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Title: Mascara-Viscera

Author: Paul Cameron Brown

Release date: February 4, 2010 [eBook #31181]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Sorour Imani

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MASCARA-VISCERA ***

MASCARA-VISCERA

By

Paul Cameron Brown

"The voyage of the best ship

is a zigzag line of

a hundred tacks".

Emerson

CONTENTS

9 Flashpoint

10 Marzipan

11 Santo Domingo

12 White China Plates I

14 White China Plates II

15 Mail Drop

16 Headdress

17 Airbrush

18 Swords and Roses

20 Moonrock

21 Smokestack

22 Tickings of a Clock

23 Flashpoint

24 Equinox

26 Penny Wise, Pound Poor

28 Metaphor

29 Embers

30 Skin

31 Asgard

32 Old Brompton Road

33 Street Scene

34 Curse of The Downtown Trade

35 In My Books

36 Made in Space

37 Godiva

38 Pelée

39 Pelée: May 8, 1902

40 Electra

41 Sideway Look

42 Lolita Gardens

43 Unpaginated

45 Sequin

46 Yellow Hair

47 Piltdown Man

49 Spanked

50 The Crowkeeper

51 Cuando-Cubango

52 Onomatopoeia

53 At the Red Throat

55 Shamrock

56 Lost Patrol

57 Blackamoor

59 Up from the Floor

60 Men of Shade

61 Knight-Errant

63 Water Fast (The Pearl Fishers)

65 Tales of a Brave Ulysses

66 Inside Seam

68 Debriefing

70 Naiad Trance

72 Pyromania

73 Tide Charts

75 Village Idiot

76 Clippership

77 Flood

78 Kipper, Tea and Oranges

79 Tank-top

80 Viewer Mail

81 Seagulls

82 Imagistic

83 Living Room

84 High Roller

88 The Garden

89 Canvassing

90 Comments

FLASHPOINT

1

The moon has a larder

and a kitchen,

wears a nightcap

as Father in the Night Before Christmas.

2

The moon hoards pistachios,

marzipan

commands the shadows

is mustachioed

sleeps in a sloop

(at least when I look)

like the boat

owl and pussycat

took to sea.

3

And on country nights

in high summer

fishing nets seem drawn

about his face,

reveal ribbons of light,

eerie panhandlers grubbing quarters;

a sinister sailor with a sack

on a pitch black wharf.

4

Between clouds,

leafy barques

the hinge reflected on the

thick, ashen door

the moon will pirate

your senses

set them adrift

amidst twilight islands

in the mind's Outer Hebrides

where mystery is king

and the hem of robe you kiss

is an envelope pilfered.

[9]

MARZIPAN

1

A thick hole in the dark

from which

stars pour silver

as in pails

their runny divide

ink-strewn scalps

torn from the roof of the sky.

2

Padded footprints

giant ferns blooming

constellation prints,

the wind an athlete

pacing about a track

drying thru fingerprints

thin, nectarine light.

3

Sand down whitest skin

moving past your hand

a gown, mauve to green,

iceberg lettuce,

the black festering

across a ribcage;

while night arranges

moths to dusting powder

pucker-lipped

fronds from afar

4

Afar, the word a gypsy

tangled in the waves,

foam from a medicine bottle

agitated and strewn,

bubbles calculated in gasps

light into the distance

forlorn

tree-frogs, the cricket

sound round deep

--movement of night as

a rumbling in the ground,

[10]

SANTO DOMINGO

In the crypt with Columbus

in the crypt with Giovanni

of Genoa, the diaspora driven Jew;

watching flecks of the cathedral floor

jade-eyed and mica afraid

yawning down brown the abyss, his skeletal coffin

thin accae wood,

phlegm coloured

flamed ointment

of the saints

in holy water

bridging the little centuries.

2

Serpentine heavens

in coiled stars

heaving like passion fruit

hung down piano wire.

3

Meteors douse the light

of black stems,

eye holes cut of old Spanish

sailors; thin ghosts

plundering night.

4

Melange tableaux

peut-étre les étoiles

sont oiseaux.

[11]

WHITE CHINA PLATES I

The moon hummed like a refrigerator,

light thru shadows

--the solitude of dusk closing in;

black scars visible across

the moon's face shaped like

mountainous hands, all

silent, the occasional leaf rustling.

2

My fork at plate's edge listening,

listening to the haunting one eye

on the staircase wall white

as the numb light outside palest night.

Caught off-guard, the musty settee

and armchair acting as hallucinogen

to the nostril, the calendar of events

playing ghostly tag with sheer curtains

hovering, shroud-like, on the family Bible

big and brown as the Lord's foot stool.

3

The unravelling tale slowly much as

thick yarn with a kitten

batting it, one event at a time

in sepulchre movement down a

linoleum floor. Two twins burning,

fever scalded in frigid water only

shock setting in, dying to join

the black creek water from which

her unwilling buckets borrowed

this liquid crucifixion and bitter vinegar.

4

Or the drive-house door, silent in precision,

unseen hands before marauding

hoofs in unison dark from windows' edge

to better hear little poke of

sleigh bells or harness rattling grim

with a sick man's cough.

5

This admission of spectral animals

somehow more unsettling than

the young woman next combing her

hair at the foot of the bed scaring

the daylights out of me picturing

the whereabouts of stockinged feet,

these tricksters from another world;

drum and kettle corps gypsy fife

with harbinger doom to rasp of

falling broom--

old and yellow silky straw witch's hair--

and a cat dark

as the Devil's very bread.

[12]

WHITE CHINA PLATES II

You could have driven

a pick-up truck

thru spokes of that moon, so big and radiant

this upended water chestnut--

ground mist weeping

in the shadows

flutter of an old woman's shawl,

the clammy smell like

a child's fingers to the face,

a little unsettling

crickets and dew in brigades

running tears on the old

shoe leather.

[14]

MAIL DROP

A boat sits on the very shallows

of a lake

in egg-cup fashion,

a tea-cosy covering waves,

orchestrating the bob of colours

in white enamel blue

inverted water.

Afar, the boat is a rasher of bacon

a strip, stripling, stipend

slicing the lake,

distancing.

The boat is an envelope

at the end of the world,

planet-sized, pea-green

about to spin crazily

into the sun at the

end of a rifle-sized

mail drop.

The boat rides amid the

between places of things,

furtive longings

where crones sit within

waiting bushes &

lizards visit skin,

dirge of teeth gnashing

the fringe canopy of

flowing leaves.

[15]

HEADDRESS

Stravinsky's Firebird,

Debussy's La Mer

lilting arrangement like a windmill

with a little Hottentot of a bird

scurrying over leaves

like hot coals,

nest a pudding arrangement,

oven-shaped,

dappled with a string.

She is alternatively

lady of the green shoots,

Empress of an Andes of twigs

for this cow-pie upended

between trees

is fortress and manor,

blockhouse and Maginot Line

careening between the branches

much as a sloth

toe ambles

across the roof of a forest

gingerly stepping on noise,

clinging to velvet footpads,

sitting between shadows

within the roar of a clearing.

