Tag Archive: serge gurkski


Dezember – Remembrance of Serge Gurkski

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.

Linie 9, Dresden

Our meeting was just a small track in time. But in four dimensions it will last forever.

Now

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.

  1. Freedom

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.

Care To Dance (a suite of poems)

I. Les Yeux Corses (Corsican Games)

(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.

(A-)Muse use (geule) me to please you, please

sophie bastian

“this play-date is officially over

you can call your mom

to pick you up in her

land rover …“

sophia bastian: juvenile blues

(thank you, soph 😉 )

[intro:]

swimming downtown

drowning the blackest

of blueses

in the darkest of boozes

I, like Ἰάσων in his quest for the χρυσόμαλλον δέρας, the ოქროს საწმისი.

I, like Jason in his quest for the  -as the Greeks put it –

: khrisómallon déras, or the Georgians: ókros satsmisi,

was looking for a cat

like if it was the golden fleece.

But

as much as I failed

You know I am going

to “”get” you

for whatever

nonsensical reasons,

as if life ever

was about sense.

So, let me tell you first

what happened so far:

I went out one night

tried to get something started*

but I failed

I had such  a good time*

but no:

no girl

called me back.

I wasn’t surprised.

But recently

they tell me

I am sexy

I see their tits

or what else they’re shaking

but I wanna bring home

my point

about the decline

of the Holy

Roman Empire

in 1806.

Isn’t, I said, it strange

that

and then I took a gulp,

that someone

suffering from

perianal thrombosis

would decide about

the fall of Empires

fat-bellied lives

existed upon?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

χρυσόμαλλον δέρας,

ოქროს საწმისი

+ Macy Gray’s lyrics of course

 

( 😉 more later. must run now)

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!

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