And all that lies betweenis usand the worldAnd the world lies about itmaking as if it had got his messageeven though it is poetrybut most of the world wishingit could just forget about himand his awful strange propheciesAlong with all the other strange thingshe said about the worldwhich were all too trueand which made them…
for a rebirth of wonderand I am waitingfor someone to really discover Americaand wailand I am waitingfor the discoveryof a new symbolic western frontierand I am waitingfor the American Eagleto really spread its wingsand straighten up and fly rightand I am waitingfor the Age of Anxietyto drop deadand I am waitingfor the war to be…
crossfiguredcreeping with tramsand the artists on sundaysin the summerall ‘tracking Nature’in the suburbsItcould have been anyplacebut it wasn’tIt wasLondonand when someone shouted overthat they had got a modelI ran out across the courtbut thenwhen the model started taking offher clothesthere was nothing underneathI mean to sayshe took off her shoesand found no feettook off her…
You have been holed-up too longin your closed worlds.Come down, come downfrom your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills,your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills,your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses,down from your foothills and mountains,out of your teepees and domes.The trees are still fallingand we’ll to the woods no more.No time now for sitting in themAs man…
if you don’t mind happinessnot always beingso very much funif you don’t mind a touch of hellnow and thenjust when everything is finebecause even in heaventhey don’t singall the timeThe world is a beautiful placeto be born intoif you don’t mind some people dyingall the timeor maybe only starvingsome of the timewhich isn’t half badif…
the white man foundIt is a land that Buddha came uponfrom a different directionIt is a wild white nestin the true mad northof introspectionwhere ‘falcons of the inner eye’dive and dieglimpsing in their dying fallall life’s memoryof existenceand with grave chalk wingdraw upon the leaded skya thousand threaded imagesof flightIt is the night that is…
fell in lovewith unrealityJellybeans glowed in the semi-gloomof that september afternoonA cat upon the counter moved amongthe licorice sticksand tootsie rollsand Oh Boy GumOutside the leaves were falling as they diedA wind had blown away the sunA girl ran inHer hair was rainyHer breasts were breathless in the little roomOutside the leaves were fallingand they…
exactly at the moment whenthey first attained the title of‘suffering humanity’They writhe upon the pagein a veritable rageof adversityHeaped upgroaning with babies and bayonetsunder cement skiesin an abstract landscape of blasted treesbent statues bats wings and beaksslippery gibbetscadavers and carnivorous cocksand all the final hollering monstersof the‘imagination of disaster’they are so bloody realit is as…
is none of your East Coast lightnone of yourpearly light of ParisThe light of San Franciscois a sea lightan island lightAnd the light of fogblanketing the hillsdrifting in at nightthrough the Golden Gateto lie on the city at dawnAnd then the halcyon late morningsafter the fog burns offand the sun paints white houseswith the sea…
Manifest Destiny is no longer manifest.Civilization self-destructs.Nemesis is knocking at the door.What are poets for, in such an age?What is the use of poetry?The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it.If you would be a poet, create works capable of answering the challenge of apocalyptic times, even if this meaning sounds…