[16]

AIRBRUSH

Iced coffee,

wedge of toast--

the sun poking thru

cranberry glass

delights exquisite Duchess of Berry,

her decanters & an hourglass.

Halo-hello in your fingertips

I said,

to a cadaver of light

boldly striking a tuning fork

to ring an engagement

of gold flecks

by your bed.

Limoges vase

for lace and pretty underthings

for outside the stream

steals my interest,

wearing tumbledown silk pyjamas

and a peek-a-boo smile that points

thru reed curtains.

A rustle from her chemise

and sun parasol parts green boudoir

draping shiny, black rock.

The muddle of this earth-time puzzle,

brief flutter to the eyelid's butter--

I saw match-flare

crocheted into the snake eyes

of your dress.

[17]

SWORDS AND ROSES

Some lives have themes.

Goldfish that stubbornly die;

compatability only with distant lovers

--flowers (but no sweet-breads)

that wilt to the touch.

Waiting. Charcoal-grey cat

agreeably on a green linoleum table

with light basking in....

a tad playful,

paws up,

(classic boxer stance)

but no one notices.

Others oblique in their transparency,

are unmindful of even the empty closet

and greeting cards that smile hello.

In the dark

this room shimmers below

life-raft status;

chairs are buoys

bobbing under waves

of congealed fright.

In the morning

the first pigeons

rifle over rooftops,

mad flutterings like your eyes

stabbing gables looking curiously

like your heart.

A tree bandaged in wood

manages a feeble handshake

with sky cajoling winter.

But it is the moon,

large and eerie,

a golden earring

mindful of a Chinese panda

that plies its trade.

Mandarin-like, a snout

so cloud-entrenched

soft night barely resembles

willow and bamboo shoots

the universe left to feed her.

Nuggets or nougats?

Should I call you "opaque",

use coke-bottle glass as a

symbol of light-headedness, transparency?

Keen vision?

Could it be more is known of outer space

than your mind

or that leaves,

frosted with cold,

are conducting interviews

maliciously within the park fold?

Rather (and this is so circumspect)

no one owes anyone

in the brisk coinage and trade

that breeds human waste ...

So drivel passes as conversation,

a handshake for real investment.

A lot in common, the wrong dreams.

Pretty awareness, the desolate pennies

stumble from our hands.

More substance, really,

in the rustle of a silk dress

or static electricity

that pops over orb-sized breasts.

Hide and seek

peek a boo,

you don't need me

I don't need you.

[18]

MOONROCK

She wears a cat encrusted T-shirt

& panties with L*O*V*E

guarding the Paradise door

& when balm of night

casts shadows,

her face is moonrock

distant to mysterious

down storybook crags;

her darling form cloaked

in twilight garments

of an inky earth.

Gates of Venus,

. . . as if feline whiskers

whispered, wan cat eyes

in amber dark glowed pale honey

in alchemy or blur of soft movement

was caress to stars' elopement

with the sky.

This woman summons fire,

stokes furnaces to quicken parchment leaves

of flame-thick desire,

honed soft on ripples

skin tones were curvaceous

drift of oars, vivacious breast on buttock's

door, more moisture bead

holding regal court,

this prance down wet & downy stair.

Rain is a swift messenger

paw prints

with descent of night

where moon

becomes a plaything of

clouds' passion,

and pincushion

upward surge of

clammy earth.

[20]

SMOKESTACK

A small fish,

its colors

embers

amid the swirling water;

reminiscent of a

café in darkness--

the smokestack tablecloth fluttering

in the matchbox breeze.

[21]

TICKINGS OF A CLOCK

I began to see old lanterns, books

opening/folding within your eyes;

a pale light running as silver

to the sea.

Then crestfallen leaves dangling

as from fishhooks or the autumn moon's

skeletal lightness tossing a path

between waves over this sidewalk, that,

with the back streets passing occasional

hisses at the main culprit, night.

The prim measurement of your smile,

not the wan neglect of cool skin tones

or fabric always more suggestive

of summer colours, sideway movement

of shadow into tickings of a clock.

Rather mist and clamminess,

lipstick in a smear as a

thumbprint before the

coughing of a motorcar

as its elliptical wedge

tears darkness

away from sight.

[22]

FLASHPOINT

CHOPSTICKS

Only marginal chances

of finding a Great White

in my coffee

although the cigaret's tubular belly

is flotsam against my hand--

a dirty kerosene color, sleek & grey.

2

And stirring the embers of my cup,

suppose the grinds become primitive shark lore

of forgotten peoples or death sticks,

dry rot teeth, fathoms

squinting light.

[23]

EQUINOX

The four Equinox sisters,

the one, Fox, streaked--

all color, a blur

a Bloomingdale's on fire,

a wedge between Everest

& her fortune.

Samantha, the other

dun-coloured

earth-tide (in full bloom),

blossoms vernally & literally

busting out of her breeches with

eyes like barely sugar.

Jubilee. Fête de la vie.

Lighthouse keeper beckoning twin

shafts of warmth. Camberwell Beauty.

Rattan Bar, shooting star.

Carraciou (and castanet) an evening song,

the most buxom but with dog days & tiresome moods

flushed with heat.

Tidewater in full ripple, a

murmuring of abstract intelligence

orchestrating summer's growth.

Emerald keeper. Silken flax

beguiling smile, wiggling toes.

A stickler for detail, she was (with endless

contortions) always in the grass.

Brumaire, evaporating vapors,

the most withdrawn &

difficult to know--

a dead leaf combed thru

wind-swept hair.

Infernally inclined, a modicum

of sparse economy idly knotting ice thru

a cadaver fence before putting on a brave show--

her stern beauty and most commanding feature, snow,

shone like almonds or stars twinkling from

an anorexic fist.

Alabaster, her prison whiteness

this Brumaire.

A clock, pier,

immovable, still.

Firing up the flashlight

in the dark like

beautiful woods sleeping.

[24]

PENNY WISE, POUND POOR

Fall was a tubercular cousin

residing in the country

sparse hair,

rasping cough.

2

Night air was damaging

stringing pumpkins

around orange chains, the

milkweed pod shivering

in open shirtsleeves

little noises sifting

from burrows in her chest.

3

Fall was...

reputedly from another country

wore glaring cravats,

gold leaf and Rubenesque chain;

stalked the lark

mocked the breeze.

4

Penny wise, pound poor

leaves

a shock of hair

prematurely white

degradingly picked from

the comb

flung out fireflies

crisp bodies to singe

fire-cold light.

5

Advancing stairs

in poor light,

the season became makeshift

wallpaper

hung by tedious hands.

Little seep of plaster dirt

escaping the touch,

grass bristled by frost

where occasional flower

was torched with cold

savaged bees

stumbled from the weeds.

