PERSEPOLIS REVISITED
(The continuing automatic
writings of a man born
under the sign of
the Trilobite.)
by
David Thomas St. Albans
All Contents Copyrighted by Author
c 2012
DEDICATION
This compilation of strange, surreal
poetry is dedicated to Bob Dylan, R. A. Lafferty,
Lewis Carrol, Ken Kesey, John Lennon and Timothy Leary.
All bright stars in a weird sky.
BOOK ONE
THE FIRST BOOK OF LEVIATHAN
Behold mortals! Leviathan speaks
in many strange and wonderful tongues!
He sings in the deeps and is not fearful
as men account fear.
He is mighty and his words are mighty
so are his deeds mighty
and his children uncountable.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
THE SENSELESS DEATHS OF 2000 VINYL LIZARDS
(As viewed through the eyes of the Supreme
Khan of Kathai.)
Poem #1. Pinocchio Plays The Field
Poem #2. ‘Tis A Short Day In Slimey Toad
Poem #3. Big Frog Bash With Ed And Me and The Voodoo Queen
Poem #4. What Would You Call A Junky’s Monkey?
Poem #5. King Zulu Meets Bozo The Clod At An Oddfellows Dinner
Poem #6. Geared For Fear (OR: How They Fire Bombed Tokyo.)
Poem #7. Characters (OR: In a Fix.)
Poem #8. Winterland 908 A.D.
Poem #9. The Battle Between Our Lord God And Lucifer…
Poem #10. Weeell, Maybeer Jush A Little One, Uh For The Road…
Poem #11. A History Of Beat City (OR: I Was A Clown For The FBI.)
Poem #12. My Girl Friend’s Rear End
Poem #13. A State Of Dire Confusion
Poem #14. Legends, Fallacies And Myths From Fallen Kingdoms
Poem #15. The Work Of Idol Hands
Epilogue.
Chapter 2
TALES FROM THE EMPIRE OF GILGAMESH
(And Other Points Of Interest.)
Poem #1. I Was A Clone For The C.I.A.
Poem #2. King Rickie The Jew
Poem #3. A Tale Of Burt The Narc
Poem #4. The Legend Of Sam The Lion And The Sins Of Man
Poem #5. ManMade
Poem #6. Roger Bacon’s Journey
Poem #7. Angels Of Mersey
Poem #8. El Kid Encounters The Abominable Showman
Poem #9. The Amarillo Armadillo Amateur Hour
Poem #10. To The Delight Of All Concerned (An Invertation.)
Poem #11. Stars Of The Apocalypse
Poem #12. And They Came Singing
Poem #13. Nimrod Of The Sea Meets The Great Mystery
Poem #14. Sampans On The Bayou
Poem #15. The Recovery Of The Crown Of Thoth-Ammon…
Epilogue.
Chapter 3
NOTES FROM THE NAUTILUS CHAMBERS
OF PRIMEVAL PERSEPOLIS
Poem #1. Strangers In Paradox
Poem #2. Priest Eaters
Poem #3. Tales Of Uncle Moe And The Crimson Creamery
Poem #4. Mistress of Babylon
Poem #5. King Sky
Poem #6. Elvis The Pelvis
Poem #7. But…Can You Describe His Face?
Poem #8. A Tree Tease (The Autumn Of Our Love.)
Poem #9. The Princess Who Smelled Like A Fish
Poem #10. The Carrion Crow And The Judas Goat
Poem #11. Cinnabar (Or: How Mercury Was Made.)
Poem #12. Parcival In World War Three (Black Rainbow.)
Poem #13. The Grande Assduke’s Arrival
Poem #14. “Legend” Part One Of The Epic
Poem #15. “Return of the Candy Cane King” Part Five Of The Epic
Epilogue. “Figleaf.”
PROLOGUE
“Be what you would seem to be-
or to put it more simply-
“Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise
than that what it might appear to others that
what you were or might have been, was not
otherwise than that you had been would have
appeared to them to be otherwise.”
The Duchess (To Alice in Wonderland)
SCRIBBLE POETRY
Give everyone a break
let’s have you come by
and show us some blueprints
on how to build a golden temple
and how to slaughter sheep
Just let me grow my hair long
give everyone some strength
let’s have you come by
if you can’t make it
send your son to die.
Singularly yours,
King David
P.S.
It was I who cast the first stone
and entered Jerusalem in the name,
your name…Don’t forget me.
Pasadena, California, 1975
CHAPTER 1
THE SENSELESS DEATH OF 2000 VINYL LIZARDS
(As Viewed through the eyes of the Supreme
Khan of Kathai.)
Poem #1.
PINOCCHIO PLAYS THE FIELD…
Whence come ye maldeformed one?
Come ye from lands beyond Hope and Rune?
Asparkling in the deadly dust
of ages past…
and glories unrenewed?
Or be ye Pinocchio of Carthage
with carven wooden face of skin
such as yours wood seem
and glass orb eyes and burly chin
and beard of darkest green?
Or mayhap ye come from far flung seas
and ports both brave and bold
shod of emeralds and sea-worms
and tufts of glitty gold…
in which the starfish squirms?
