I've come back
Slouch languidly on Musty steps,
bent, Foot printed, like a torn off Page,
creased in Seaminess--Ah creased, I am
with Celibacy. I am an
Innocent thing now, because
I've come to know
EVERYTHING.
Yea, I've Blown back
a Soul--All around
great Shivering Trees
shiver with the Dust of my words, My Words,
that spread Golden thru the sun
buttering,
peaking behind peaks,
peaking at me, laughing.
Dust says with an Old Bull Lee Voice--
'Remember' Oh Boy
'remember-- when I was
that Ash on yr finger tips,
Yea--went roaring thru
yr Angel Lungs on stages,
and Ooo, in yr damned Eternal
holler of Orangey God, I sat as Buddha
in the bleak beaked bottoms of yr syringes,
Needles of Heaven
sprucing yr veins with spice and
the Cold glow of Vastness
so pointed. Pointed
like those needles, Birthlings of trees, that
fall and wisp in the Wind now
blown by Paradisal mortality.'
I shiver
a slender Smoke,
so nothing,
growing out of these steps,
wavering in Haunt--
in death Everything's a Metaphor,
symbol of Doom now done--
But now two hikers
hoof their way
into my Noon Horizon, come
to share in my Delusions, this
daisy-pulled nightmare of
stark Dharma land--A couple of
ruck sack hipsters,
Messiah tramps comin
for Communion with
old Jack’s dust Blood-- that’s what
I think at first--
but those Conspirators
just sit healthy on a Yellow glen,
bathing bright
faces in a Sun that
never held any Tragedy for them at all,
biting each others’ bodies
with Lips that never
quivered
with Brown Prophecy
at whispering My name.
They Deep Breathe their Flower scents.
They Fuck like Angels, swaddled
in Sheets of Wine.
So I pack out a Camel from
the carton they Buried me with,
Smoke their Love Fumes and think
that all is so very Beautiful as
that Golgotha suns falls lower, in the
God clouds of our
Underground World, and they forget,
with a New Far Away Peace
that’s not Dharma,
what it is to be Born
without Halos but with
Bones instead.
They pack up and away,
collect their Dandelion moments,
and now it’s just Me and My Madness in Apparition Country--now only
fire tower Windows watch my Tragedy,
that Book Movie of mine,
cornered between mountain
crags, held up
by Stickily Wraith Visions.
That lash-less glass watches with Siddharta complacency,
so unmoved--I yell
"I am Beat, I am King of the Beats, I am
Beatific--the world knows it"
and my Dust laughs again,
a Great Hoo Ha resounding,
like the cackling Madness
of the Fallow Sea.
Echoes, echoes in the Bold Barriers
of my nothingness,
in all the Stone Worn nothingness of the scene,
assaulting sun-strokes in their lazy hang
of Twilight Afternoon.
That Madhat laugh sounds like the dialect
of a Desolation world.
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