[26]

METAPHOR

There is a star near

the hinge of planets,

a barn under

a cow's lick of moon--

plausible people

moving thru an

airless universe.

Pay attention to the frond of lilac

. . . limestone troughs upon which

thickets of Indian scalp &

devil's paintbrush soar

to the horizon

and, afterwards,

little creeks run

with the sparrows of evening time

in step to tiny boatmen

that echo enamelled snails

from the very consonants of earth.

Rustle of leaves,

some might argue

breathless gasps

to intone the savagery

of little seasonal voices

cut off

mid-stream.

A spate of bees,

early colonizers

deflower blossoms and

strip-mine lava butter of erupting

hard-shell tulips:

such careless penetrations--

volcanic intrusions entomb

their hairy bodies caked with

the iron-lung of blackened soot petals,

each a cough drop

on the heaving breath

of a declining afternoon.

[28]

EMBERS

As you enter into dream--

its the unconsciousness

which stifles,

the thin embers

called flame

that outdistance

the controlled rubric

of desire.

[29]

SKIN

Her emerald top

phosphorescent candy glow

stick candy,

sno' cane--

floss like

the mane revealed beneath,

spun hair matted/woven into

icicle lengths & pubis mink.

Her presence as a monk sliding

under a cowl, jet-black velvet

or midnight eye-liner shadow

knotting strands of dark.

She comes on waves--

candelabra is a name

deft movement of finger

caressing storm, bare legs

shining wet street lamps

decantered ambered wine.

Cigarette floating between lips,

uncharted voyage of the smile

where puffs of smoke

are parrots' wings,

incandescent show-girls

in novelty across the flame.

[30]

ASGARD

In the ardour

of an Asgard fire

see adders from her

vinous fire per

adua ad astra.

Listen to the wind--

the ageless, intoning wind,

a sea-hag encrusted on

a mattress of waves.

Cat's footfall,

breath of fish

the flowering beard of a woman.

[31]

OLD BROMPTON ROAD

"Death is but a sleep"

quaint rationalization

even to Revolutionaries.

Think of Robespierre

holding his bleeding jaw

or Marat outside--

eyeing the inscription,

scofula no longer distracting while

tepidly emptying bath water.

2

Dreams, poetry of painting,

deathly pastel shades alongside

granite canyons

entwined with rosebuds and leaves--

bone horseshoes clanking in the dark.

3

Catch basin, drainage ditch

upon which the raspberry

parts its tendrils and

human remains, the loathing

of the living ("not dead yet...."

...appropriate obscenity:)

scrawled on one Victorian

mortuary, windows knocked out,

coffins in full view a

hand's reach away on a dare

dignitaries in a pile pried loose;

one, few years hence across

the Channel, sworn enemy

to the French.

[32]

STREET SCENE

No open barge

crowded with nameless waifs

or junks in a teeming harbour--

just odours spilling from

a back alley,

stair wells littered with cheap saki

bottles, one propped

to rifle the door.

[33]

Curse of The Downtown Trade

[34]

IN MY BOOKS

The way I figure it, a number of people are

out of control at any given time ...

gin rummy & hockey notwithstanding.

Mickey bottles and varicose veins

are sure signs of indulgence

as are, proof-positive, speed-traps &

roll your own Black Cat.

Sure 'nuff, even Sunday driving stands

at the motor edge of frenzy while

Mom's apple pie is little more than just peaches & cream

home baked greed.

Take stock car racing or the trots, Little Orphan Annie

Comics or Budweiser. Vice, like charity, starts at home.

Each curtails a larger problem and self worship

begins the moment your zipper opens.

[35]

MADE IN SPACE

Mood food. In deep, deep water

without the thought of water bottom,

I thought of you.

Sous la peau rouge,

Chartreuse, I thought

of you.

Dans le cafe du paradis,

ile au emeraude.

Cascades aux ecrivisses

la belle aux Bois dormant.

Tir a l'arc, volcon.

Precious little majesty to Words

nor necromancy of place names,

ma douce.

Partout, je te vous.

[36]

GODIVA

Lingerie,

black pumps

a navel creamy enough

to drown a kitten--

the clothes assemble

in microwave fashion

--crackle of fire--

the silver pants zoom across legs

with curves so caress bound

a formula racing driver

might tumble.

As eyes rise

in jade lantern face

& hair is brushed

with all sheen aside,

the lady is more than

a Godiva

or Goldwyn-Mayer cinematic production,

this oasis of sparks,

twin peaks of McKinley-Matterhorn fame,

her calendar of words

pulling Oil of Olay

& perfumed honey thru

each studied remark.

[37]

PELÉE

The night before ...

sultry Martinique, a

tortoise shell cat

climbed, lap to pipe,

amid curbs of orange smoke.

2

Mount Pelée, a

smoking hard hat

with the candle-wax of longing

gutting in paraffin for

30,000 souls sent to the Crematorium

her harbour hissing

lava foam;

even coffee beans fused into

other metal bits, a

danse macabre twittering machine,

(nature au contraire),

tortoise shell improviso with

splotched colours weaving dawn's light

& feline crouching.

3

--the curl of her island's paws

lanced in heat,

brief wisps tugging Pelée's

synopsis (dark & smouldering), with

cat eyes glowing

up the mountain dark

into vegetative whiskers.

4

Pull of my pipe full leap of centuries

before the bite of the stem

dumped fire again

[38]

PELÉE: MAY 8, 1902

With the smile of morning

in her purse,

the dark laughter of her

cat napping

in the crevice, half-alert,

Martinique (angelique)

on padded paws

climbs from night.

I saw her hair-brush

the lava to warm the bay,

crinkle little St. Pierre

jammed into one

parking lot, volcanic embrace.

In the little museum

--the holocaust cenotaph--

Nature pared essentials to the bone,

a cauldron of smoke

peers from old photographs

to cement (danse macabre)

bric à brac ivy/stone and

coffee beans wedded

in grandeur

fission-fusion-froideur

resembling masses of bees,

grotesqueries & beards

upstaging even Miro & the distant surrealists;

where reality masked vampire fiction to

roll sulphuric heat toward belches of

St. Pierre's prison.

And Cygnet

(his name close in French to "Swan")

leg-irons)

(subterranean chamberling peeking out),

undaunted solitary survivor--

the bars on his charnel house

were the fingers of God

pointing the way free.

[39]

ELECTRA

Fantasy, Capri. The edge of a pillow.

Certain words--murmur, seashells.

A face beckoning thru time, lacy windows with

purple shades simultaneously drawn.

Tears of gold. Love signs,

glass of champagne.

A tree of hemlock nearby. A delightful print

tablecloth that signals the breeze. The courtier

in fancy dress. Twin bottles of vintage wine abreast

rider and horse.

Potables. A blue eggshell. The sun stirring Virginia Creeper

that moves in unison with the wind.

Electra and electricity, the current that prods the mind.