Be that as it may, no more and none the less
I see ye are both deef and blind
and see not a word I speak
I would venture an ugly guess
ye are god in heaven below
no more and none the less…
Speak not to me of ancient quests
of dragons, pearls and mold
be thee quiet, have a seat, have a little rest
I know not what ye come fur
and will not further question
why ye are so old.
Tomorrow I and thee will play the field
as once so long ago
and run and play and sit and dance
and dream on merry toe
whether ye be the devil from the sky
or be ye old Pinocchio.
Pasadena, California, 1973 (revised.)
Poem #2.
‘TIS A SHORT DAY IN SLIMEY TOAD
Tis a short day in Slimey Toad
and all the houses round about
filled with people on Lankshire Road
who call each other “Tout!”
Tis a shirt dee in Slimmy Toad
and all the fishes bending fro
with hooks and lines and lead filled load
laughing in the snow.
Twas a short day on Slimey Toad
and the trains did pass us by
with fillings of silver and plastic gold
and artificial eye.
Whenever I am in Slithey Tove
be sure to look me up
and we’ll remember times I went and dove
into the slimey glup.
Tis a short day in Slimey Toad
when God and words are heard
and all the bratty little people stole
the Pope’s own shiny Ford.
and
In the end the dee is doon
and Britain is re-new-ed
and all the pretty kings of Toad
have taken spoons
and lay them doon to bid.
Pasadena, California, 1973 (revised.)
Poem #3.
BIG FROG BASH WITH ED AND ME AND THE VOODOO QUEEN
Hey, I saw Subu kiss the Voodoo Queen
Last night on TV.
Me and Ed and the rest of the Frog Boys,
called, “The Preeners.”
The Frog Boys wanted to watch the movie
called The Voodoo Queen
and that is why they call them Frogs.
Pasadena, California, 1973
Poem #4.
WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO A JUNKY’S MONKEY?
Wa Wa peddles flying to the way west, you think you’re possibly Bob Dylan reincarnate? What gives you the right to write about areoplanes and asterisks, Astarte and Azmodius?
“You want to be emperor of the United States?” said the follower of Moses; “Then
drink these apples and wash your faaaaace!”
What would you say to a junky’s monkey?
What would you do to Edgar Allen Poe?
What would you see in the sea?
You don’t know yourself, so why ask meeeeeee!?
Some big-time, wine crazed poet said
did you know? The Pope ain’t dead
he’s alive and well in your head!
I have two cents worth of Dragon Eyes
I have four cents worth of hydrogen bombs
I’ve got to find a way out of here!
Agamemnon with his golden goat and reeds.
King Ulysses in his shark skin boots.
Wanting a ride in darkness…to the nearest gas station. Why don’t they leave you alone? All you want is to be at home with your crazy teddy bears and your screaming banshees!
You’d lie to beer-bellies inna bar! Just because you want to be God!
Take off your shirt and let your brains fall on the roasted pig.
“Who are you!?” said the wonder horse with diamond eyes. “What do you plan to dope? And with who!?”
You like to write books, but you don’t know how to read! Buying bonds and realty on the Cumberland Gap.
Try it for awhile/ Then take it home/ We’ll see you when it rains
See how it feels / For a free trial /And when you’re dead and gone
Come back and play in a sandbox made of stars.
Pasadena, California 1973
Poem #5.
KING ZULU MEETS BOZO THE CLOD
AT AN ODD FELLOWS DINNER…
12:00 / Sharp
“Time to go!” Introducing King Zulu! Sgt. Ed Jerkhoff
Shouted Richie the Gook and his Pack of Liars! Drank most of the beer
to his wife (This was entertainment (The guests definitely
Peter Pansy… of the Fifth Order!) Went without).
And was it ever time! Billy the Zen and Peter Pansy
Oh brother were playing footsies
It was like behind Richie’s back…
a gypsy caravan The lights grew dim
all stuffy and full of The drinks were served
pickpockets… The men hung out their nylons
The cymbals crashed And the show began!
the trumpets groaned Bernard El Dwarfo Grande
the crickets chirruped and his sidekick,
and Bozo the Clod left Glass-Eyed Pete
in a red ‘57 Chevy V-8! were high on L.S.D.
“Welcome, welcome and did not care to eat
one and all as they were laughing at
all and one King Zulu…
This is the National “Real funny, Bernie, huh?”
Toothpaste Convention! “Shut up, you stoned fool!”
And The first Grand They were real crack-ups…
Odd Fellows Dinner! 12:00 / Sharp
It is now 5:00! “King Zulu, this is Bozo
Donny Le Otter stuffed The Clod, a fan of yours!”
most of the Hors d’oveurs “Nice to Meet you, I guess.”
into his linty pockets Said King Zulu; “Did anyon
(most of the guests went ever tell you your eyes were
without). crossed?”
“Yes and No.” Replied Bozo.
Pasadena, California, 1973
Poem #6.
GEARED FOR FEAR
(Or: How They Fire Bombed Tokyo.)
“This is so utterly ridiculous, Simba! So utterly hopeless!”
But nevertheless, Madame Argyle strapped on her gasmask…
“Don’t ask questions!” Reported Raymond Burr as Godzilla sipped
is iced lime daiquiri…
The Late Show was on and Arthur McArthur lay back in his plush,
velvet armchair and began to recite the Magna Carta in reverse.
“The radio is too loud!” he declared. “Turn up the volume, lower
the treble and fuck the bass!!”…
“Vegetables!” The old sea captain sighed, as the Northwest Passage
was sighted, he had mistaken it for the St. Lawrence Seaway.
“Somebody has pulled the plug on Lake Michigan!”…
“Symbiotic relationship my ass!” Retorted the Yucca Moth,
but the cactus did not reply as Yucca Plants seldom, if ever
speak…
“Ready or not, here it comes!” Tommy laughed as the firestorm
engulfed Tokyo, and the children, screaming, fell asleep…
“Constipated Cum!!” The werewolf groaned, as the silver bullet
entered his vile, pentagrammed heart…
“Don’t ask questions!” Reported Godzilla as he devoured Raymond
Burr…ad infinitum…
Pasadena, California, 1973
Poem #7.
CHARACTERS (Or: “In A Fix.”)
Once upon a thyme
There was this guy named
Willy Wampus,
he had organized a gang called,
“The Sleeping Cat Teeth”…or
just “Teeth” for short…
In this gang there were 7 guys,
they were (in alphabetical order,)
Alvain the Raper….
A pimply faced Rudolph Valentino
type from south of the boredom.
Barney Preacher…
sort of nice guy.
who buys the
gang food and is fat.
Dumpski O’Brine…
A polack from Newark who has
scars on his face and ears
from a knife fight with some
sissy Jew boys.
Jimmy Bo Joint…
A real pot-head who wears
a real pot on his head, which
has the inscription, “Don’t
fuck with the Sleeping Cat
Teeth, if ya know what’s
good for ya!”
There were Mel the Drell and Morgan Fakir…
two brothers come down from Idaho,
looking for “Pussy Action”
as they so often referred to it.
And last (but by no means least,)
Zanzibar Zimwault Zucker the VI…
A homely, vagabond orphan,
a cheap thrills seeker and
part-time Zen Buddhist acid head.
One day the whole gang went
downtown to stage what they called
a “Stomp-In”
They Stomped a few fags, but
Soon…
They got into a tussle with
a group of Neo-Nazis who
wore turbans and buttons which read,
something to the effect of,
“Arayans for Nixon!”
Somebody slipped a shiv into
Alvain the Raper’s ear and
Alvain was struck deef
And Dumpski accumulated more scars
on his already unfortunate face.
But the rest came out
unscathed…
After returning to the clubhouse
and shooting up some “Skag”
the boys decided to disband
their troupe of merrymakers
and go home to eat dinner…
As it turned out
their little scene was seen on TV
by their mums and dads,
They all got spankings
and were sent to bed without supper…
They didn’t care, as they
were all high anyway.
Pasadena, California, 1973
Poem #8.
WINTERLAND 908 A.D.
Art the Magician, (Otherwise known as God Almighty,)
wailed awhile on that two bit harmonica he called
an “instrument.”
Baby Baal built burning cities
with his building blocks
and the Hittites rode into Egypt
on striped eohippi,
as Art wailed on…
“You’d call the Golden Calf
an instrument! You toad voice!”
Yelled Baal, as Art changed into
a flying snake and flittered
around the room…
Interrupting Baal’s silly game.
Enoch (or, a knock) came on the
window, and Baal turned up the
radio loud enough to wake the dead,
who abruptly sat up in their graves
and snapped their decomposing fingers.
Betsa Blimp came to the door
since no one heard her knock.
“Let’s go to Winterland and see Grace Slick!”
She said to Art.
“Isn’t it a bit late for that?”
Asked Baal.
“It’s only 908 A.D! We’ll be early!” Laughed Betsa.
“Did you bring the dope?”
Asked Art.
“Yeah, and a couple of socially inhibited
morons too!” She said…
So they tucked Baal into bed
as the Red Sea parted and they left
in Betsa’s yellow Ford.
Pasadena, California,1973
Poem #9.
THE BATTLE BETWEEN OUR LORD GOD
AND LUCIFER, STAR OF THE MORNING
WINNER TAKES ALL
Finnigan from Carthage,
Keeper of the Crates, watched
as God put grease on the arm
wrestling table where old Satan
would sit…
Sycamore B. Turletseet,
Smoker of the Keys, proceeded
to turn the tables as he was
Satan’s good friend
and confidant…
Elijah the Poppy,
A Texas Wranger, saw to it
that God got the upper hand
by nailing His elbow to the table
with three ten-penny nails
of gold…
Lucifer,
Star of the Morning, a pope
a prophet, a poet, and a pharmacist,
walked in,
resplendent in purple
velour robes.
Upon the back was inscribed:
“Benny Goodman’s B-B-Cue”
“Eat for less!”
God,
Our Lord In Heaven, smiled
as Old Scratch noticed the grease
and nails and shrieked:
“New Deck!!”
BeeBop the Bellhop,
an old crowbar from New Jersey,
switched the game to five card stud
and cut the cards, while dealing
from the bottom.
Satan didn’t catch it…
God won aces up and said:
“Go Down, Satan!”
And sent him to dwell in Quebec,
to tempt the natives
with loaded dice and
stacked decks…
When Old Nick discovered the trick
he was mad as hell…said:
“Mmmm! You doity rat, hmmm,
I’m gonna get you, yeah, see? Hmmm!”
In his best James Cagney voice.
Sigismund Syracuse,
Keeper of the Tickets,
gave Lucifer a one way ticket
to Rio De Jenero,
by way of Consolation, Arizona…
“The only way I can make it up to you,
for playing you such a dirty trick, Satan Old Bean!
But you’ll have to find
Some other way back up to heaven,
No vacancies!
We’re all full up, don’t you know?”
Said God, Our Father…
“See you in September!”
Satan Snarled.
“Don’t sit under the apple tree,
with anyone else but me!”
God laughed.
But in the long run
old Lucifer did just that,
it is said,
out of spite.
Pasadena, California, 1978
Poem #10.
WEELL,MAYBER JUSH A LITTLE ONE,
UH, FOR THE ROAD! YA KNOW?
Cookie Bonjourno, up from Acapulco way,
wearing coonskin tennis shoes,
and a matching cardigan from Crooks Bros.
walked into the “Up From The Deep”
discotheque and sat at table No. 8.
“8 ‘cause I’m late!” He said to the
headless waiter; “Drinks for two!
Chop, chop, snap to it, get the lead out!”
The band was playing “Trap-city in Grey.”
The band was called “Pee for Free
a Penny for Poop.” A real hard rock band
from Detroit, Oklahoma.
John the Dentist and his friend came later
to join Cookie for drinks and doughnuts,
(which were obviously out of season.)
John sat down and said; “Hey, Cookie!
Dis here’s a friend of mine! He named Punchy!
Punchy LeDeSponzo! And from El Monte he is!”
”Das real cruel man…glad to make out witch
yours acquaintances,” replied the already drunk Cookie.
“Drinksh for 8! 8 ‘cause I’m goin’ wit Jail Bait!”
Cookie screamed at the weightlifters.
After about fifty-two Bloody McMaries,
Cookie, John and Punchy chatted and
listened to the Heavy Metallic Muzak.
After awhile they had five or six drinks
for the road and then stumbled out
to Cookie’s convertible Caddy and drove
out west where they fell off the edge
of the known universe.
They were never seen again, at least,
not in Philadelphia. The rat bastards.
Pasadena, Californa 1973 (revised)
Poem # 11.
A HISTORY OF BEAT CITY
(OR: I WAS A CLOWN FOR
THE F.B.I.)
As you well know
the people we created reside in
BEAT CITY
composed of falsies of shiny tin
and pansy colored ashtrays
or soap dishes
(I could never see the difference.)
now…
In my hideous undercover work
I found sweet maidens
to my..inate…liking.
Dragons did not, at this time
exorcise the privilege
of drinking these
noisome concoctions
(with a taste not unlike old,
stale cherry brandy.)
Those were definitely
the times
when
we
ate the “Giant Crab Soufflé”
and partook of counter espionage
which laced…at all times…our
four, tall cool glasses of cyanide
(mixed liberally with jellyfish entrails.)
Many heads of state
would like to question
my companions and I
however…
without a stitch on
they will never get their gory hands
on our
virgin testicles…which in time saves nein
Pasadena, California, 1973 (revised.)
Poem #12.
MY GIRLFRIEND’S REAR END
(by Jose Xavier Hichihuahua.)
Isn’t it a lovely site
it looks good enough to bite…
The End
Pasadena, California 1973
Poem #13.
A STATE OF DIRE CONFUSION
(A TRILOGY OF PRENTENTIOUS POETRY.)
I.
Artfully only may the damned dodge a hole in one.
Manfully only may the Savior sweep the old, brick floor.
Syntax and Cosign may float wearily through my
brain fields.
and
THE ROMAN LEGION HAS STOMPED ON THE FACE OF…
broken dolls.
Insane, inane, benign, cosign, mare, hare, rare,
A mystical hand writes this
wrong.
II.
Gratitude will be duly received at the time of the
Grand AssDuke’s Arrival.
No! I repeat No! Clones will enter there and therein
write their unholy names in the GREAT BOOK
OF PERRY COMO RECORDS.
Only the cleansed and holy will come out
to the Hunting Grounds and partake
of the bitter truth
…BITTER TRUTH…
III.
The asinine rhymes of God will be read
to the church going belligerents and buffoons
and those who have cannibalized the Carpenter’s
hard, honed and plane body/and have been drunk
on the Blood of the HOLY HAM!
The crucifixion will take place will take place
later in the evening-featuring lepers, leopards,
leotards, retards, reinstated reincarnations,
resurrections, reflections, rejections, and written
recorders of the Mater Martyrs…
All this and more, Wednesday thru Sunday, 9:00 PM, L.A. Forum!
Pasadena, California, 1973 (revised.)
Poem #14.
LEGENDS, FALLACIES AND MYTHS
FROM FALLEN KINGDOMS
(With a P.S. by Synath Boznar.)
SO!
