serge gurkski
Mitglied
you Can
Taiko, 太鼓, you're in my mind's
ears drumming along, I
– before becoming nearly
narcoleptic on anti-
histamines - rise up
from orange-colored
dreaming,
tripping like a schizophrenic.
you Must
Let weasels rip your tender flesh,*
holify, noctify those white night's Blues
wailing along, handsomely happily rather!
My blank pages - day by day – never stay blank for long.
They become crowded on their own
by just my looking at them, overdosed on fantasy, with eyes squinted long enough:
.
.
.
Interspersed elegy :
O-Hiromi (Uehara)****
Wild red-in-the-wool indian Nihon kid over the grown-up keyboards of new blue cool Jazz
sandboxing polyrhythmically intellectual challenges and breeding out
new acoustical semantemes with a grain of aggressive sweat,
Quartier-blanchify my over-polluted mind: I need to think again
fungus-thoughts spreading out from a multitude of disorientated spots
on the titillatingly-to-the-eye-in -front of which-it keeps-on-moving
Calabi-Yau (1) crystallized surface to make me walk looking up (上を向いて歩こう),
constantly losing ground on my stepping stones, ue o muite arukou,
at the birds, silhouetting undecipherable formations of intercourse
in the still and breathless tea-time sky.
.
.
.
From a huge wide drum's pounding I return opening eyes
to an imaginary Chinese backyard burial ceremony:
This – most likely - happens in the Eastern corner
of the mid-south provinces of Zhongguo
like say 300 miles up Northeast from Chengdu:
They, a mass in white, approach at first, forming
a ring of communal communing, mumbling mournings.
A fire is lit to burn away the cause of pain;
(and the widow sets a paper ship on the
unruleable waves of the river,
crying goodbyes.)
The people left behind widen the circle by stepping back
and away from another man dead, and a soul,
that needs comforting rest.
At moon-time then they feast with their colors,
indigo, ruby-red and golden-yellow, returning
to break up the ever-approaching darks
and the pious whites. To forget death they booze
and to make among the young it easier to mate.
--------------------------------------
* F. Zappa: Weasels ripped my flesh
(1): http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&...m=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&biw=1024&bih=543
**** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NqVDIFaCK8U&NR=1
Taiko, 太鼓, you're in my mind's
ears drumming along, I
– before becoming nearly
narcoleptic on anti-
histamines - rise up
from orange-colored
dreaming,
tripping like a schizophrenic.
you Must
Let weasels rip your tender flesh,*
holify, noctify those white night's Blues
wailing along, handsomely happily rather!
My blank pages - day by day – never stay blank for long.
They become crowded on their own
by just my looking at them, overdosed on fantasy, with eyes squinted long enough:
.
.
.
Interspersed elegy :
O-Hiromi (Uehara)****
Wild red-in-the-wool indian Nihon kid over the grown-up keyboards of new blue cool Jazz
sandboxing polyrhythmically intellectual challenges and breeding out
new acoustical semantemes with a grain of aggressive sweat,
Quartier-blanchify my over-polluted mind: I need to think again
fungus-thoughts spreading out from a multitude of disorientated spots
on the titillatingly-to-the-eye-in -front of which-it keeps-on-moving
Calabi-Yau (1) crystallized surface to make me walk looking up (上を向いて歩こう),
constantly losing ground on my stepping stones, ue o muite arukou,
at the birds, silhouetting undecipherable formations of intercourse
in the still and breathless tea-time sky.
.
.
.
From a huge wide drum's pounding I return opening eyes
to an imaginary Chinese backyard burial ceremony:
This – most likely - happens in the Eastern corner
of the mid-south provinces of Zhongguo
like say 300 miles up Northeast from Chengdu:
They, a mass in white, approach at first, forming
a ring of communal communing, mumbling mournings.
A fire is lit to burn away the cause of pain;
(and the widow sets a paper ship on the
unruleable waves of the river,
crying goodbyes.)
The people left behind widen the circle by stepping back
and away from another man dead, and a soul,
that needs comforting rest.
At moon-time then they feast with their colors,
indigo, ruby-red and golden-yellow, returning
to break up the ever-approaching darks
and the pious whites. To forget death they booze
and to make among the young it easier to mate.
--------------------------------------
* F. Zappa: Weasels ripped my flesh
(1): http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&...m=isch&source=og&sa=N&tab=wi&biw=1024&bih=543
**** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NqVDIFaCK8U&NR=1