[40]

SIDEWAY LOOK

It's snowing and all I can think of

are leaves to wrap your memory,

leaves pungent as tea,

green curls alive

with the promise of fire,

shutes like fingers

to play a tap on your skin.

The snow is wet like your eyes at parting,

cold as the promise of a winter dawn

wet again as city-streets

I must tread to make a living,

the flask of wine

pressed to my lips.

On the winter landscape all

I see is the ghost white of sheets,

our sheets wrapped to keep breath warm

the log cannisters of our bed

a heady raft upon which to travel

to burn up an ocean of delight.

[41]

LOLITA GARDENS

A man weeps at your ankles,

climbs the stairs to peek-a-boo

panties, with finger clasps,

a Rapunzel lowering your hair,

the long-matted braids

a skilful weaver turns to gold.

An ivy forest in

a castle impregnated with doors,

the prince overhears the code

"let down your hair" and,

with perilous grasp,

mounts the stirrup wall,

foot to clasp,

searching cloud grey &

storm blasts for billowy mists

green within this empress queen.

Walking plasticine ledge

in the shower with a mermaid

soaping her perfumed treasure trove,

at an intersection within that woman,

her tulip trees explode--

faeryland syrupy,

tasting of apricot and sugar cane;

a swallow parting indigo sky.

[42]

UNPAGINATED

Orchestrating violins thru whisky sky

clouds slide like billiard balls

a Jackie Gleason - Fats Domino

ricochet off greener velvet;

my pheasant escaping snow.

Jack Ketch the hangman

in brilliant plumage,

a touch of Borgia in

long, murderous hands.

The light of Capone in

steeple-dark eyes

running like a

haunted ship

around the white, facial disc.

Offset. Bold type.

I see you through pages

of my history book

only you're unpaginated.

Unclench the fist,

watch for effervescent islets,

erotic mounds of Venus or

protuberances called Marquesas

off my left hand.

Omens are the cloth

of dreams, scissors

used to open sky.

Work out cosmic debts--

figure stone footprints on Hollywood Blvd.

en route to Tijuana for a start;

I should have been Buddha incarnate

or curator at the Hermitage,

wild shaman for the Arapaho

not a cocoa butter salesman

from New Jersey, nagging

soda-jerk in L.A.

'bout the time

of Marilyn Monroe's

quick magic.

The Almighty unpacking orange crates,

sending Florida cold

unravelling karmic debt,

brass studs in your eye

mowing suckers with your scythe;

Birthpath urge, Father Time,

de-gutting chickens at Pleasure Farms

looking to Hindoos for clues

(placing roaches on a lucky few.)

This hurdle over stones

crass fortitude ensemble,

strange melange

spewing nails,

elbows round thin pain

gutter cathedral looming into view

where there

is more viscera than mirth before

ripples of enchantment

cause vibrations at four

and the phrenology

of universal measure

is a moon

ribcage in light

--gazelle of trees

a dinosaur in height.

[43]

SEQUIN

A youthful bandit

this forest--

faltering eyelids in mud troughs

& puddles like

brisk lies

woven thru deception.

Stealing autumn into

its colours,

leaves in birchbark rustle

a full mauraude stealth

across every breeze.

Thief, thief

elf with a key,

a thousand rasping angels

their throaty javelins

hurled from branch's edge,

brief pageant robbing

summer's pantry.

Offal of the fall,

the lake a sequined glove

tossed from a careless hand;

a rowboat as a buckle

chromatic foam

for a finger's fan.

[45]

YELLOW HAIR

With that lime green hairnet

commonly used by butterfly dispatchers--

something your aunt might have commandeered

to put her hair up donkey's years ago,

I unjarred the bottle of air &

with a pair of forceps

tried to wrangle the life juices

from a Polyphemeus[1] in a manner akin to Ulysses

in that cave three millenia ago;

his gentle bleating like the whine

of the net across the gelatin fabric

of air or the flash of a tomahawk gliding

across Custer's golden hair.

[1] Large buff silk-moth with two eyespots on the hind wings named for

the giant Polyphemeus in the Odyssey. Ulysses had the giant blinded

with a sharpened pole.

[46]

PILTDOWN MAN

Popping out of the dark

reddish "Merry Christmas" haze

twinking blinking land of Nod (or

rather it's Ned, the hefty trucker);

eyes, steel-belted radials,

in a rig big like Santa Claus;

a Stegosaurus

swinging sabre-toothed tail

& flexing padded paws

to gobble night.

Loads so dreary-weary their chrome-plated

swamps are debris after a tank battle

for troglodyte trilobites &

chocolate coloured ooze

belching brown down funnel flaps

to carve deep bellows inside earth.

Such energetic slaves

to cough & sound their

wheezing sandy blasts make for

breaks in a clearing

for I see our trucker,

eons from now,

wedded to sentiment and rock

perfectly preserved (to the dismay

of future inhabitants), a fossilized

remnant complete with

steering wheel embedded in his chest

(forlorn and anatomically correct much as

dolls used in assault cases).

In a vision,

envisage his life

replete to the last Raggetty-Anne detail

--straw-coloured hair, for one,

looms like binder-twine or

horse-hair thread tugged from a dirty mattress

which props a toque or baseball cap,

tobacco staining the resident

gum chewing Neanderthal

with tartan lumberjack shirt.

Contact with Piltdown Man,

soggy Homo Erectus

given to gunning engines,

churning rubber as cavemen

might in the

La Brera tarpits.

Consider a farmer

brief centuries ago

stumbling onto a similar scene

pocketing no cloverleafs

of his own pasture's making

but concrete expressways

looming thru the fog

& damp, then

coming to his senses,

hard-pressed as I.

[47]

SPANKED

Buying up egg rolls at 50¢ a kick,

they royally entered our bloodstream

--a riot of sensation

akin to dynamite caps

kicked off in the brain.

Later, sitting in the booth

a chocolate brown wall

to aid the digestion;

a frumpy waitress

plunks water down

to complete the feast.

Taken back, the surcharge

at such festivities exorbitant,

we squander in exact change

the full price to do it again.

[49]

THE CROWKEEPER

"she gallops night by night through lovers' brains...."

I see grindstones in the sky,

pots of tulips overturned

--big tug of the reins

and chestnut hair

is seen before the windowpane

with chance & more chance lost to

frost or hungry bees

this still autumn eve.

Darling,

walls that division us

are envelopes of passion

bridging trust, seal it

lest it rust.

Skeletal scrapings

make for poor bedding

(this poor rhinoceros of lies)

the devil gliding about so disguised

on his tentacle and toenail chair

(inviting lair) or is it

hiccup and bandaged prayer

yet stalwart wall is a rosary bead

thick ale and bread to hungry snail

or, better, lips to Romeo's blushing pilgrims.

Then, sudden, I'm old--

on a bench counting stars

where each is a radiant patch of energy

leased to the dark,

an emblem burst mailed from eternity,

spark to cigaret's flame

to burn these little suns

as cupid tails; your "bright eye, scarlet lip,

fine foot, straight leg

and quivering thigh."

