| ::11:28:08::
::: Ode to Paul Cadmus: Edit # 7 :::
“We pass the island of war and the hour we lay bleeding and one of those tropic flies
landed and its freaked-out golden eyes looked at the light… This man remembers how
he set out to find others who were like him but was broken like a claw at dinner…”
From Denis Johnson, Where the Failed Gods Are Drinking
Oh drunken sailor look at me
How many thousands killed?
Within the unique flame of stale red lips,
Oh blonde Adam frame me while I loom over you
The daily news crumpled by your muscular body bulging blue;
Could be 8? Could be 3? Who is counting?
The sad Americans are always counting numbers
Within the frame of childrens' chalk scrawl
Upon the wall park; a memorial gone wrong?
What tawdry flag is before me with these cruisers and their floosies?
I am repulsed dear Adam, your lazy golden locks
Drunk with the red apple unsatisfied with what could be Hatchet face
From a John Waters horror show
A peach pit by your pale pant leg
While your limp hand rests in the confused, unaware protection
Of your effeminate crotch
You are locked down by the serpent of ages, of all wars
About to take the last of your boyish life blood
Her hair the pretzel twist of the serpent
Red and white and he the blue boy of true blue
The drunk, the carousing carousel of the eve of war
Her feet squeezed into the leather pump that
Becomes the foot of the sailor too?
What heterosexual confusion is put upon me Paul?
Air raid, an empty match pack of red
All the possibility to strike has struck,
To build a fire no more, no sex, no attention to the eyes open
No lust, the fire out and the lipstick on the butt-
Where does the hope exist for these sailors?
For these women if they can be called women?
Outside this unique frame which connects me to your world,
Graffiti on the wall-
F*ck you?
By? In red,
A stick man?
Tic Tac Toe anyone?
The swastika is around the corner
And the writing’s on the wall
Park at dusk of the dawn of doom?
Sick yet sympathetic red, white and blue?
To the left she kneels,
An Asian in sick burgundy with eyebrows redrawn
Dear red haired sailor bury your weary
And wonder your closed dream into my
Hallow bosom
I will be your other mother,
Gloved hands worn through,
Exposing the red nails of promise
More coffins held in by only two,
The dirty faux-silver alligator
Purse of our destiny together
It is all we have in this silver time
Of anxiety gone quiet.
White star my back, red stripe my tight shoulder,
Dare you look into my soft pink Cyclops?
Sorry excuse this limp hat may devour you
Before my false eyes,
An anemone of flaccid promise
To advertise your ignorance
“F*ck my red-lipped skull,
I will be your mama, baby, mama forever.”
I am three pairs of red grin
Hungry vultures point down like the cross
Between her breasts the same width as her barrel chest,
Gut one form a heavy triad attempts to hold
Down the dry earth
This deadly triangle that plummets down
Like bombs of the air raid
There are three street lamps in the distance
Oh holy trinity, you know, Jesus saves.
Save us?
Light the way to this liberty,
Once again we dock,
What does the sailor contemplate?
On the green park bench
Unaware of the dusk or dawn
That holds his body like a crutch?
Holy Roman Empire
Bursting at the seams
Red b*tch hatchet face
We are you!
In the distant landscape
Across the river is it ironic
I see three red pin head lights amongst the white?
The same repeated on her witchy face
Foul skin aberrations close up,
Lenny Bruce details in the exquisite
Cross-hatching of your delicate egg-tempera,
Oh Paul what ugliness you paint with such
Consistent grace!
Pink, peach, lavender blue-
Red lips that bind us thrice
Witches I say like that red bangle that binds
Us to you and you to us this window
Seals the fate of these ground seals
Whether sons or sailors
We drink the lochs of your innocent gold
A mane of virgins in the talons of the wings of fire
Drown steamship boy, steerage you!
Stink
Foo!
You who look upon me;
You are a jackass
You
The three pals
Tick-Tac-Toe anyone?
Texas Curly, Artie K., You
And
Hey Evelyn!
Come to the portal
And take a gander, but
Mind your own damn business
Happy fat stick man
You are the T.S. Elliot of eons
Where you still scratch your holy
Hollow D.B. loves L.M.
As the ships and planes
Crash into our love
Scratch away, aways with you-chalk
Spiral up or down the dusk or dawn
Of this eternal frame
Children of drunken gods
We want to make one of Bill Jones Mother
Is a….?
The numbers don’t add up!
But they do, they do! You seem to say, Paul
I sail with youth the J.S. Tiger
Loaded with bullets and
T.N.T.
Crates of
C.S. is a stuck up
Wave of chalk line waves
Fading on a frame of spent desire.
Bring me back, please
It is only wood and not the cross,
Paul you lock me down with a tree,
Its one gaping center eye,
Staring me down the barren event horizon,
Cold, lifeless cunt
I see the marine resists the pull too,
Her advances and his reluctance locked in
A confused disgust?
Horror spent in blue horror,
Mad magazine purgatory,
Vote communist nearly camouflaged,
Stone scared with equivalents:
Jesus saves
462
+ 106
568
The numbers, the numbers!
They are indifferent.
The 3 spent cigarettes
The 3 dead matches
Just more numbers?
Paul do you think you could recruit me?
With these, with these, with these
I am always counting
On your unique window
Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla |
