Friday, January 11, 2013

The Bogus Beautiful Conspiracy of Letters

Riding Sirrush with the conspirators,
George Washington now
in green Osirian skin,
they call him 'old greenback Adam',
and here as I view him,
I'm a hunchback,
my transparent hump, even,
a cause celebre.

See the snake with a human torso inside,
it inveigles and snides to the lamp post
of my spine, hangs out like a beatnik merman
waiting for its daily bread or manna.

Each vertebrae lighting up in sequence,
it's quite the barber pole, this
twisted caduceus thing,
but does anyone really want to see
the pole dance of a caged
and immortal experiment?

I should have gone with George
and the boys to survey the lands
for their uncompromising Bibble-Babble
archery with the stars.

Here I sit all token-parted
with this damn thing squirming in my back,
my head begins to quack,
for the unreal is a symbol of the real,
and vice is virtual.

O liana...
What could be more relaxed
and tranquil than a hanging vine
growing in your time
from the floor to the roof
and back again?

And I hear it chattering,
this thing in my back
there's a monkey in my sack,
and its marble eyes are spinning
at forty thousand rpm, it's 'delicious'*
'cold and dewey'** that this once great
pilot of 'The Bell' has gyroscopic
binocular supervision over all the
spiral starcases which both wrap
and pass through the nine columns
of the eternal temple.

Fantasy is alone,
the most honest symptom
of phantasmagoria
(a phantasmatic supplementibus),
its apophenia called, again,

* Franz Delitzsch
** Robert Johann Koldewey