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these are days of hopeful monsters
who cringe under covers
as smoake wakest thee slumbring beaste
who terraforms the torrid zone?
combustion is the source of light.
transform the torrid zone; thy slumbring breaste;
break forth with fire and fury unleash’d.
I cringe under covers.
-- Aaron Howard
O, these are the days.
Lo, for these are the days when all the songs ever sung in each world’s
youth ring in three circles.
These are the days -- when the old soul rises from its foul mouse-hole,
in our
bright bass(e) prime, when we search for the Fountain of Youth
in the sunless
sea. Googolplex the maps!
Rise, o complex children. Rise into the cock and cunt and through.
I come back to you now: at the Turning of the Tide.
Beware, o Khattam-Shud,
beware my legions, their spears of burning gold, beware my archers of
desire, for we enjoin – we link upon – this War on Stupidity.
We will seize upon your stapler of mouths, your floating ogres and your
voice-trapping box, Gentlemen.
We will bring sanity to your civilization by the Barbarous Yawp.
Now, in the days of Les Cours en Hiver, a Couple of Consciousness appears
in the New Yorker behind a subway of desires, vibrating –
–vibrating the Consciousness Couple enfolds a poem
IN SHAKESPEARE
In Shakespeare a lover turns into an ass
as you would expect. People confuse
their consciences with ghosts and witches.
old men throw everything away
because they panic and can’t feel their lives.
they pinch themselves, pierce themselves with twigs,
cliffs, lightning, and die—yes, finally—in glad pain.
You marry a woman you’ve never talked to,
a woman you thought was a boy.
Sixteen years go by as a curtain billows
once, twice. Your children are lost,
they don’t come back, you don’t remember how.
A love turns to a statue in a dress, the statue
comes back to life. Oh God, it’s all so realistic
I can’t stand it. Whereat I weep and sing.
Such a relief, to burst from the theatre
into our cool, imaginary streets
where we know who’s who and what’s what,
and command with Metrocards our destinations.
Where no one with a story struggling in him
convulses as it eats its way out,
and no one in an antiseptic corridor,
or in deserts or in downtown darkling plains,
staggers through an Act that just will not end,
eyes burning with the burning of the dead.
-- James
Richardson
A breach! An expansion! And as this roiling englob’d
world goes round,
I’ll swirl your galaxies, and forge this ground.
[B]
DAVID SCHNEIDER |
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