There is truth potion here in
these so-called
Fallen Cities?
I remember the quiet times
when walking to the store,
looking to buy a delicious
hot-pig,
I would think these things over
milling them about in my mind
…things like…oh,
Zephyrs and zebras, nasal sprays
and manta rays, scrub oaks and
back scrubbers…
Hoping, (as is my wont,)
not to forget the whiskey,
because whiskey goes very well
with hot-pig
especially in the winter.
SO!
There are many drifting parties
making their way across wide,
blue
forests in the rain.
Those times I remember vividly
as I used to walk past gentle
trumbling brooks and bumbling
trooks, lined with fish hooks
and men of a very sea smell
about themselves…
Many were those glorious times
when fair bustles rose skyward
and pretty lasses walked home from school
wiggling their sexy assess
in my nose.
P.S.
(Try to envision,
if you can
the slight subtleties,
and inherent racial memories,
which this peculiar author weaves
in an ever tightening web
around the reader.
Confusion and subterfuge
are very pronounced
in this typically
finite work.).
Signed,
Your Beloved
Synath Boznar The III
Pasadena, California, 1973 (revised.)
Poem #15.
THE WORK OF IDOL HANDS
Hands of the Idol
point
to the third crown
of the Sphinx of Karnak.
In the lonely solitude
happiness
opens its small, cloth wings
and begins to
Fly…
A sweet smelling rose
blooms
in a bank of snow surrounding
the burning towers
of Persepolis.
The seat of power of
Ancient Kings
becomes only a dusty beehive,
a dwelling place for ants and
Jackals…
The Black Eagle from Armaggedon
soars
past the open door of “Jack’s
Pawn Shop and Antique Store.”
High Priestess Kar-En reveals
truth
through the use of the ancient
and forbidden knowledge of the
Urim and Thummim…
St. Francis of Assissi tells lions
to roar
at some other door
which when knocked upon, opens
Outward…
The Sex Queen of 1843
feels
the Idol Hands touch her
25 years after the death of
Abraham Lincoln…
The Queen of Sheba
lies
upon a bed of Tulips
from far away Galicia,
The Porto De Espana…
Her cohort, Sir Francis Bacon
actually
William Shakespeare
in the disguise of
Mark Twain, a writer…
The Idol Hands point again,
further
past the future
into 2000 A.D.
Where the Anti-Christ heals
the healthy…
The Idol Hands
are
The Hands of God who wrought
the Universe
in six days…
The world and its inhabitants
yearn
to learn God’s true name
and nature.
They receive unto themselves,
graven images…
But really, are these
the works of Idol Hands?
For if the Idol Hands are
working
in the Devil’s Workshop,
we should succumb to idleness,
yet was not man fashioned
in His image and likeness
by Idol Hands?
What then might our unholy hands
fashion
but the Hands of an Idol
pointing the way,
back to my blue heaven?
Pasadena, California, 1973 (revised.)
EPILOGUE
“The senseless deaths of 2000 vinyl lizards” (As viewed
through the eyes of the Supreme Khan of Kathai.) Was
written in concordance with the Twelve Sacred Judges of
Man, which sit upon the rim of the world and stare bleakly
into the oblivion known as “The Abyss” waiting for the Most
High to reveal the last times of Man and his Kingdoms and
to cast out the wicked from the gates of New Jerusalem, and
through whose omnipotent graces this chapter was made possible.
We would also like to thank the Altadena Dairy Company and the
fine folks at the Pasadena Raquetball Club for the special
effects and fireworks. And of course most of all we want to
thank God.
Endit
Reprogam…………………
BEGIN CHAPTER TWO
Ready>…………………………
START
TITLE<?>….?….?….?….?….?…
CHAPTER 2
TALES FROM THE EMPIRE OF GILGAMESH
(And Other Points of Interest.)
Poem #1.
I WAS A CLONE FOR THE C.I.A.
I crouched, I squatted,
like a transient fever like a green bullfrog
in the brain of a on a wet lily pad
Pasadena wino, in a stagnant, leprous pond
shivering trembling
with intrepid fear with distinct anticipation
waiting seeking
for for
a an
chance. opening.
My head reeling, My brain staggering
like a dentist’s like a potter’s
chair wheel
with Huntington’s Chorea, with Parkinson’s Disease
I was ready I was prepared
to spring my trap to spring my trap
!TOO LATE! !TOO LATE!
The Parabellum Luger The nickel plated .45
seemed like felt like a
a cool, sewer breeze cold, dead fish
on my naked ear. on my exposed ear.
The barrel The barrel
nudged nestled
just to the edge of just off the center of
my unsteady future. my uncertain destiny.
I felt the tense snap I felt the tense jolt
of the firing pin of the firing pin
and my lungs relaxed and my breath stopped
like a dying pony like the heart of an old woman
on a moonlit night dying in a white hospital room.
and I…spoke my last words… and I…spoke my last words…
“There’s a hell of a lot more of me where I came from!”
Pasadena, California,1974 (revised.)
Poem #2.
KING RICKIE THE JEW
King Rickie accosted me, “Yes, Lord.”
the Prince of Seventh Heaven, “O.k.”I say
in an elevator “Please hurry!”
on the 33rd floor Says he.
of the giant “Hey! Hey.” I say.