[50]

CUANDO-CUBANGO

Moths, if they dream dusk,

sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings--

gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,

traverse caravans of colour

amid silk-routes

to dazzle Prester John,

cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.

2

Compte de la Mothe

escadrilles/flotillas

D'Entrecasteaux

with Bougainville discovering

well, Bougainvillaea and I,

latter day la Perouse,

cunningly amuck on coral

adoration and wine,

(red as scarlet leaves)

chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours

of the flame-bitten tropics.

3

Let me scandalize why.

Watch the sea churn

to white bubbles then coat

your nostril with brine

to run a finger

down brown skin passing

for the Bronze Age.

4

Notice the invention of sun,

a cloak suspended

in a canopy-canoe profusion

(left over from the first dawn,)

oasis of calm,

patter of motes and beams.

Garden of Shalimar.

5

My sentiments exactly.

[51]

ONOMATOPOEIA

One thing about this type of education, it certainly taught an

individual to be philosophical about death.

He could ruminate conversably on the ultimate fate of a Greek

shade or the Mesopotamian interpretation of the underworld.

Even contemplate figuratively what Achilles felt was his true

funeral abode.

Shoel. The grave. Romantic poetry might have little practical

application but it was great conversational stuff.

A book or two by obscure authors sure broke the ice at parties,

was unbeatable verbal jousting.

Too bad the joke was on him for majoring in it.

Few people really cared what onomatopoeia was or that

Presquile was in Maine. Worse, they acted like you were nuts

for studying the Aeneid. The Aeneid! It did, too, have

importance. Literature, that is.

Why it gave a man depth, a presence, a gracefulness that

transcended petty, material strivings. Too bad, one couldn't

show the white palms of one's hand for a living or revel in soft

flesh as the natural mark of a born aristocrat. O tempora, oh

mores: that the classics had fallen so low.

It was maddening that literary civilization was within a hair's

breadth at being snuffed by the ordinary convention of task

bearing.

Being a poet, so basic to everything, didn't even show up on

Manpower's computer scan.

The universities didn't care they were having the times of their

lives parsing verbs and conjugating declensions, telling

graduates "the pendulum will swing".

The best retort for that was the pithy epigram of the working

man toiling in honest sweat within the secure bounds of a trade.

[52]

AT THE RED THROAT

In youth, Death was

a puny boy possessing but

wormy hands & fleshless fingers

as in Witch Hazel

or Scrooge's Future Ghost

--that insipid Evil One

Hansel so easily outwitted

in a gingerbread house.

Time brought increased notoriety.

Saucy times with a soupçon of respect

for the artful dodger.

Givens change, an armful of

orange lilies, limp & loathsome,

on a tombstone door

before trumpets of rain.

Graven images. Lifeless stone.

Death became stone.

Stone empty. The maggot emptiness

burrowing into chiselled easel and

the stone-cutter's savage magic.

Just a bitty stone

to herald a passing.

Night-jars.

Old straw-chairs with

a broom pronouncing

the wall base with its touch empty,

the empress of bandages

leaning to rags

on table scraps,

sorry gloom of an old building

by a pickled lake

leaking into ebb twilight.

The coronation of the nightmare,

the moon with her billowing robes and withered spoon

unfolding midstream ...

la cauchemar ou

dénudée soirée

to discover, with wonder, ices with sherbet

reek like nightsweats;

a windsail of pooled light

thru puddles of trees.

Brackish backwater--

thoughts of black ice

and huddled masses of silver

breaking thru the sun's

winter curtain as erupting coins.

[53]

SHAMROCK

Is there anything prettier than that--

to stare into your manifold spaces

toward the hook & vine

of cathedral leaps,

the vaults & crypts

as go-betweens of an earthy worship,

the supine female form?

By quiet pools,

thrush in the thicket

with red berry behind its eye,

miniature sun

proceeding by the branch

to undress the bark

with leaves as

passionate culprits

kissing dark.

Clasped hands

upward lies the sky

my masterpiece angel,

I bite lush meadows,

tread spongy brooks,

endear daring small of back,

crevice taste nape and neck,

a beatific pilgrim nearing

a fleshy way-station,

first charting his compass,

fathoming a probe

to collect armfuls of starlight &

shade, hair, eye, lip like fragrant sea-grape

--pine & cedar bough in love-lorn resin smile.

[55]

LOST PATROL

Blue walls were grottoes,

subterranean panels

for covert messages, the

occasional mot juste

squirrelled up thru paint & memory.

Something like guitar strings dangling

only you employed

tear sheets from Rolling Stone

(counter-culture fly paper

to catch the runny masses).

The blue walls existed as

firing ranges, gunpowder

plots for ideas scribbled

on pencil waves

like the movement

of snakes (or commandoes

on their bellies) thru

desert sand.

Blue walls. Blue grottoes.

Blue moods to temper finger oases

(tap-tap of skeletal tree on your window pane)

crawling thick with pregnant fruition

with the bayonet lull of words.

Snippets of that legacy (hobnailed like a

lost patrol)

forlorn as yellowing pages

or dusky petals unfolding.

[56]

BLACKAMOOR

Breaking up--

as in the cloissoné jar you dropped. . .

little regard,

a few brittle pieces scattered about the floor.

Let's call it "shedding feelings". Expensive?

There's always another humidor tucked away in

the cranny of another antique shop; after all,

a woman is only a woman

although a fine, Cuban import

is a worthy smoke.

"What this country needs is a good 5¢ cigar".

Panatellas?

He might have added tight-fitting, long lasting.

Nooks & crannies.

Little things, your ways. Fruit fly (perhaps damsel wing)

as symbol of perishability. My emblematic coat of arms.

No season of regrets, rather

snatch of minutes, the oasis span of a single candle.

Who knows?

The sun nudging petals

at the close of another day.

Your eyelids casting shrouds (and shadows),

the long funeral walk of your hair across the pillow.

Then awakening. You gathering tresses much as a bird trilling

feathers.

Clandestine, these

rendez-vous' Clementines.

Air of mystery and melancholy street,

the moon up & poking

holes in my argument.

Tedious fingers,

no account

matter of factness

lasting eternities.

Imagine, you & this moon,

dowagers together crotchety,

decades hence, making tea.

Curls of black leaves, grumbling.

Blackamoor and sadness,

cult king of empty

transforming the bright & ruddy

complexion into barely honourable dishwater.

You can ask what this means.

A cough. Twirl of spoon

in a cup, deafening answers.

I prefer the lonely

wine bottle,

egret in flight & motion,

retaining dignity across

a crumpled, brown bag.

Listless, linoleum floor.

[57]

UP FROM THE FLOOR

They sit in silence. In camera, around the table. Terrifyingly

stern, stares that grew antlers in my eyes.

It was as if thunder or bolts with electricity were being decreed.

The self-important, the pompous, well-fed and self-assured.

