Collage

T S Eliot poems bu’t
Cats…
What should we name
Them
Some cats take to
A fancy name
Like Socrates Plato
And Aristotle….
Others ordinary names…
Like Mathew Mark and Luke…
If they are feminine, you can name
Them, Suzy, Lucy or Moosy…
Eliot’s Gumby cats
Stare at me
As poetries of mischief ….
Eliot’s wasteland is
An ocean of blind eyes…
A mystic doped in the
Search for safer shores…
Pound is pounding poetry
In a cauldron of a pundit
Carrying earthly ashes of the
Dead.
Shelly, Keats and Wordsworth
Are galaxies of fin de siècle
Romanticism…
Is Romanticism dead?
It survives in metaphors and
Similes…
Carry the heart in
A bouquet of Roses….
Andrew Marvel teases
The loins of mistress
In catharsis of
Metaphysical poetry…
What is imagism?
Strength of words
Colored in the gigantism
Of an image….
White pearls adorn
A nude body…
A gaze crystallizes
Into an amorous metaphor…
I wonder what it’s
Like to paint a nude body
After making love to it….
Metaphysics is dead…
The Gods have
Hanged themselves….
The gaze is Lacan’s
Psychoanalysis…
Poetry—my body is
A written book….
Words crumble out of
My brains as meaty tissues…
The sky is a vagina and
A hill is inserting her thighs…
I am solitary as a dream…
The rhyme of the ancient
Mariner is an albatross
Signing requiem canticles…
Looking thru the window
Seat, I gazed at the white
Clouds forming cubic
Patterns from Picasso’s brush….
I watch for signs from the sky
Like a witch gazing at her crystal ball…
The tarot of the hanged man
Is a peaceful Buddha in meditation….
The sky has winged cherubs
Singing glory hallelujah…
I long to be global vagabond…
Wandering in pussies
And writing verses of love….
I am poetic with the women
I love…
They adore my passions
And do fellatio on my words…
Time is a subconscious enigma…
A mystery to unravel as Dali’s
Melting clocks…
The serpent is a sexual
Mystery
It makes love the whole
Day long …
While in Hong Kong
A Madam Tuzard
Invited me to her brothel…
ST Paul’s theology
Made me run away from her…
I gaze at Rilke’s guitar ….
I am at ease fondling the
Strings of its verses…
It is raining now…
Sperm if wetting the
Vagina of the earth…
Wine women and dope…
I am Kenny Rogers the
Country singer…
I am whispering in
In her ears that
I love her…
Her breasts were
Sweet mounts of snow…
I tasted her nectar…
Oh how she moaned in
Passion…
I watch Vangogh’s
Starry nights
I am eclipsed
With the images of
Impressionism…
Surrealism
You have opened
The doors of the
Unconscious…
Night is a faded
Brothel…