wind and the sun might seem
More ancient than flutes and drums
Invisible as the silliest ghost of
A wiped out tribe
Night after night coyotes wear human masks
Mixing into the quiet tangos of frozen bank accounts
Dwarf towers bring garlands of headaches to big-eyed animals
Whose bones never shine to anyone except a tinker from someone’s childhood
It is enough to skip a breath and there is no reason for
A goddess to share her teeth among sleeping mortals
They are traveling gifts of the feminine death,
Flippant and indomitable,
Islands in the sky full of books too tiny to read,
Flowers too small to see,
Volatile smells of earthly formidable woods,
Talking animals mocking Egyptian deities.
The important thing is to keep human feet
When you tread on dead air.
A guest takes off the hat,
The wig, the head, almost drops on
The parquet clumsily, takes
A flute (the very kind you can buy
At a toy store) out of a pocket of his
Striped green and yellow pants and
Cockadoodledoos, then gets immersed
In counting his toes. The other guests,
Indifferent to the movements of
The insipid air, regret that
They haven’t washed their hooves
And feathers. Neither wood nor stone
Nor water is being exactly worshipped,
But empty flower pots immensely enjoyed,
Fire and earth consumed from
The cumbersome goblets,
As well as the furniture and
The hired musicians.
Do you, by any chance,
Speak Occitan? – cries someone
Into an open window.
What a charming travesty
Of being a host.
Birds deride fences and roofs
Being too small to blur the breath
By stones and lampposts twisted into a spiral.
No bedtime story is good for gods: they need
Something terribly awkward like losing a credit card.
Centaurs have left the planet. Unable to build a spaceship,
They simply ran away. And juvenile saints
Turn trees into ketchup unhindered.
I wake up and laugh like an idiot watching
Street musicians beat the shit out of the aliens
After each landing, inevitably.
Whatever you’ve overheard
Walking drunk in Babel,
The passersby don’t
Need it anymore.
What you have seen on
The crumbling screens of
Remains in the spirit
Of an itinerant goddess
Forever. Feel the calm to think that she hasn’t
Composed any music, whoever she is. The calm
Of spiders that stay awake
Even in winter.
The cactuses are broken by the sun
All the way to the shanties of
The illiterate totems.
The south is clever at hiding
The countenance of its spirits.
They advance with the noise of the mute,
The destitute, the betrayed, the tiny,
Inevitably. They hoot
Like wingless, featherless birds
Concealed in the foliage.
A dragonfly sleeps in a seedy apartment next to a frog
Waiting for tsunami or at least 60,000 water spirits
Reluctant to tear them apart
Stones of different colors like holes in the brain
Surround each soul discarded by the ancestors
Rodents like to sit on them talking nonsense
Or just repeating the word they hate the most
The story begins with a dozen of Aztec poets
walking on a Saturn’s moon, plumage
undisturbed by the cruel gods.
Dice stolen from Enki don’t roll properly
in that kind of atmosphere, a deck of cards
(a gift from Li Bai, by the way) is hard to shuffle.
There is only a slim chance of
meeting the enemy, but it is nice to swear
in a world without censorship. It is a pleasure to breathe
in a world devoid of oxygen.
Is the amount of green tea aliens drink in the cafes downtown
Is it constant the amount of music they are forced to
Consume with the liquid the sounds of the flesh someone could
Wear far away before the bored goddess
Conceals her steps within the trees too
High to be considered seriously or as a joke
Torn flesh to be considered sound a decent
Song can usually sing itself being lost forgotten do they
Know what it means to be unable to hear whatever
Happens when someone has written it down
Prayer means flattery, sacrifice bribery.
Apollo and Artemis hide in the snow from their followers,
in traffic lights, fractured ankles, or in equine farts.
They don’t have any vested interests, nor do they have vests.
Hundreds of buildings in obscure parts of the world
flaunt their features on the facades.
Thousands of mp3 files, downloaded millions of times,
keep their exclamations buried in the music.
You don’t have any idea.
when apollo discovered two extra muses wearing blooming digits on the slopes of a barking mountain fallen leaves avoided the palms of the insane every moment before noon