four poems


CLEOPATRA TALKS TO THE PHILOSOPHERS

1.

When it is said that even dead
We need not now at all be found
Out alone on unhallowed ground--

Heed His rod and reck and rede,
For if this of God His Good Book tells,

Christ is an Angel.

2.

Hope in horror and surrender
No stranger greater honor.
Exiles at home, we exceed ourselves
As authors. "Today: Night."
To which our work also is offered.
Turn me on dead man.
In the forests of disasterous laughter
Mad trees stood red

as big Mars fond of sin.

Stare Eros down,
Hell to pay in coin.
He had with him the "Irrenden--"
On which a music can be played
Of Exit, and insight
Into existion.

3.

Another "wunderkind"
Who treats the Mind´s
Self-same fleshly hand,
Whose future is it?
What part of the book
Don´t you understand?

4.

Whatever exists is
Caused by another
Into the world which

Is his Dream filled
The tombs follow
Follow all who fall

Their eyes to light up
Clear with joy--
Not upon the stones,

Before the children.




SURREALIGION

--is this His "Nature"? His subtle
Invisible Principle, His ancient
Disappointment? Sex nuts,

Children playing dead, phoney
Feelings--
His one son Jesus, puzzling in the

Underground;

Some "Secret Showing." Amor
Or the World´s Soul´s own word´s
Slow disrobing before the mirror of Forms
Is an Image.

The Algebra of Calendars, Un-
Consciousnesses now known;
Fire unfolding in stones
Through union with true good beauty.

Is this His pagan, even
Human woman´s "Mind"?



Office of Treatment Mgt. NYC
1/4/96 (eleven months clean)





EVERY POSE COURTS OUR ATTENTION

Twat´s that you say? I cunt hair you.
Shot the cats--

Night falls everywhere at once.
And that´s it. The life of the
Images with which we
Surround ourselves
Becomes more
Powerful
Than
Our own.
I dream myself lost among tombs . . .

Dime o´ scag, nickel o´ coke.
Life´s just one big fucking joke.

I will read from my deliberately unfinished novel.
"Shoulda stayed in the job corps,
Now I´m a outlaw."
Somebody´s trying to kill me because I´m an actor.

I aint wid this ghost bidnis.

I want to cry over books written in
Public washrooms; the wreCk-
                                          age
On our shoulders . . .
My desk bent, its hands
Up. Finally going
Down under the blows--
Wave after wave breaking off
                                          into
Fragments        of
               unpubliS   hed    verse


Or crumpled paper flowers.

"Pretend you have mosquitoes
Coming out of your mouth."

"Do you want me to tell you
Something that really happened?"




THE TWO AND FOUR GIFTS WORTH BEHEADING


One of the symptoms is death.
To know it had become
A disaster part in there?
Oubliette and abattoir.
I have an extra hour
To hallow all such special
Evenings´ perils.
Where avoir peur means love of fear,
Stones cover
Pictures paper
Pages scissors years.
Play about with shapes
In the faces of wild animals;
The medium of Egyptian spells
And secret Signs. Author
Of so much arithmetic and sad verse--
Circles are good on the inside,
He is looking for his tooth. Using heroin,
Not as a noun. While witching wands
Still swear there´s water, waiting four floors down.




© Geoffrey Cruickshank-Hagenbuckle 2003

process note : "Beneath Paths Myths Tour"
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