When The Ripe Fruit Falls

Cherry Robbers


Under the long dark boughs, like jewels red
In the hair of an Eastern girl
Hangs strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled
Blood-drops beneath each curl.


Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings
Three dead birds lie:
Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings
Stained with red dye.


Against the haystack a girl stands laughing at me,
Cherries hung round her ears.
Offers me her scarlet fruit: I will see
If she has any tears.


How Beastly The Bourgeois Is

How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--

Presentable, eminently presentable--
shall I make you a present of him?

Isn't he handsome?  Isn't he healthy?  Isn't he a fine specimen?
Doesn't he look the fresh clean Englishman, outside?
Isn't it God's own image? tramping his thirty miles a day
after partridges, or a little rubber ball?
wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the
   thing

Oh, but wait!
Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another
   man's need,
let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life
  face him with a new demand on his understanding
and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.
Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.
Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new
   demand on his intelligence,
a new life-demand.

How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species--

Nicely groomed, like a mushroom
standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable--
and like a fungus, living on the remains of a bygone life
sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life
   than his own.

And even so, he's stale, he's been there too long.
Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside
just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow
under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.

Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings
rather nasty--
How beastly the bourgeois is!

Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp
   England
what a pity they can't all be kicked over
like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly
into the soil of England.

On The Ovarian Trolley, Occupy the Uterus

"But I had no choice about the mother who was to deliver me. Perhaps I was lucky not to have been born an idiot, considering all the circumstances. One thing seems clear, however, and this is a hangover from the 25, that I was born with a crucifixion complex. That is, to be more precise, I was born a fanatic. Fanatic! I remember that word being hurled at me from early childhood on. By my parents especially. What is a fanatic? One who believes so passionately and acts desperately upon what he believes. I was always believing in something and so getting into trouble. The more my hands were slapped the more firmly I believed. I believed, and the rest of the world did not!If it were only a question of enduring punishment one could go on believing till the end; but the way of the world is more insidious than that. Instead of being punished you are undermined, hollowed out, the ground taken from under your feet...It's a negativism that causes you to overreach yourself. You are perpetually spending your energy in the act of balancing yourself. You are seized with a soft of spiritual vertigo, you totter on the brink, your hair stands on end, you can't believe that beneath your feet lies an immeasurable abyss. It comes about through excess of enthusiasm, through passionate desire to embrace people, to show them your love The more you reach out toward the world the more the world retreats. Nobody wants real love, real hatred. Nobody wants you to put your hand in his sacred entrails, that's only for the priest in the hour of sacrifice. While you live, while the blood's still warm, you are to pretend that there is no such thing as blood and no such thing as a skeleton beneath the covering flesh. Keep off the grass! That's the motto by which people live by."

Tropics of Capricorn, Henry Miller

The Empty Boat

Sunset —Coney Island


The sun,
Like the red yolk of a rotten egg,
Falls behind the roller-coaster
And the horizon sticks
With a putrid odor of colors.
Down on the beach 
A little Jewish tailor from the Bronx,
With a bad stomach,
Throws up the hot-dog sandwiches
He ate in the afternoon
While life to him
Is like a sick tomato
In a garbage can.

Who Untangles Bare Wires?

Explode Into Space Like A True Nature's Child
Lessons From Within The Laundromat


He enters,
charges directly
at a bunch of white roses
left on a table
clutches them to his chest
rotting nails against wilting petals
ascends to his nose
he takes a sniff

looks
straight on
at his audience, seemingly non-attentive
two lost or rather old souls
contained for the time being in the room

he speaks

Man, these don't even have a scent!
To the roof, is where these deserve to be left


he exits and then enters a few minutes later

points to the machine
waltzes like a dinosaur
melting steps, clawed fingers, broken wrists
spins

Man, haven't, haven't you guys
ever noticed Earth
is just a washing machine?

He then unzips
throws his blue jeans in

Wait, now look at it!

Lying in a Conundrum

A Room With a View

a whole centre

and a border

make hanging

a way of dressing

but its dressing

for pleasure and erections

and cooking

or stewing

better yet 

for stuffing

cause nothing

suggests difference

better than whiteness to a wall

it is currents!

even if you put two 

in space

together these two

you get rapture

you get dimness

in this room

intentions change

in this room

is where escapism

is a fleeting moment

that is why some jump

from windows

due to constipation

high-up places and spaces

always asked to consider

since it is my space too

we both got to look out of this window

and who ever is out there

has to look at both of us too

look at us both

disputing possessions

 fairness, mold

and rat poop

cause faucets break

screens do too

there is no disgrace in looking in

so here is the show

full of preoccupation

vacant intent 

excavation-al remains

of objects inside rooms

we use to live here

we use to love it here

just because of the view

Text Testimonials

"Actually, I lit the fire and got everything ready. Made sure there was nothing she could pick up and have a bash at me with. It's no good pretending I had my old trust in her. Well, she went up to her bath and it was all like as usual. When she came out I did her hands, no gag, and I followed her downstairs. I noticed she had a lot of her French scent on, she'd done her hair up the way she did it before and she was wearing a purple and white housecoat I bought her."

John Fowles The Collector