Here to hazard a fling of the dice--to decide whether another

should eat.

Employment. The interview. One with yellow tusks protruding

to his coffee cup. Eyes, some primordial forest cut for a

firebreak back of his soul. And I think of the desperate, those

lacking bus-fare to get to such a carnival. Valuable postage

money, photocopying, scrimped dollars for a suit to entertain

the pumpkins dicing for a worthless garment. A scavenger run,

piles of white applications heaped as bones in a graveyard made

careless after a violent storm.

Or elephants in tow, trunks wrapped around the other waiting

for the ringmaster to signal the question important; whether

a neophyte new at sharpening his teeth at a daily wage should be

allowed presence onto such a hallowed ground.

And I think such things are the very matter of evil--that these

are vile intemperates with their accursed shortlists deigning to

be gracious, shaking hands after the fact. Mafioso manners, the

sickly grins back of the shovels used to bury another.

[59]

MEN OF SHADE

All the candles are passing out, one by one.

They have evaporated their brightness,

overpowered limpid cracks in their own flames, seized

the outpouring air with hesitant breath to brave

a flicker of new hearth while knocking holes against

the warm men decorating fireside shade.

[60]

KNIGHT-ERRANT

A well-thumbed book

like a well-thumbed life,

"whilst you walk this earth"

yet nothing is "afoot",

as so many small boys

throwing stones through the funeral parlour

glass door.

A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting

across the face of the multitude is terrible

algebra running into unfathomable sums.

"Doing your sums", my grade school teacher

used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper,

learning lessons in a strange stamina

sort of way.

One of the multitude died last night &

is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour.

Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek

at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his

last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious

even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour

to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the

month to go packing. Finale.

"Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping

prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses

into the apparent.

One sees a lot by the moon.

Crisp, fall air and

leaves yellowing

frightened from their wits

to end their brief, balloon walk. Such

faraway faces of Eve and a boat

moored to a dock.

Crossing streets --

a gray, fusillade church,

knight-errant, breaks the night.

Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds.

Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the

stained glass window I see her. She seems

to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through

at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions?

Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating

are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy;

shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting

what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow.

Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their

reward".

More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies

and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's

cork.

This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist

collecting,

watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a

glade.

The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that

makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black

funeral vestments for me.

Standing close to the clock and thinking.

A luxury bought with time,

in every evening weeping in the corner.

[61]

WATER FAST (THE PEARL FISHERS)

Shopping in their heads

--a man a pair of shoes

right colour (tan, off-white) shape--

only good physiques need apply,

degree, tall;

self-confidence a "must".

Not yuppie, really,

more consumerism as in

I made the grade (she really

thinks this; meanwhile, she's

plump, dull).

Standing in the showroom window,

she spies the mirror image of herself.

Your attitude is your altitude.

Of course, he's "polished"

(tho' not worn), urbane

witty--this goes without saying.

Well-travelled, maybe, though potential

liability, here, suggestive of footloose.

Restless. Perhaps given over to bouts

of hedonism--a dangerous portent.

Feel I've stumbled back in time,

holding court with Cesare Borgia,

Lorenzo the Magnificent significantly

transformed to a Renaissance courtier.

Harpsichord and madrigal in hand (& head,),

I recite my litany.

I pack a mean wallop--

humour, I mean,

for no one on this spic 'n span

planet wants somebody too droll.

Intensity is a ripple from the sixties.

"Relationship", kickback to the after-glow

on-glow seventies.

Eighties women love "feedback",

"interfacing". Its fashionable to

think chic. Restless troubadours

should be dyed in their own ilk.

Sporty chaps are in demand, ones

with visceral longing for babies &

the peroxide smell of Javex in

diaper pails wafting thru their nostrils.

Heady brew, Perrier & BMW types.

Chrome-plated men with the

razzle-dazzle of the Boardroom

tugging at their cufflinks.

Mutual funds equates with mutual interests.

The man's wishes?

A dollop of Dijon mustard on you!

Hitting the nail on the head.

Holding up her middle finger

to dry nail polish, I see

my future and, golly,

does it ever shine.

[63]

TALES OF A BRAVE ULYSSES

Artists (astrologers never lie)

are birthed when

Venus is rising--

not against cat's whelp

(eye of newt, tongue of frog)

calamitous mist or London fog;

far, ferny forbidding fenn.

When Venus rises, yes

dons Botticelli's cloak

or was it her hair

gathered in tresses

long by lovely handfuls

parading it all

on a patty shell

--her twin oysters ambrosia

a Ulyssean mirroring winedark sea,

purpling color of a robin's egg.

Artists are born

in something of Venus . . .

conceived along coral-corral

highway lariats, foam

of passion

modern cowgirl

lowering the drapes.

[65]

INSIDE SEAM

Having wilderness cracks

in emotional facades

chinks within

to let cabins in.

2

Porous wind

examining pavement,

foot-sore maybe loose

winding entrails

of our hearts

into lavatory paper;

would that it pleased

riddled trees

--more whistling,

poked holes

across oasis tracks

wandering spaces.

3

Blistering thought,

paint flecks

chipped in the mica-afraid

heat of wan-ton passion;

(acknowledging debts to Chinese cuisine)

a wan smile

left from which

I pretend to remember all.

4

Love-smitten

to lend

the reach of your arm--

sighs,

droop to

hips heaving

a droll verandah

(like curtain's edge

across the exhausted wall).

5

Besmirched stain,

The lavender hoop

of your belt is a winding lizard's skin

or perspiring rope

to anchor the filmy edge

of letters written,

not sent.

The breeze,

quiet wind--

a chipmunk

with woodchips

poked into a grin.

[66]

DEBRIEFING

I won't envy the heat this August.

The fall (English say autumn)

burrowing like urinating dogs

thru trees,

carrying winter woolies

with sniff of air

crisscrossing the lion's tamer's

path I must trod

when snow hits.

2

No, I won't envy searing blasts

be they inclement

weather or lost souls

bargaining with rain.

Acceptance . . . they say

is the key

and the word clangs like chimes

into my biology, a grandfather clock

to my own chamber music, a

little something to cheer and

serenade the buffeted spirit.

3

Think still thoughts in gloomy houses

when petals cry burst in springtime.

This is done in preparation

for brighter moments

ecstatically greeting

November chill,

devouring the last chestnut,

cursing wheat-cakes over

winter's fire.

4

A pleasant page

crammed in the tumbler briefcase

carrying my life's thimble,

rocketing toward

a brilliant destiny

all 4 seasonal planets

orchestrating mood;

the patch quilt procupine

quill emotion tapestry

working overtime like

a fish hook thru

brain's inner eye, ocular

hair shirt pulled on

at warning's glance

to trigger the way I boil eggs;

devour slivers of wood

on learning another day

kicks ass from

the horizontal pillow.

