tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12382772259865589592024-03-08T11:53:05.828-08:00Years as Gold Philosophy A.J. KAUFMANNThe Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1238277225986558959.post-82384430450027024752011-12-11T03:44:00.000-08:002011-12-11T03:44:24.901-08:00<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>YEARS AS GOLD PHILOSOPHY</strong></span><br />
<br />
Years as gold philosophy <br />
sky sailing, restricted much<br />
in sweet wallflowers known to be birds,<br />
bonfires, charmingly cold <br />
after-dinner stupidity<br />
hesitation, wishing garden bells were seasons, works<br />
which handed you the sunset<br />
a flake, sky sea-iris <br />
some of it lying pianos, joyful lights,<br />
spout lips dirt-grimed lady-shining<br />
as most multiform scripts <br />
seeds rise, there’s sunlight<br />
familiar rocks, somber love and God<br />
cathedral on press sheets<br />
red at office flanks <br />
glass image wheels <br />
suddenly without dusk<br />
open you alone, <br />
the way you ripple my eyes,<br />
spread nothing on dead Roman wings<br />
asking the trees for some music – fine jungle halls <br />
to remember<br />
slip poised, together, facing your wings, <br />
conducting the starless sheaf, after all,<br />
we’re finally together<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">ANIMAL HANDS</span></strong><br />
<br />
World servant on vacation… not my life at all<br />
in reality, I have no body, this tiny veil of sanity<br />
does not cover my bare, bloody bones… these bones<br />
are there for you, to spit on their shade and move on<br />
proceed to your notebooks and passions… it is no den<br />
of comfort, no immortal item… no amulet<br />
of the past or things continued… no miserable material<br />
identifying my sovereign chemistry… I smoke too much<br />
my soul needs fuel, I drink too much, my blind environment<br />
bleeds for any comfort, shrooms are never Christ<br />
the Light King, merely transitory demands for fiction<br />
ingoing streams of disintegration, windows of bricks, satisfaction<br />
in eternal exercise… in hearts and lines unknown, voids<br />
and scents of electricity, poisoned crows stuffed with magic<br />
she is clearly Death… broken breath link, faith substance<br />
sighed, the principle view… she is Blake – circled, continual<br />
sweeping of eyes, bourbon is never Christ, a carefully-arranged<br />
dense reincarnation<br />
in animal hands instead<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">RESTLESS CUBES</span></strong><br />
<br />
Rain falls on our impulses, forbidden formless waves<br />
against sparkles of dancing flowers, shoreward<br />
wet in gallop, hidden along strokes of moonlight<br />
a hopeless song in the wings of dullness<br />
<br />
Dead tears, powdered blue gods, furrows of sleep<br />
on bright cruel breasts, beloved rock of sacrifice<br />
never warm, manifold faces of heat, fresh mouths<br />
of bitter rats, terrible children to this country<br />
<br />
Dust apples, penetrating the breaking sun, healing mists<br />
of indelicate shining, clamor time, shivering on beds<br />
of frozen leaves, time rises, crying, wistful on fire<br />
to lovers wings, sheets to wrinkled torches<br />
<br />
Walking the railway, broke and bridal, unswerving<br />
glades of bohemian roots, square sky fingers, tired<br />
in you, becoming ripples of shell, calm lanterns<br />
vapor of frosty corpses, restless cubes and earthquakes<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>NOBODY’S BROTHER</strong></span><br />
<br />
Nobody's brother, gray candle in cold sky, burning<br />
dream horizon’s dew, dressed in symbolic birds<br />
fever some more, sighing shriveled, dying<br />
in colder groaning, a beautiful muscle <br />
where roses slept of irrelevant patterns<br />
naphthalene’s bitter vapor cast the day <br />
into full soft deliverance, a mourning summit<br />
I found and sang about, and seeking held into<br />
its demise, waves of impotent walls<br />
pain of roads in stone, healing a whore again<br />
asking for asphalt, stamped departure<br />
of soul, darling black glare, grief beautiful<br />
men… street love, colors of galvanized eyelids<br />
encasing my sand into books of leisure and lanterns<br />
in pornographic pride, shining through my window<br />
vibrating metallic death, stripping again, magma bulk<br />
of ribbon starfish, the rain and spit pools<br />
in playmate brittle collapse<br />
hollowly wrapping humble souls in dreams<br />
they’re not my brothers, I’m sorry<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">DANCER DRAMATICS’ WRITERS</span></strong><br />
<br />
Leaving the country in secrecy<br />
in a cloak of twilight<br />
two years in splendor<br />
