No 9

no9

T
ake me back
musique concrète
to the starkly eponymous,
a sound collage with dialogue.
The myth of the dead Paul.
A bottle of claret
along the way forgotten;
cheeky bitch.
Clouds gather saturnine
in descending scale.
Will you forgive me? M yes.
Thunder bouncing ear to ear,
playful the Danse macabre:
xylophone bones
behind the piper’s tunes.
Organ grinder;
a Welsh rabbit
with sunflower-brown underpants
pants in haste.

As time goes by:
a little bit older,
a little bit slower.
In Hertfordshire
amid a shortage of grain
rattling jewelry ladies enjoy
cocktails, laughter like bells.
Vivace string quartet for the
Humpty Dumpty egg man,
Poe the point of perspective.
Nothing worse than not knowing,
business deals falling through,
juba juba juba:
Das Kapitol.

I informed him on the third night when the cock crew: when fortune falls. Ruse of baby coos. O, untimely death. Did you kids see a bike driven by a mistress? Entangled spokes in the rolling Volks. Right! I’ve missed all of that; it makes me a few days late compared with, like, wow! the walrus and weird stuff like that, company freaks listening backwards on the reel-to-reel. Floral bark. All our fortunes are lost; the Wheel of Fortune turns, the house always wins.

Rogue doctors have
brought this specimen,
petri dish forty-two
courtesy of Ponce de León:
I have nobody’s short-cuts
with the situation:
they are standing still.
The telegraph in remorse code:
sit you down father,
rest you. Alright.

So the wife calls me and we’d better go see a surgeon or whatever to price yellow knickers. So, on any road, we end up seeing the dentist instead, who gave her a pair of teeth which wasn’t any good at all, Polly, griping about the fit. I married, joined the bloody navy and sailed to sea. Block that kick! Block that kick! In my broken chair, my wings are broken and so is my hair. I’m not in the mood for whirling dervishes, fanatic ecstatic.

Hubcap hubbub from the cracking car crash,
Rita lost her hair. M die.
How? Dogs for dogging,
hands for clapping,
birds for birding
and fish for fishing,
them for themming
and when for winning.
Only to find the tenebristic
night-watchman in the song
of the night unaware of the
presence in the building
that no-one stops to watch.

Onion soup.
Industrial output.
Financial imbalance.
Thrusting it between his shoulder blades:
the end is near!—
the Watusi : the Twist
: El Dorado.
Loops of revolution out in
snippets of Sibelius and Schumann:
water-colored sound.
Take this brother,
may it serve you well.
Personality disorder,
maybe it’s nothing.

Maybe even then, exposure could be difficult thing. Crosssection of discontent. It’s quick like the rush for peace is, because it’s so much, all too much. Fifty acorns tied in a sack. Good fishes in the kettle. It was like being naked.
Hypothermia.

If you become naked . . .

Hold that line!
Block that kick!
Goodnight.

*[ WSB ].