Headline we'd like to see;
YOUTH IN AMERICA DO BATTLE WITH EUTHANASIA!
Like EUPHEMISMS go toe to toe with FRAZIER, for free.
Now step back over the line, or I may HAVE TO TASE 'YA
while I show you what the YOUTH IS LIKE IN ASIA.
And why they want mo' and mo', Beaming!, like American teens
and the young girls in knitted woolens who swing from branches
in Malaysia in jeans, (as tightly painted as the chapel of Sistine's)
which makes their butts hang low. How creamy!
And the boys fall like leaves, dreaming. DALI left his
darker screams behind the canvas, coarse, Hispanic.
When poets panic they see remorse and words instead of meaning.
IF IT WASN'T FOR THE
CHIP ON MY SHOULDER,
I WOULD FALL OVER.
But then again , with my luck
I'd probably kill my dog Rover,
while standing at my peak.
He'd squeal, he'd feel, (he would
have to duck, and fast) the full
weight of my thunder, as well
as the guilt I've inherited from
plunders past. There, in Tehran,
during that evening when I ran,
into IRAN (I was chased), when Persia it was
called, post haste, and I were but a lamb, meek.
I stammered, though I never clamored
to seek, for things that would disadvantage my claim,
and I only staggered into the arms of a maiden,
who's name I recalled because it rhymed
with mine the same and whose aim
was the most creative use of
this conscious spark, in seeing ourselves
in a different light. Skinned, I ignite.
Despite the lucidity and dragon flames
puncturing these lungs with fireflies and
promises to keep. At times I weep.
Young, appalled, I didn't wake it,
but let it sleep, deep inside its
amber world, which then hung loosely
from a pouch in my loins, amended.
Before my time were rolled into coins,
after the mountains thinned into endless night,
and Eden's dawn had ended, dogged
by its troglodytes, whom Adam had
befriended with his mind cast to
I became ragged crags of lightning
worth living in, if you lived
your weight in stones.
With spinsters, dregs and madness,
I joined, flinging the flesh
into a mesh of boulders, sharpened,
pockmarked, and neatly pressed.
Then I am finished with sadness while some
other soldier harvests the bones
that time has left, diminished.
Undeterred, they smolder.
I left bread crumbs in my deed,
as the question is neither HAWKS
nor DOVES, but whose time is it
to feed? BOTH MUST EAT, or the future's
owned by the birds of prey only ghosts
condone, who follow them on the street.
Who spread their slack
shadows across their wings, snuffing
out the heat, like packs of priests
in EUCHARIST black. The same
ones who anoint the feast.
Who bless in the old tongue,
but curse in dialect only
To clarify for charity, they who feed the sickly
and those among the least remembered,
and who moan aloud for John Baptiste.
When the world is slung
across my back, ZONED, her winds
are at my feet while HELL, tempered,
becomes my throne. Always a
little too far from Heaven, always
too close to home. And while
spitting out volcanoes, never finding the time to speak. No space to scratch
or blow my nose. If one domino should
arrest its fall, there all neighborhoods go.
Nor time for paraphrases to couch inside prevailing
winds. My daily bread, the circling buzzards
befriend, and snatch, as I lay me down to sleep.
Inside the badlands still left to patch, while there
is still time to make amends.
PICASSO SPREAD HIS BELLY ACROSS
the valleys of contingence. The seed of vanity
came bounding back, cackling with a vengeance.
And crackling like a rip cord spooling from
an engine, cooling. At least 8 liters, more if you count
the bottom feeders. I spurt my semen on the
Blue Danube, it makes a rushing sound.
Life is cube, love is round, so like the world
rolls on, INFRARED, and out for a pound,
as the tide washes new shells
of providence upon the shore, sparkling
with seduction. And seminal shapes of
lost and found, that gestate their brief
summer then, appear no more,
vanquished by corruption, who, as
a virgin beyond her years,
cries in abstract tears. And of her own volition,
from what I hear, as she prepares for her collection.
I bore of easy summers, whose slammers
shut an outburst's door, simmering
out on the walkway. Begging for
more words to snore at. I sneeze
on the wallpaper of cheese's
and Chinese checker pieces!
COME BACK PICASSO, the mourning
dales are folded into the shapes of grief.
I spin inside your blocks, your collages
of crumpled thieves and clowns whose
clutter give shelter to heaving rivers
making grappa of molding maple leaves,
cocooning into butter.
Their 8 ball never came around again,
so they melt inside prenuptial sleeves.
Their shivers arrested by ennui and by
waiters called Andre, upon whom we,
bereft; conceal our pets and personal peeves,
though confess our deeds, because
he mixes a mean martini, dry. And he's the
last true Baron left. And he uses olives
that our grove supplies. I once
dreamt that Picasso fell from the sky,
befuddled and unfolding
like a jigsaw puzzle;
unmuzzled. He said, “Don't worry
earthlings, I COME IN PIECES!,
and if my paintings don't sell,
then please, take my nieces,
but leave Paloma to dwell
beneath the frescoes of Venice's
friezes, she does this well.
When not working to break
the family spell.
Were I, Pablo
more beast, or thesis?
They all got a cut, only
I kept my creases.”
It were an emotional moon
that afternoon, that rose
from its teacups into the sky
like bloom, and set in motion
swells that ocean floor regurgitates,
then clears its phlegm as foam.
Tears etched in the open air,
chiseled afterwards by stonemasons.
Where would I store my guns,
except for SIERRA LEONE?
I looked for weapons in
NAVARONE, but their horses
and ammo were long gone
and I left my soldiers there,
now getting rich on the skills
they honed, while gaining thrills,
high in the northern hills,
up there in their echelon,
enjoying the time on their own.
SHE TURNS TO YOU
But you're not there, so,
she turns ON you.
With a thousand weight of
excess chills, tingling a
spinelessness that never
spawned you. It will dawn
on you soon enough, the
price of admission to your
hall of dreams,
though not before it stuns you.
Then pawns your bishops,
castles your king, and turns
to horse meat your trembling
queen, who bleeds in Latin,
though she screams in Greek.
She blinks before her baths.
Mathematicians ask for
pi which she slices while laughing,
not sure whether they are starving
or whether her mind has gotten weak.
Lovers always speak
the language of their time.
And I am hungry enough to
eat these words, though rhymes
are fattening, and apostrophes;
daggers whose archers
threaten birds in flight. 'Tis better to die
choking on happiness rather than spite
(or verbs, for that matter, the ones that keep your mind
running late at night, searching for angry marchers).
COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 20th SEPTEMBER 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED