Sunday, 17 November 2013

Sunday Poem

(manic cycle) 
…go, my songs, verse through the ears of the smilers-in-their sleep, bridge them to their wakes, sound both familiar as a tick when heard with a tock, and strange as the aura of a living-room where a family along with CNN counts down the minutes of the last day on earth…
Go, too, my songs, blast the campers off the piggying back of great-great-great grandpa Dada.
Go to the poets skipping over the limbo-bar of poetry;
Go, my songs, inspire the overthrow of phony poets professing to pliable neophytes: behold: here is how to leap over poetry’s limbo-bar, and into the Antigonish.
Go, my songs, bridge an ephebic seer to his first awakening.
Go to the tear-skinned, wasp-cored souls that hang my offshooting street; tell them: if you have been granted equality you have not received it.
Go to those fuck-stick rich kids cultivating an enviable ennuis and reading campy pamphlets on how to become a heroin addict, who cultivate cliches as ways and aim to be properly impoverished…
Bring, sing, get morning bells to ring
while I the wise Mulciberian am still young…
Go like a closet-moth fluttering toward the sun…
Go my wannabe muses, transmute into muses…
Go through women who awaken aroused, who see their rosy breasts at dawn then fondle them then smile…
Go knowing passion is vision and compassion is vision and the world’s first incision; go, my songs, but try to try one world at a time…
Go as a soft, songed, warm wind on my blood sister’s spirit-lesion…
Go, too, songs, toward them, electrify both dance-floors and psych wards.
Try to soothe the world-wide wound as blindly as heating bath-water would overflow the blobby or sculpturly body…
Let the old recluse see sunset’s red salamander-cirrus.
Let your tyrant-torched melody-lines re-vein Poetry.
Feel free to possess Ezra’s tweed skeletons digging on the Island of the Dead because I only hear the splashing of his jewels in the sea…
Go you clubfooted songs, go in bulldozing throngs over America’s rhetoric, then shroud it with sheets of its amateur anthems.
Cardiac arrest the tyrant’s rhetoricians, including myself, if I should become one.
Nerve-wrack all the tyrants with your by-produced seductiveness; inspire rioters to hang all the tyrants with slack.
Go, my fucking songs: assassinate the assassins, then sing me and bring me their hit lists.
Go my manic’s afflatus:
no back-turn’s wind will sweep the shardy stars;
no Agency will waste Nature’s nurse—
no iron hand will bend your bars of verse.
Go my songs, go whisperingly singing to the silken souls of those who are hunch-backed in media.
Go, my songs, bitch in the voice of my brothers, sing in that of my fathers—go toward those who are feeling their ages or not, whirl in their bodies’ wisdoms, then spin on the tops of your high notes then
halt, in those who see we know they are broken, O peace-keepers in pieces, O hunchbacked-in-the-media, O so-deformed-unmockables, whose damages they, nor I can estimate, then hum for them softly
when you are acquainted, tell them you wish you could fix them with your presence—
tell them you know a less fortunate boy, even if he does not exist;
tell them you know a less fortunate girl, a teenaging degenerate.
Go now me and mine through those I still am too proud to sleep with.
Songs toward and through them all, but jive with what is sleepless.
Chorus in the souls of the hideously bodied.
From Sanatorium Songs (Palimpsest 2013) by Marc di Saverio

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