[68]

NAIAD TRANCE

The leaves on their trumpet flames

Richter scale inside pulse stems--

into the gorge, la gorge

throat and crevice

of the canyon arroyo.

Walking the slit

into rheumatism earth

the twilight pain

of Paleozoic ice,

Jurassic Age

whence rupture

sculpted rock

River precipice

the afternoon dangling like shadow

beside taiga sun

lost to dark & rain

toward the water now,

ever, and chemical rushing sound.

Chameleon, I would swear

this journey was that,

worse, sorceress on my emotions;

I left pathways contoured with Merlin rock

& trees like Babbitt refugees

from the Nahanni,

fearful Dogrib aboriginals

swarming my imagination

their scalp-locks loaded for bear.

Arabesque boulder,

lavender curls of winter-wind swept moss and

berets of tiny, dead soldiers. The

moisture between

you and clearing.

Hushed forest

an envelope edge

of moisture patterns,

more leaves

in reindeer formation

asserting themselves

in beckoning sleighs and

trance of veined, elfin hand

skirting cracks & fissure gloom.

[70]

PYROMANIA

She had a fireplace--

the sexual kiln

of her pyromaniac

desire,

a brick embedded in heat,

white hot coal to ember,

her lust flaring red,

soot to powder

dark as charcoal

smear, a walk

across shimmering mirror.

[72]

TIDE CHARTS

To create dream--

the pearl thru wine effect,

oil and vinegar viscidity

of giant salad leaves

basking on the

broken picnic table

like so many lemurs

taken to a

Malagasy forest.

Liverwurst on rye,

cuff-links drag

the hard, mica table;

so, why be afraid

'cause spume from waves

glows upward

in so many trails of

grey-laden smoke?

This island looks like a loaf,

a dot or mole on inviting cheeks,

to me; so wary, invariably, of land

(and perhaps the Sand Man)

amongst all those wandering eyes,

especially the sea-scape,

curl of snake

illuminated

in a sudden, tropic shower.

See the sudden bandanna of rock

squeezed so tight by

shore's edge that a

grim hammer of stones

intones a warning?

Its back from the wars

to dive, there, among

threads of water

where needle eyes of little

fish ("young fry of treachery")

are so scalpel-like

dunes and eddies

of living colour

shake you.

To slake a thirst.

For adventure.

For precision.

Try a lavender roll of water

curved in bite recess

much as a conch's outer shell

dons triple-ripple effect.

Up the stakes. Skillets off the

meandering edge are pounding

undertows and riptides resemble

porters in foreign airports

who simply smile. . .

Purple dye

on white toga,

water retches up

on land.

A necklace, this activity, in warm shallows.

Consciousness raising--reef life coming

into contact with the bumper edge to freedom.

Heavenly bodies

parry light from the moon,

wrath from a deeper bellows

cough up one hand

raised in silver mourning.

[73]

VILLAGE IDIOT

Dodder capitulates on his bum,

skulks under fence posts

a twitch of Timothy weed prying

apart his massive lips.

A strip of lavatory paper

his golden rule; the

merrie lad bakes ready made

surprises to the jowled response

of his parting brains.

The mastication of shoe laces

on tired leather jerkins akin

to grinding Michelin rubber--his

reedy voice in overbite haste

rounding corners like a club-footed

dog travelling edgewise

from his master's sight.

[75]

CLIPPERSHIP

Pausing to see

light thru chinks

the corner door

battered barn floor

musty webs and pebbled face

expect shadows from

flecked dust, yet

damsel flies

with doily edge

blanket the air

a throaty radiance

in angel hair

and stepping stones to

nearest crevice

and laddering place.

[76]

FLOOD

White ermine/white semen,

green eyes jade from the night.

Eternity falls in sparrow,

an inch-worm down

a pear-coloured leg,

within this droplet

lies coiled raptures

of a snake,

anointed coils

musky as in woolen handshake

where tributaries turn into socks

wrapped to the vertebrae clasp

of a teenager's leg.

My fingers are

frying skillets

slow-boiling water, with precision,

your rivers & chasms,

a vagina white knuckle rafting

across your enchantment.

[77]

KIPPER, TEA AND ORANGES

Our lives evaporating as we talk,

flypaper from cosmic ceiling--

We gather stardust,

mnemonics, perhaps,

re-arrangers of mystic twigs

into a pattern.

Look to the sky,

les nuages, l'ombre

les arbres alla primavera

"magnificio", said I

with real relish &

snap of ring-encrusted fingers,

distant God, not quite Himself,

behind a podium exiting the band shell.

[78]

TANK-TOP

I was playing sonatas on your skin--

no beauty & the beast scenario

though the Tower pulchritude was intact

with enough purple agape grape leaves

and ivy for a fig-leaved Eve

with wind wet at the windows

(and later the willows),

where gravelly, cloven hooves became party

to my thoughts; for you,

blessed with a triangular patch,

--and something like strawberry--

lay moist & woven into strict tapestry

like a mantle covering

abrupt oasis of skin

(the better to peer in).

I scaled the heights

not castle vaults, mind you,

but the elevator shaft and draw-bridge equivalent

of a white charger--

fierce visor in place

--armour gleaming--

a sabre rattling at my side

be-jewelled & twinkling

the key clinking

there, to corner distance

(time & space)

dragons to be dirked and slain.

Fiery eye, forked tails

donut-sized scales

plastered as a calendar

or shingler might a tiled roof

--the empty spell

Bellerophon spying his Lady in a belfry

on driving home.

[79]

VIEWER MAIL

The sky was

a ringed net of honeyed light,

(colours from peeled apples)

funnelling cloud ...

tumbler over dice

(the carrot throat

lemonade pie)

twin coins in a fountain

brief lantern spark amid

twittering noise.

The trees were awaiting giants

gathered to fumble about the river

noiseless bridge

and, I, skyscraper man

dangling a reflection,

(afternoon tea)

muddy me

Jimbob expression

water angling for dirt.

[80]

Seagulls

[81]

IMAGISTIC

There in the cosmos--

white dwarfs launch a black rooftop

imagistic, clean as a pantry,

the twilight roads with ledges lean

like raw openings.

And coming upon stars

in a country woodhouse

--cold, big as frozen pears,

each breath of light visible

thru chinks & clusters

of broken ceiling wood;

hands raw & nipped sawing logs--

breath menacing the depths

on inner space, something pale

and profoundly suggestive.

[82]

LIVING ROOM

If anatomy were a contact sport,

the stomach would be a football

éstomac, hammock

sagging . . . .

the container of riotous living

pried loose.

And the head--

a barrel of nails,

binder-twine

unravelled into knots;

the brain a cauliflower

for flavouring,

precious little else.

Spare the heart

its dagger pleasure

inveighed from the start.

[83]

HIGH ROLLER

1

Terrorism--

left-wing nerd (twin

grapefruits in his hand

gives it away)

winging a stiletto shoe,

spitting on an ashcan

to bring up a bruise or two.

