The Waste Sign
III The Fire Sale
III. The Fire Sale
The circus tent is departed, on for the next show
Clutch sand sink into the wetback. The wind
Crosses the brown fuzz, hearing yet unheard. The booblicious nymph are derobed .
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my fellatio underage Jeffery
The river bears no empty blown bottles, weed papers, and torn condoms
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette friends that stink
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are deroded.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors in sackcloth;
Derobed, have left no e-addresses to be looked after.
By the waters of Lehman I sat down and wept tear of gold and brick. . .
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my fellatio underage Jeffery,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I gabble not sloudly or slong.
But at my back in a cold blast, I chanced wind in the pants,
The rattle of the Jones, and chuckle spread from hip to hop.
A rat crept softly through the remediation
Dragging its slimy belly on the stank of oil
While it was careening in the dull canali
On a summer morning around betwixt the oilflame exchanged
Amusing upon the king my brother’s reck de wreck
And on the Emperor-with-no-clothes death before him.
Grey bodies naked on the low damp ground extinguished by the tsunami
And bones cast in a little high wet garret,
Rattled over prattled the rat’s hind-ear, bitter year to bitter year.
But at my spine from eternity to eternity, I belch
The sound of hounds and motors, which shall bring sa-ti-fac-tion
Sweeney Todd to Mrs. Lovett in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Lovett
And on her room-mate the wife,
They wash their sacred calfs in soda brine
Et O ces d’enfants du paradise, chantant en ma domes!
Twitter twitter twitter
Xed Xed Xed Xed Xed
So rudely fcuk’d.
Terroir – marks the spot.
Unreal City Stunned
Under the blackened frog of a Summer night
Mr. Petrolgamedes, the Syria merchant from ‘spearean night
Unshaven, with a pocket full of futures currant
CIA London: mocuments at sight of fist,
Asked me in demotic Francophone
To luncheon at the Cannonade Motel
Followed by a weekend at the Netropole.
At the violet hour, when the mortar and brick due slough away
Turn upward from the desk, when the AI engine waits sleek
Like a Uber throbbing thwarting,
I Tiresias, though blind and deaf, throbbing between two sliver slithes,
Old man with rankled female breasts, can see
At the violet moments, the morning minutes that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, Ulysses on the half shell
The typist home at teatime clock, munches her dinner, delights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins and trays.
Out of the Uber perilously spread for prophet
Her drying conflagrations touched by the sun’s last drop of rays,
On the divan are pillaged (at day her commode)
Stockings bow, slippers, camouflage, and stays alone.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dungs
Perceived the Mise-en-scène, and forewild the conrest—
I amphigory the unexpected guest.
He, the young man carbonicular, departs,
A White House agent’s President, with one bold stare,
One of the low lower low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradform billionaire.
The time is now fropicticious, as he guesses,
The meal is started, she is bored and tired with Big Macs,
Endeavors to enrage her in caresses formal
Which still are unreproved, if undesired on the undance floor
Flushed and sings the body electric, he assaults at twice;
Exploring fingers encounters no offense;
His vanity requires no response, his ego assuaged
And weight a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all from the balcony!)
Enacted on this same dive on 52nd St;
I who have sat by Thucydides below the Wall St.
And ambled among the slowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing embrace, in the Fourth Protocol
And gropes his gasp, destroying the stairs unlit and a half ...
She turns and looks a moment in the bottle,
Hardly aware of her departed lover and his drink;
Her brain swallows one half-filled thought to pass a river:
'Well now that’s a fish: and I’m glad it’s over and a half.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone and afraid,
She smooths her skin with automatic fab,
And puts a track on ze Spotification slab.
‘This music crept by me upon the rivers down
And along the Stand, up Pennsylvania Street.
O City City, I can sometimes hear the agreement that put you hear.
Beside a private Booth in Ford’s Theater Northwest,
The unnerving whining of a Trumpachese
And a chatter and a clatter from without the frieze of Chocolate and oil
Where oilmen lounge at night: where the shills still burnish bright
Of Mighty Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendor of Virginia white and gold.
The river sweats with sour
Oil and tarful
The barges drift in Suez seas
With the turning tide tilting tight as a screw
Red sail beds are burning
Narrow
To weward, wing on the weighty wetspar.
The barges swash with both houses burning
Drifting logs behind
Down Greenwich Cross
Past the Isle of Dogs and Cats.
Ai Wei Wei
Ai Wei Weilala
Elizabeth and Victoria
Beating oars on my bookshelves
The stern was formed
A gilded shell breach
Red and gold are old and faded
The brisk swell until in clatter
Rippled both shores beach
Southwest wind carry code
Carried down the old mill stream
The peal of pells
White towers
Ai Wei Weilala
Ai Wei Weilala
‘Trams and dusty trains.
Queens bore me. But Scranton
Undid me. By Deleware, I raised my knees
Supine on the buzz of a wide reposado.’
‘My feet are at Westgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the prevent defense
He swept. He depromised a ‘new end.’ Without doing anything.
I made no comment. What should I resent for boomers lost?’
‘On Trinity Sands.
I can disconnect
Nothing with nothing in a flash.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing but perfection Passive revue at Bitcoin.’
la la where is it? It must be here someplace.
A few have made millionaire.
To Washington then I came
Earning earning earning
O Lord Thou pluckest the good stuff
O Lord Thou pluckest
Earning