Prudential Bldg.-Chicago Ill. “Don’t you realize
and I do mean Ill. this is a delicate operation?”
and announced “Sorry.” Says he.
“I am King Rickie the Jew!” He handed me the bird
So I said “O.k. O.k. Here goes
“So?” nothing…”and then…
He said. POOF
“I am here to ask Well, needless to say
a favor of you!” I turned the little bird
“Great.” Into a great eagle
“May I?” and I’ll tell you…don’t ever ask
“Quite!” to see what happens
“I would like you to when you confine an angry,
turn this pigeon into thirty pound eagle
an eagle, with a seven foot wing-span
so he may carry me to in a 7X5 elevator
God in His Heaven 33 stories in the air…
so I may see Him And in this way
and know Him!” King Rickie the Jew
“This is a pigeon? got to heaven
Looks like a feathered rat to me! by way of a malicious miracle.
… That’s a little joke.”
“Yes.” Says he.
“Well, well. Do you
have faith that I can
perform this miracle?”
Pasadena,California, 1974 (revised.)
Poem #3.
A TALE OF BURT THE NARC
Burt the Narc walked into the White House
looking like Pontius Pilate after a bad night
of half-assed crucifixions. He yelled,
“I’m washing my hands of the whole damned thing
right now!”
Sandra the Lion Tamer (Queen of the South Side
Sea Food Concession,) yelled back, “What thing
do you mean?”
“You for one and all the other women in the world
for two!”Said Burt (groaning like a turtle.)
All the women in the world said in reply
(their words ringing out like the bells at
Robert Kennedy’s Wake),
“Fuck you and the high horse you rode in on!”
“See what I mean?!”Cried Burt, laying his head upon
the shoulder of Moron, The Pig-Headed god of
unreasonablness.
“I can’t say anything about women because…
I’m a man!”
“That’s what you think.” Said Sandra.
Pasadena, California, 1974
Poem #4.
THE LEGEND OF SAM THE LION
AND THE SINS OF MAN
Watchout
Watchout
Watchout
This is a tale of…
The Chosen One
The Winner
The Stiffnecked One
The Stubborn One
Sam the Lion
and his partner
The Sins of Man
One at a time
All the people of the world dropped dead
just like the closing of a book of bad
science fiction, until no one was left
until God found Sam the Lion dying of
thirst
at the bottom of
Lake Superior
God nursed him to health
and He created him a side
kick
The Sins of Man
She was a great lay
and a good cook
and was built like a Sumerian
brick shithouse
So
Sam the Lion and
The Sins of Man
Walked about the old, dry earth
and cooked and ate and slept
and had one child before they
passed away and went to live with God…
That son became
Me…
Sam the Lion II.
Pasadena, California 1974 (revised)
Poem #5.
MANMADE
Man Made in America, the tea-square, the Hollywood
cement shoed giant…what about
the Otto Mobile and leopard spotted Tarzan people?
Numbing tundra winds whip across the plains of
the high polar desert.
Did you get your dessert?
Did you come down
with the flu
because you saw it on the Man Made?
Man made it. And remember the Arctic wolfman
the white haired propagandist of the 31st century?
To whom
we owe
so much
of our group howls.
HOWL?
Now there was a poem
or was it?
It was Man Made.
You saw it here first on the Man Made Jimmy McAsshole
Show at 12:00 AM 1954.
So we all
run off like little lemmings
scared of the white Gyrfalcon, running
into the sea of
Man Made hysteria
The Frankenstein monster machine piloted by the
crazyhorsehippopotomusical/Pasadena soda jerk
technician’s union.
A marriage made in heaven…
at least there’s something around here that ain’t
Man Made.
Pasadena, California, 1975
Poem #6.
ROGER BACON’S JOURNEY
The boat of Roger Bacon
On his journey to
Ancient records
and hieroglyphs
With his friend Hermes
The Sun God
Accompanying Roger
Through Western Seas
Where lies bold Atlantis
Underneath
Uranium skies.
Poor Roger Bacon and Hermes
On their journey to
The Tombs of Osiris
and the Valley of the Kings
Both didn’t really know
The inside ropes
The bird’s eye low-down
The dried eyes of mouldering
Mummies
Didn’t know a damned thing
No secrets
No revelations
They were simply
Occult artifacts
The search of Roger Bacon
On a journey
To musty second-hand books
and cults of equally musty
Kabbalists and Freemasons
With his friend Hermes
The last of the big-time myths
Accompanying Roger
Underneath
Uranium skies._______________.
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #7.
ANGELS OF MERSEY
You are under the jurisdiction
of twelve creative judges
who sit upon the four corners
of the earth.
The Twelve are herein named:
Tsaphkiel-Angel No.1. He has in his possession
the power over toothpaste and tomato paste, also
he has at his command 500,000 frogs from a certain
pond deep in the Peruvian jungles.
He is “The Contemplator.”
Raziel-Angel No. 2. He is a commando and a revolutionary
who can rally the power of the four winds. He smokes
a long pipe of cotton candy and has a tooth that is
covered with an enameled representation of the flag
of Switzerland.