2

Visions are steadier--

I see in the shimmer

blue veins to target,

a silhouette of the rich,

fur wraps in their Bentleys

time to bring up tar,

kick ass in Knightsbridge

with my holiday bomb blast.

3

Bag snatching can be dangerous

let go if you don't want to be

dragged over cobbles behind a Vespa.

4

The Harrod's sign, "please keep

moving" meant business.

5

Pretoria calls as does Manila.

Later, perhaps, Jerusalem, Beirut,

Rawalpindi.

6

Closer to home (I am of the Red Army

faction) is the Bologna train station.

7

Counting hours down

my button line,

three less then

pay-off, squeakily clean.

8

London seems indifferent

to my destiny; even the

tube buskers and streeties

see not a harbinger

but another shuffling

cold-assed long hair.

9

The wired whisky bottle

in the airport locker

will make La Guardia look to

the Statue of Liberty for deliverance,

10

I'll send the Hotel Crillon

so far up the Eiffel

they'll have to sandblast

the sky.

11

My mentors

spic 'n span boys

no wild-eyed radicals

with socks that won't stay up,

rather gumless wizards

taking Confederate rain,

mainlining a little

to keep the nerves steady,

orders direct from Moscow

with money laundered a bit,

beats haphazard work and

petty contracts on local businessmen.

12

Cells (I like the word)

master-mind

co-ordinate and synchronize

revolutionary inter-cooperation.

A swine in Munich

is the same swine

without his leather jerkins

in Santiago.

13

Brains coming apart

on soles of shoes

a pantheon of causes to choose,

let's see, neo-revisionism

counter-revolutionary

criss-crosses with

degenerate bourgeoise

capitalist turncoat,

(both must die)

the urgency lies in

which commands my

holier dross.

14

Brothers in the struggle

need empathetic eyes

to square off

the titanic quarrel.

15

Cleanse the body politic,

reads one directive.

Rub not ointment but horse radish

over decomposed, societal skin,

a brisk cleansing with your strigal

but one revolutionary application.

16

"De-stabilize", the latest buzz word

flies to the manure heap

just kick in the door--

those planter's peanuts

know the score.

17

"Property is theft"

I'm lisping in the burning sun,

Ethiopia done

Tigré and Eritrea

key components

on the Horn's chessboard,

mere human paste

re-patched, re-worn.

18

Ditto, "take-out", liquidate.

Run a new poker thru the rubble. A good

anarchist's cathedral accomplishment

is the chicken coop's destruction.

19

Make the rich pay.

Squeeze the goose to the pips.

All power to the people;

a gun run

is a good itch,

works up a powerful thirst

for Justice;

good mercy disguised

brother Lenin

as a simple dock worker,

the plague-bacillus quickens.

20

Orange filaments of smoke

are better than the factory whistle,

a good arsonist recruits

his own flames,

fans his own fire.

The crackle of desire

over hearth stones

is reward enough in itself.

[84]

THE GARDEN

And like a cobbler at a bench

I return to my musings

why Kensington Gardens

with its grand, theatrical entrance

is gateway to London's poor

--why the stiff Victoria and Albert

monument or grand canopy

to the Hemispheres

has a bison for the Americas

or sultry elephant of

Asia fame

(India being the brightest

jewel in the Empress' crown);

why other archetypal animals at their pleasure

are carved in gleaming milk white

when the rich at their

leisure, to and fro,

dine elegantly as tight

buds arranged on a stem.

2

I've not mentioned the poor

come to the Serpentine

a little ways up in Hyde Park

only to be chased out

of Kensington at closing--

the cobbler at his bench,

croupier at Whites,

the elephant as a hatchet beast

run amuck

in the stellar pool

of the eye's fixed poor.

[88]

CANVASSING

And I thought of things,

things that come in small clutches,

tiny memories,

thoughts evoking the

approach of time or

footsteps about to open graves.

More things than the troubled

single entities we attach to them;

things marbled with the elasticity of rain,

rumours of war, pitch black leaves in the

bottom of a pond where the whelp of a dog

tries to outrun night.

[89]

COMMENTS

...unrestrained, imaginative writing.

Brown's magic is the vibrating universe,

his sympathy is his ability to receive these vibrations.

Sympathetic Magic captures the movement of life in its intervals--

his poems resemble stopped action

photographs from a film.

THE TORONTO STAR

...the poetry is fine... rewarding reading...

Almost every poem in Sympathetic Magic

boasts an admirable image or two.

Brown can write, without a doubt.

POETRY CANADA POESIE

...wry humour.

The poet revels in image and can use it well.

Paul Cameron Brown is capable of interesting,

even arresting work.

CANADIAN BOOK REVIEW ANNUAL 1985

Le voyage exotique devient parfois fantistique...

Se plonger dans les pages de "Sympathetic Magic", c' est

partir pour un autre monde oil Paul Cameron Brown

envoute par les mots et les images.

DIPLOMATIC OBSERVER

[90]

Biography

Previous titles by Paul Cameron Brown include fiction, poetry,

chapbooks, illustrations and broadsheets by a number of Canadian

and American presses.

". . . A master at evoking mood and atmosphere" The London

Free Press

". . . Beguiling writing indeed" The Canadian Author and Bookman

The End

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Table of Contents

MASCARA-VISCERA By Paul Cameron Brown

CONTENTS

FLASHPOINT

MARZIPAN

SANTO DOMINGO

WHITE CHINA PLATES I

WHITE CHINA PLATES II

MAIL DROP

HEADDRESS

AIRBRUSH

SWORDS AND ROSES

MOONROCK

SMOKESTACK

TICKINGS OF A CLOCK

FLASHPOINT

CHOPSTICKS

EQUINOX

PENNY WISE, POUND POOR

METAPHOR

EMBERS

SKIN

ASGARD

OLD BROMPTON ROAD

STREET SCENE

Curse of The Downtown Trade

IN MY BOOKS

MADE IN SPACE

GODIVA

PELÉE

PELÉE: MAY 8, 1902

ELECTRA

SIDEWAY LOOK

LOLITA GARDENS

UNPAGINATED

SEQUIN

YELLOW HAIR

PILTDOWN MAN

SPANKED

THE CROWKEEPER

CUANDO-CUBANGO

ONOMATOPOEIA

AT THE RED THROAT

SHAMROCK

LOST PATROL

BLACKAMOOR

UP FROM THE FLOOR

MEN OF SHADE

KNIGHT-ERRANT

WATER FAST (THE PEARL FISHERS)

TALES OF A BRAVE ULYSSES

INSIDE SEAM

DEBRIEFING

NAIAD TRANCE

PYROMANIA

TIDE CHARTS

VILLAGE IDIOT

CLIPPERSHIP

FLOOD

KIPPER, TEA AND ORANGES

TANK-TOP

VIEWER MAIL

Seagulls

IMAGISTIC

LIVING ROOM

HIGH ROLLER

THE GARDEN

CANVASSING

COMMENTS

Biography

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE