by Greg Baysans

Home

Poet X

Back

(a cut-up of four separate poems of varying length, one of them already a cut-up of previous pieces)

   
Later, reading Spicer's Fake Novel About Rimbuad 
He lived on the twentieth floor 
And the silence is a scream of thirsty death. 
I need a new genre to speak of ecstasies 

poems I wonder who is better off, 
From the heights to the depths I walk home. 
This airy monument will reach the sky before 
I cannot admit to, confess, pretend not to know. 

and the park beckons 
isn't that poetry? I could bark distinguishable chunks. 
another touch meets mine. All this and more 
How are you I am begging to be a Masochist. 

Spicer dead and unintelligible, 
Silly Sally laughed and laughed 
included in the price and rules of breath. 
He wants to have the most lines, is the Sadist 

Rimbaud in self-exile and untranslatable 
because she knew she had no change in her pockets 
jazz a verb the music blues I hear, I pound. 
at heart when I've been whipped down to it. 

as the park beckoned 
to fall out when the pants were taken off. 
I am the symphony and repurcussion, beat 
In seeking beauty, ugliness is cast. 

or alive with the chance me yet 
The title is: Home From An Experience That 
of movement learned in centuries of feet, 
Attaining purity, being tied wth shame. 

to make sense and make love? 
Could Have Been Good But Went Bad. 
the Santa Maria on a wave of sound. 
A loveless road, a puzzled map, 

An insistent ambisexuality 
I want my life to be a porn flick 
"My vocabulary did this to me." * 
crawled it knowing how to walk, wishing 

chews at my mind, hand and groin. 
but instead end up with out-takes. 
The first time I saw him I said in my mind, 
to run with expedience as from a movie image 

found now and then and forget about 
Seven autumns afterward, the merciless 
hands, clumsy hands, what a find. 
of a man on a stage emasculating himself 

poetry and its attendant furies? 
vital thrill of being the battleground 
"That man will be my Stanley Kowalski." 
while seeming to. It would be theater's triumph. 

J- will scold me if he sees me there. 
where Christ was tempted, seven springs later 
I've been the evening's long-smoked cigarette, 
having the dialogue recited by the audience 

Poetry is a minor God. It is late. 
I am still dry. It began in 
a tinging that takes residence in the hair. 
while actors listen from onstage, dancing or not. 

I am under the influence. Did I mention that? 
a different light: I don't remember 
Hideous talents have to lead somewhere. 
The slowness of tooth decay is killing me. 

Pluto orbits the sun in a slow motion year, 
the sweat from the grappling of 
I want an Angel to fuck me but one hasn't yet. 
Include hallucinations of ecstasy carpet. 

Hot and cold as the two wings of Mercury. 
will and desire but do recall, 
The otherness of God, my killer, 

I'd been called in to clean up the mess 
the jazz as I long for a symphony. 

and instead ejaculated at the sight. 

The mirror that weak knees broke falling 
was my self and it's seven years later. 







*the last words of Jack Spicer