He is the “Messenger.”
Samael-Angel No. 3. He has a face of chrome shaped like
a tuning fork. He has power over death and life and
eats only of the wild Yage plant smothered in Thousand
Island dressing.
He is the “Strength.”
Tsadkiel-Angel No. 4. He has bagpipes for hands and brazen
feet. He has in his royal community, 15 juvenile delinquents
four pirates, eight Indian chiefs, and the entire army of
the People’s Republic of China.
He is the “Justice.”
Michael-Angel No. 5. He, in one hand holds a can of Comet
kitchen cleanser, in the other a rusty sword. He rides as
general of 15,000,000 Great White Sharks, 18,000 Sea Urchins
and 4,000 bearded clams. His personal advisor is Julius Caesar’s
ghost.
He is “Likened Unto God.”
Raphael- Angel No. 6. His head appears to earthlings as the
True Cross. When he waves his hands all time ceases and all
churches are ground into dust. He bears the Staff of Moses
which is chromed and which he uses as a crutch.
He is the “Healer.”
Haniel-Angel No. 7. He has Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors, Jesus’
robe, Adam and Eve’s first fig leaves and the entire wardrobe
of David and Solomon in his closet. He holds the jawbone of
an ass. (Probably Pinky Lee’s,) in one hand and the Holy Grail
in the other. No one will follow him.
He is the “Grace.”
Gabriel-Angel No. 8. He whom as we all know, plays a mean
trumpet also plays steel drums, electric bass and harmonica.
He wears a coat made from the dried skins of the Coelacanth
and a medallion with the inscription: “You’re either on the
Bus or off the Bussssss.”
He is the “Being of God’s Being.”
Satanel-Angel No. 9, No. 9, No. 9, No. 9…(Refer to the
Beatles White Album.) Although he was supposed to be No.1
He got a little snotty and had to be let go. He has a head
of gold with eyes like burning emeralds. He is sometimes
called Old Scratch, Lucky Lucifer, The Walking Dude, or
Shaitan. He loves Vanilla ice cream with butterscotch syrup.
He was the “Crown of God.” Replaced by Metatron,
who used to be Enoch.
Sandalophon-Angel No.10. He looks a lot like Burt Lancaster
or somebody like that. His beard is cropped short for
fear of demons pulling on it. He has the original Gutenberg’s Bible
with liner notes, and twelve ragged musicians as disciples who play on
and on as he sips a tall, cool glass of Absinthe.
He is the “Messiah.”
Emmanuel-Angel No. 11. He’s a lot like Neal Cassady, he has a head
like a Peyote plant. He sits around all day at the phone waiting for messages from Buddy Holly.
At times he makes a ghostly appearance at operas, plays and benefits for orphanages
and was around a lot for Kesey’s Acid Tests.
His middle name is Synchronization.
He is the “Spirit of God.”
Daniel-Angel No. 12. He is last but not least, gone but not
forgotten, neither here nor there, lost and found, his
power is in the equatorial jungles of Africa. He is seen
but seldom heard. He has 14,000,000 dead souls of the ancient
tribes of Israel-Maya-Aztlan-Inca-Anasazi-Viking-and Hopi.
They are all suited up and ready to go to war at the drop
of a hat. Tottering on his oversized head he wears Abe Lincoln’s top hat.
He is the “Hand of God.”
So whenever you think the world is at your command
remember these strange judges whose souls are clean
and crystal clear, they do not smoke and they regard
alcohol as a “dangerous, mind-altering drug.”They
hold the mirrors of your soul and cause all your
delusions of grandeur to come true. So watch it, bub.
Pasadena, California, 1975
Poem #8.
EL KID ENCOUNTERS THE ABOMINABLE SHOWMAN
“Pierre Pipeline packed a peck of pickled puke!”
Yelled El Kid at his speech teacher.
His speech teacher replied quietly,
“If you’re good, I’ll give you free tickets to
the Abominable Showman Variety Hour.”
“Who gives a shit!?” Pestered El Kid.
“You will when you see the show.” Retorted the teacher.
“O.k., o.k., Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled…”
(That very same night…)
“Bring on the show! You stupid slobs!
Yelled El Kid at the M.C.
The M.C. replied laughingly,
“If you’re good the Abominable Showman will
give you his autograph!”
“I don’t give a shit!” Prompted El Kid.
“That’s because you haven’t seen the show yet!”
Reported the M.C.
The curtain went up
The applause sign went on
The M.C. shouted these words…
“PRESENTING THE ABOMINABLE SHOWMAN!!”
Suddenly a great stink filled the room.
Pasadena, California, 1975
Poem #9.
THE AMARILLO ARMADILLO AMATEUR HOUR
“Wake up you old fart!” Cried Billy Bohemian
to Stanley Cartwheel alias Jack the Zipper…
“It’s time to go!” Billy cried, tears of amber
running down his cheeks…
“Go where?”Asked Stanley…
“Go to the Amarillo Armadillo Amateur Hour!”
Billy shrieked…
“O.k., o.k., don’t get so uptight.” Said Stanley
as he sharpened his razor. I got to brush up on
my suicide first, o.k.?”