or death<br />
the far appointment<br />
<br />
two years in hiding<br />
there, in caused perfect harmony<br />
breeding songs<br />
in fashionable verse<br />
to please the vacuum audience<br />
<br />
I searched my time<br />
I spent it unaccompanied<br />
I worked in stillness<br />
sonorous pebble<br />
my tables were of gold<br />
<br />
why go with dangerous instrumentation<br />
why scribble jazz<br />
pornography<br />
lack of food<br />
angels<br />
biographies<br />
or dancer dramatics’ writers<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>POET TERRITORY</strong></span><br />
<br />
New walls rise every day, each man is left<br />
shaking, next to the railroad line, Polish<br />
winters are cruel, measuring trains, scraping off rust,<br />
old paint, aluminum swollen eyes, high speed<br />
dancers on linear glass, falling on every mirror:<br />
the next rebirth is closer, a terrible giant<br />
of bathroom wall graffiti, oppression of dogs<br />
in her camera lens, leaning onto each other's<br />
failure, parting ways with beloved folk, fighting<br />
phantoms of coal, running from turnaround friends,<br />
delicate urban deaths, synthetic pastures of god,<br />
time zone choking fingers, while cloths of flesh and dust<br />
uncover the room, so suddenly stripped<br />
off its pride, amazed like you, the woman I'll always lose<br />
and learn to lose again... I'm sorry for the<br />
inconvenience, but this here is cupboard wasteland,<br />
uninhabited poet territory<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>SAILOR’S BREAKFAST</strong></span><br />
<br />
Her relief appears<br />
drums on a highway<br />
in austere script<br />
chew ultra-violet sun<br />
growl<br />
easy to help you<br />
in last minute sea<br />
<br />
of relic brass of trees<br />
phased segments of grief<br />
shine parabolic roofs<br />
in oxygen’s diamond<br />
blood ejected, mild<br />
resembling smoke<br />
dying<br />
waiting<br />
<br />
I’ll have some coffee, please<br />
and a dreamlike breakfast<br />
pretty<br />
personal<br />
far from the city<br />
ionic calm<br />
<br />
draw groups of flare<br />
on the table<br />
miles of the moon<br />
hot-dogs<br />
soothed afternoon eyes<br />
decades left for further sailors<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>THE PRISONS ARE EMPTY</strong></span><br />
<br />
Sold my collection of old LPs<br />
let the road shine forgotten<br />
allowed the sands to take my name<br />
packed the basics<br />
allowed the pictures to take my face<br />
improvised over the morning<br />
laughed at the immaculate dawn<br />
raced with the night<br />
& won<br />
found my ex in the same old quarter<br />
her favorite corner<br />
asked if she had the will<br />
if the Tarot reads well<br />
if spiders left apartment<br />
found some ancient wine<br />
took her for a walk<br />
met river tribes<br />
seen no policemen<br />
later found my guitar as well<br />
dusted, untouched<br />
knives and candles<br />
buried well in the veil of names<br />
addresses<br />
blood<br />
case filled with lyrics, notes<br />
& sand<br />
staggered, coughed<br />
picked a proper doorbell<br />
rang twice<br />
yawned to the end of night<br />
I know that bitch too well<br />
found an answer to sleep<br />
curly hair approached<br />
velvet breath<br />
fingers of azure<br />
winter coat in the middle of June<br />
that's me, approach the lover<br />
kisses from your brothers<br />
both are now dead<br />
good to be back<br />
the city looks brave<br />
younger<br />
enthralling<br />
perhaps that's because<br />
the prisons are empty<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">LEGEND</span></strong><br />
<br />
Flame painted sky opens wide<br />
shows nothing<br />
but slow coke heaven<br />
white walls in ruin<br />
prostitute angels<br />
sucking<br />
the Red Flower<br />
dry<br />
shows ages of spirit's<br />
roadblock<br />
slaves' energy<br />
fragmented hands<br />
groping for earth<br />
where they were thrown<br />
immediately after<br />
the Tree<br />
was plucked<br />
shows nothing<br />
but close dementia<br />
messiah madmen<br />
prophesying a very close end<br />
when it's already<br />
done<br />
& this culture <br />
has nothing more<br />
to offer<br />
but stale repeat performance<br />
feasting on swollen corpses<br />
till it's forgotten<br />
what it's like to<br />
actually<br />
create<br />
how it's like<br />
to be <br />
absolutely<br />
wrong<br />
& sacred<br />
in mistake<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>SIZES OF TIME, PICTURES OF BLACKBIRDS</strong></span><br />
<br />
Blackbirds framed heavy<br />
full on your branch, familiar to you<br />
dark budding pools of fingers<br />
