‘I love you’, my heart resumed
in a husky voice, drenched
in a smokey perfume.

my pulse reverberated the jazzy
tune. Trumpets breezed a solid ‘Dude,
we know he loves you, too.’

I snapped my fingers. Tapped my feet.
licked my lips. The mirror answered:

I slipped through your muggy eye
and lit a ciggie; your icy iris dropped
its hue.

‘Welcome home, baby!’, it sparked
‘It’s been quite lonely without you
in the dark.’


Eager to prove a dot
I drove a spade into a word
And verb, the intent made
A hole inside a noun
Of no return

I touched an adjective,
Wisps of feelings, fly &
Slither down a darkish noun.
Adverbs drowned in spaghetti.

I (verb) you anyway
Always have and always will
What thrill I’d miss
If nouns and verbs failed
(Like the dinner plate)
To deliver this
Ancient meme.


I found him in ice
Water, drenched to his sinews
When I kicked him
He wouldn’t start
And all the time he bit his thumb
For his toes were numb.

He had walked on a
Lot of winding roads and tracks
In his younger
Days when the night
Was all the excitement he got
With his feet half-thawed.

The black of his hair,
Frozen white, like when he was born
That day he went
Skipping along
Even then his thoughts were nappy
(I drove him happy)

Revising his eyes
Was hard. He needed raindrops.
That was a year
And some ago
I threw some nails together
And changed the weather.

The slot at the nape
Of his slender neck in which
I stuck the key
That made him run
The soft humming made him calm
And his harmed heart warm.

A Knife

Of course, you opted for a knife
The sharp end of which is so versatile
One can cut, sever, dissect a smile
To save, or simply end a life.

He can’t be a hero all the time.

Naturally you possessed a wicked eye
For tendons, nerves, & spines
Your tongue could carve the perfect lie
& whisper neatly between the lines:

One can’t be a whore all the time.


With the curtains drawn
I lay inside your iris
And your thoughts flutter
Like fireflies lighting a dark

I stretch my nerves & tendons
And yawn – daylight cuts
Right through the skin.
You bleed a hunger for past loves,
Memories forever fading like a dusk.

I toss. I turn. I wake. I sleep.
I dig a deeper well from which to drink.

Your skin is taut; sewn up with expert skill,
I cover myself with your thoughts:
Armies of bugs swarm around your warmth

I lie inside your iris
Lost in the forest of your memories
Your skin is taut
And I fade like the forever fading dusk.

Boys will be Boys

I love not Boys,
Or silly Men.
I love rhetorically
For lack of toys

But every now and then
I kiss them metaphysically
Just to feel the Universe
Shake with the fever

Of being born again.


Echoes of the Heart

My heart doubles bits of words. I hear them fall apart. I fear the pieces  are getting smaller and smaller – until there only remains U & I. How strange it feels. These  sounds bouncing around like light in my heart. I have been abandoned & adorned with these telling sounds: U & I, a soulful wheezing, a portly sigh. The tension in my skin will never mount –
It is my simple heart’s fault for entreating wishy-washy pixies to grant it what it wants. Instead, I received dreary words of exploration: “What’s in it for me?” Me, I echoed. Me –
But by then I had already seen it reflected in your eyes : I do not excite U. A slow oscillation and U were gone again.

I .. … …… U

Music// Echo Tongues: No Expectations

A Vision of Rotterdam

Gregory Corso: Vision of Rotterdam


September 1957 summoned by my vision-agent

via ventriloquial telegram

delivered by the dumb mouths stoned upon Notre Dame given golden fare & 17th Century diagram

I left the gargoyle city


Two suitcases filled with despair arrived in Rotterdam


Rotterdam is dying again

steamers & tanlers

unload an awful sight

May 1940 stevedores lead forth a platoon of leukemia

Pleasure ships send metalvoiced rats teeheeing a propaganda of ruin

A cargo of scream deafens the tinhorn of feeble War

Bombers overhead

Young blond children in white blouses

crawl in the streets gnawing their houses

The old the sick the mad leave their wheelchairs & cells and kneel in adoration before the gentle torpedo of miracles.

Bombers unanswerable to the heart

vitalize & Sunday afternoon dream

Bombs like jewels surprise

Explosion explosion explosion

Avalanche on medieval stilts brought down 1940

Mercy leans against her favorite bombardment

and forgives the bomb


Alone Eyes on the antique diagram

I wander down the ruin and see

amid a madness of coughing bicycles

the scheme of a new Rotterdam humming in the vacancy