Last year in the end of Dezember, Serge Gurkski celebrated his fiftieth birthday. He did not see the future coming and taking him away. He was full of esprit and thoughts. I never did forget him. I enjoy reading his articles and poems.
Our meeting was just a small track in time. But in four dimensions it will last forever.
Now
for Edgar Allan Poe
and the post-Parnassian poets and my girlfriend and me
Me down in Θεσσαλονίκη
((the)salloniki)
sittin on the back of a truck
whistling Psappho to myself,
you can tell I am suicidal
was it not for the booze
and the ladies
offering sweet poison
on the wet petals
of their longing lips.
So, it is hard for me to come down,
but it is easy, too.
I am travelling North
to promised paradise.
Sittin on a back of a truck humming Ginsburg’s Sunflower Sutra to myself,
listening to Willie Dixon’s I am the blues
hungover whatever. I just indeed
fuckit, wanna make love to you now.
I am sinking in
maybe i overdid
the other stuff
you can tell I am suicidal
was it not for the booze
and the ladies
offering sweet poison
on the wet petals
of their longing lips.
So, it is hard for me to come down,
but it is easy, too.
I am travelling North
to promised paradise.
Sittin on a back of a truck humming Ginsburg’s Sunflower Sutra to myself,
listening to Willie Dixon’s I am the blues
hungover whatever. I just indeed
fuckit, wanna make love to you now.
I am sinking in
maybe i overdid
the other stuff
the other stuff is what
you never gonna get.
thanks to Adam Smith and Jimmy Page and Sheryl Crow
(and Robert Plant)
and the fucking nice piano man. Even if you can’t hear him, I can hear him well.
(Van Halen’s D’accord:
starts at 01:16: http://youtu.be/McV7pjwVFbE )
Oh god, I’m gonna have a hard time
stepping out of the graveyard to make it back to town
poor Roy hanged himself.
whatever. march on.
(Napoléone) Buonoapartian Immensities
of mighty might imagined, in vain of Corse, 😉
I sit with a gay 70 years old; We have fun.
We talk local ( Munich ) history.
I am of course reminded of
Dylan T.’s “Among those killed killed in the dawn raid was a man aged a hundred”
and to make it even worse, I was reminded too of
Joyce’s “Dubliners:
‘(Thinking of Brendan B.)
B being Behan
Behan-ce me!
Enlighten my light,
enlighten my night.
My Joyce quote was meant to point you at:
(paraphrasing now)
On the loo laid a man dead.
II. Beneath the Laocoon Tree
I sat there today again
semi-stoned and
dreaming up live.
Watched squirrels
from two nations: the reds are ours,
the grey and black type is for you.
Drøm sødt
sittin in the morning sun
I’ll be sittin when the evenin come
watchin the ships roll in
then I watch them
roll away again…..
(Otis Redding: dock of the bay)
I’m sittin at the dock of a bay
watching time
rollin away…
Whistling my way out of a sunday so blue:
I’m rereading Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat
in order to understand
myself
maybe.
I’m listening to
Rickie Lee
Jones
to may (it) be make
sense to my self.
Do you like it like that?
But I am as always carried away by her scats.
And, yes I got the boogie in my socks too!
And now the…
the woody&dutch situation enfolds
right in front of you
I read Nelly Sachs: Glühende Rätsel
glowing miracles.
Und die Farbe NICHTS sprach mich an:
and the color nothing talked to me:
Du bist jenseits
You’re dead already.
No, I’m not.
I stirr misunderstandings
hurting back to me.
But maybe I just do so because
I feel misunderstood by life.
Good Night America!
Oh my funny Valentine, drøm sødt
it is unfotographable
but I’ll give it a try.
May your night be shining sweetly
upon you dreaming!
Before we get into Coolsville again,
before we go into Nelly Sachs,
Jewish princess of the poems,
a voice so softly hurting,
before we go there
let me tell you this:
that
I adore.
And nothing but swet dreams is I have to offer
to
you.
Let me spell out
Clarice Lispector to you
and Alfred Döblin
and Dylan Thomas’
ballad of the long-legged bait.
Under the sea
and under its whirling
I see you now:
the beauty of doubts you are.
(We belong together and
Last Chance Texaco and Coolswill
are on my Jones list too: )
Before I start gettin back to
Nelly, that poisonous queen of poems.
let me
introduce you to
Coolsville:
Before I start writing my novel
which can happen anytime soon,
let me trance-late Nelly to you:
Let me describe now
the Blitzkrieg raids of my lovin
Rickie Lee Jones again she said so.
lucify me now!
Lou C Fair.
Let us swim in
an ocean of words
not Nipponese.
Let me tell you how
I wanna be read by you.
Stressing out delightful pain,
pointing out marvelous distress.
Hope you guess my name
and what’s puzzling you
is the nature of my game.
You can call me Lucifer.
And what’s puzzlin you
is the name of my game.
Are you still, as much as me,
afraid to die and go and leave
the people who love you
behind?
Are you still like me
afraid to die and
does not Epicurus’
words soothe you:
When death is around you will not be anymore?
The devilish diabolos
is cuckooing round the corner
so I’ll better start this shit
right way.
Drøm sødt!
Elke Nachtigall is a German poetessa and a fine one, a unique mix of (I hope she does not read me now ;-))
Nelly Sachs (for sentimentals) and Friederike Mayröcker,
Now, look at what she’s done to me:
http://www.leselupe.de/lw/titel-Rosenrauch-104870.htm
”
Rosenrauch
für sergeRobert
seit nicht mehr ich
mein Herz an prallen Blütenbrüsten
dumm, durstig und welk schlage
nicht mehr begreife
als der Dornen rotes Gespür
für den Hunger phantastender Hände
bleibt allenfalls äuglings
der Griff nach Jenem
nach diesem bestechenden
Schön vereinzelter Sterne
am Firmament
der Neuen Nüchternheit
so sie das Ausufern
der Katzenjammertage
seltsam mittelos benachtet
stürzen ab
kurz vor Elf
die jungen Worte
von den Umlaufbahnen
wollen alle nur noch
Sputnik heißen
Roter Mond, was atmest du schwer am Rauch der verruchten Rosen
”
Danke, liebe Elke!
dithyrambs & ditties 