autumn chandeliers on fire.<br />
<br />
We used your dead bridal cloth<br />
feasted on wistful hermits.<br />
stale high skies, kisses of flowers,<br />
ripples of shells from rage to pain.<br />
<br />
And thirteen overcast pines, prophesied<br />
of return. Unswerving glade, so young<br />
and cold, singing of deep calm space<br />
mermaids and easy Indian time.<br />
<br />
Pointed street, the root of our planet<br />
hollow, laughing, sedated in little<br />
quakes, crushes the old chandeliers<br />
rushes towards the square sad sky<br />
and makes the blackbirds sing<br />
out of frame.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>BROKEN IS BEAUTIFUL FALLING</strong></span><br />
<br />
In unconscious fascination<br />
while floods go planting the city<br />
and girls hum themselves as hope<br />
pulling in small street tails<br />
west-end truths<br />
intervals of the homeless<br />
and damaged deals<br />
take the cabman where<br />
consternation creatures<br />
wild on the road<br />
involuntarily<br />
attach agonized tears<br />
of neglected, vanished<br />
blocks<br />
to illustrated <br />
remains of eyes<br />
taking the city<br />
by hurt<br />
where broken<br />
is beautiful<br />
falling<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">LAND YOUR MACHINE</span></strong><br />
<br />
Our houses become a prison…somehow paid<br />
with odd requests – cheerful strings not in store<br />
this is the dawn of true danger – mind games<br />
on mushroom gear and drums, selling ourselves to Muzak<br />
tailored governments…accepting foreign gods<br />
and leaders…nickels on the motordrome…<br />
slob beauty – bumblebee bubble<br />
sun-energized workbench, ribs and powder<br />
young clapping night<br />
<br />
Our houses become a prison…god rope girl, floating<br />
fork, the prize and questioned direction – desert out<br />
on gaudy trains, fantastic nipples, frosty vitamins<br />
of youth – alive orbital thing – solid fence airplane<br />
in safe gyrations, American symbol – asteroids mixed<br />
with books, funk prophet wad<br />
obsolete minutes lost in heartbeat, exploring your<br />
ocean… yeah, I could… kiss… you<br />
<br />
Our houses become a prison…happening arms<br />
blow jobs – examine recent years, your tingling shirt lifts<br />
illusion, practical, then alone<br />
possible spare parts<br />
mildly protesting own mouths<br />
grounded against the building<br />
gravity slaves<br />
it’s usually Earth, man…<br />
land your machine<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>OUTSKIRTAL CHILD</strong></span><br />
<br />
Life called devils<br />
the morning<br />
sorrow and longing<br />
fingers of native sun<br />
thought only of themselves<br />
blessed in exiled<br />
colors of thunder<br />
the ”who”, the “so”<br />
of a stormy sunrise<br />
strange vivifying<br />
melancholy<br />
warmth and power<br />
in dead town eyes<br />
filled with pain<br />
where wait of strength<br />
suicide streets<br />
and years of frost<br />
were islands<br />
of I, who<br />
was poor<br />
wrong<br />
and had age<br />
to die like a dog<br />
buried <br />
nameless<br />
unthinkingly<br />
bleeding<br />
on another<br />
outskirtal<br />
child<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">PROFESSION AND THE OCEAN</span></strong><br />
<br />
We had rum and pretty wishes<br />
on island-ideas<br />
of fault, restoration<br />
and time… but you,<br />
my constant surfing angel<br />
slipping on dust, aquariums crashing<br />
into the morning<br />
you saw the details of sky<br />
spoke of sex<br />
Indian massacres<br />
pirate’s fuel <br />
reefs and shark skin… fishes<br />
echoed your grin… then there was <br />
yourself… lost in expedition<br />
with balanced western minds<br />
circling brave for identity<br />
diving in death<br />
of ancient stars, mermaid<br />
horses, drinking cold<br />
salt-water, fading with<br />
a dying nebula – we existed<br />
a thousand tongues and roofs<br />
below… passer-byes to wreck<br />
coast… a year or two ago<br />
what’s the color of town now,<br />
my cordial boat still sailing?<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>THE SCALPEL</strong></span><br />
<br />
What killed me<br />
was not enough<br />
the holy, clear visioned edge<br />
of a scalpel<br />
lover of god<br />
consuming dreams<br />
<br />
Fire or dew<br />
the comfort of my tomb<br />
is a long road<br />
to habit<br />
that grew incredibly young<br />
and tired of thought<br />
<br />
Now quiet even sighs<br />
run the dark bright<br />
remembering lament<br />
<br />
My youth has loved the wind<br />
fire unburning<br />
<br><br />
<br>The Camel Saloonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17466326145539153263noreply@blogger.com0