The Waste Sign

A Parody of "The Waste Land" - I

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I.                             The Unmasking of the Dead

 

November is the cruellest month, bleeding

 Lil’ Acts out of the living land, unmixing

 Memory and desire, sterile

Dull stance with autumn rain.

 Summer kept us warm, covering.

 The earth in forgetful cyclones, feeding.

 A little lifeful, with dried quips.

 Autumn announced thus, coming off the star-burn Genesis

 With a dollop full of pain; we stopped in the muzzling them

 And went out in two the rain, into Hofgarten

 Forgotten to drink coffee for the hour was late.

Ich bin überhaupt kein Russin, ich aus Amerika und bin Deutscher.

 And staying at the arch leader,

 Looking at the sled, Rosebud.

 And I was unfrightened, to burn the books, burn!

 And watch the other man hold on tight because down he went.

 In the mountains, you freeze to death from a slasher

 I never read, day or night, and never go north in the winter.

 I stand in with the roots that clutch, the boroughs grow

 Out of this story rubbish? Son of God

 I am not. And you cannot say or gas the light

 With a heap of broken images, where the moon censors

 And the dead tree gimme shelter, nor beetle sighs relief,

 It is a wet stone that gathers no moss. Only

 The tinning year of pundifferousness

 Slapped on the newspaper of red rock’n’roll

 It is an ether opioid that somehow fixes the brain,

 A shadow at morning striding in front of you

 A shadow fixed with sullen death –

 And I will show you fear in a teacup, with a hand full of dust.

Der Orkan weht frisch

In anderer Heimat

Mein fremdes Kind,

Wo bust du?

 I secretly wore  the hyacinths you gave

 I am the Hyacinth girl transgress

 My lips were full my hair still wet,  I can say

 Speak for the dead

 And look to my eyes,  the silence comes

Oed’ und leer das Bach.

 I learned from Mme., ~?! the famous clairvoyante

 How to make a guess

 And turn it into wisdom from the foolish woman in the East,

 With a wicked Puck of chads. Here,  she said

 Is your drag,  the drowned  tower sinking,

 (And with faux-pearls that sink into the eyes of faerie death. See but don’t look!)

 Here is Belladonna, your wife before the rocks,

 Canning a false lady of situations,

 Here is the other man  going on three,  before the wheel of fortune,

 As if he were a one-night merchant,  and this is square.

 Which is blank,  as if reading on the Teleprompter

 Which I am eager to see.  I do not find

 Anything but the Hang-man,  never fear there is death by water.

 And I see the scads of people,  walking around in a ring,

 Praising me to heaven’s gate,

 Bringing the horoscopes themselves,

 Because they must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,

 Under the Brown Frog of an Autumn Dawn,

 A crowd flowed over the iron bridge,  counting the votes,

 Size was short on exhale:  I had not thought my death hadn’t done so many

 But then I do not count the ways of others’ deaths

 Only mine means anything to me.

 Seeing my face flowing up the hill and down Pennsylvania Street

 And then to keep the hours and waste the days

 Passed the stroke of nine revolutions nine

 Project 25 was the corpse you planted last year in the public garden

 Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

 Or has the autumn frost passed away?

 I know I am a dog,  but I feel that fall brings

Mon frère in capital dip launch.