“O.k., but hurry, hurry, hurry, step right this way!”
Laughed Billy, stepping over Stanley’s pool of
still warm blood.
“Who’s gonna be there?” Gurgled Stanley…
“Well, first there’s the NEW CHRIST’SAKES MINSTRELS;
Four mongoloid idiots from Vancouver, Canada…
A real nice signing act.
The there’s MELVIN MOUSEARS the MYSTERY SPIC;
Who juggles four troglodytes to the tune of Swan Lake…
uh, then there’s ARNOLD TELEVANIOS GRABOWSKI;
Who will recite the three hour epic poem entitled: MAN
IN THE SAND… He is followed by POLLY POMERANIAN
and her 50 TRAINED, MARCHING TSE TSE FLIES!”
Said Billy…
“I’ll probably be able to catch the sleep I lost
last week during that one.”Interrupted Stanley
who began choking on his joke…
“No, but you’ll probably catch a fly or two!”
Retorted Billy Bohemian. (He was fond of baseball.)
“Also, there’s this one last act…SGT. ED JERKHOFF
of the ROYAL NOVASCOTIAN MOUNTED POLTERGEISTS;
Will drink 50 gallons of beer before our startled eyes.”
“I’ve seen that one.”Whispered Jack the Zipper,
dying slowly…” How do I stop this imminent departure?”
He groaned.
“Physician, Heal Thyself, you old fakir!” Said Billy.
And Stanley, alias Jack the Zipper did just that,
he slit Billy Bohemian’s sensitive throat.
Pasadena California, 1976
Poem #10.
TO THE DELIGHT OF ALL CONCERNED
(AN INVERTATION.)
To the delight of all concerned
We are having some kind of wild party
The guests of the Gods have been inverted
The Holy Eucharist will be present
With his friend the Eleusian Mystery.
Mescalito and his confidant Teonanacatl
will also be attending later in the millennium.
William Blake and St. John the Revelator,
Joan D’Arc, Sitting Bull and Krisna the Divine
And several others famous and not so famous
will be walking, crawling, flitting and fluttering
around the Grand Hall of the Oracle of Delphi.
Orion and Osiris will be catering.
The music will be provided by:
The Spheres of Clear Omnipotence.
We beg you one and all to attend our humble party.
For entertainment there will be the Circus Maximus
And the Burning of the Reichstag. Also,
Buddha Gautama will dance with Confucius
As Lao Tse plays Beethoven on the autoharp.
We want all to be happy and in tune with each other,
therefore no wars will be held for 1000 years.
Formal dress of course, will be required of all.
Burning aura and white robes are traditional.
After dinner the entire entourage of the party
will watch the Apocalypse.
So please bring your dark, rose colored glasses.
Present this invertation at the Portal of Dimension 9.
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #11.
STARS OF THE APOCALYPSE
Two stars fell from the sky
one north, one west.
One fell into the back yard of a man named
Martin Mariachi.
He was an old man who limped.
“What do you think of that?” Martin asked
his friend James L. Protosimian,
(The L. was for Lycanthrope.)
“Well, I don’t think much of it!”James
spoke for the first time in 40 years.
“That’s your trouble, Jimmy L. You don’t
think, you don’t talk and you don’t care!
And that’s a fact!” Martin barked.
“Well, why don’t we take a limp around that
old star and then we’ll see what I really
think.” Said Jim.
“O.k.” Said Martin.
Now this star was about twenty feet long
and ten feet wide and ten feet high and
t took about four hundred limps around it
to really study it. But old James L.
Protosimian saw what he thought all right.
“Well, I see what I really think about it
all right.” Said James L.
“What do you think?”Asked Martin.
“I don’t think much of it!”Answered James.
That was the last word he spoke for another
40 years.
“Now I know why they call you ‘Protosimian’.”
Said Martin.
The other star fell next door to Mr. J. Brontosaurus’
law office in Topanga, Texas. It smashed into a small
hardware store run by a friend of his named
Samuel B. Trilobite.
“I’m glad it was him and not me.” Said Mr. Brontosaurus.
“I’m glad too.” Said his wife Galadriel Brontosaurus.
Suddenly Sam Trilobite burst in, sweating and yelling.
“Someone help me get this fucking star off my store!
It’s bad for business!” He yelled.
And so began the hideous apocalypse and the end of things
as we know them.
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #12.
AND THEY CAME SINGING
I beg to differ sir,
The ones who tore out His eyes
were not carrying eagles on their shoulders.
They were wearing blue masks
and they came singing;
Marching down the street
four abreast.
I believe they rode the dappled mares
with silver bits.
And each carried a 14 carat gold ice-pick.
They had buttons which read in Abyssinian
“And We Came Singing.”
I think not sir.
I saw them tear out His eyes
and pierce His ears with platinum awls
and let go their Gyrfalcons upon His hunting dogs.
Their masks were green.
But they did wear blue tuxedos
with ruffles and small blood stains.
Four abreast,
That is true, I think, but the mares themselves
were Appaloosa, with eagle feathers
tied to the horses manes.
And their buttons were written in Hebrew,
but they marched forcefully
and they came singing.
I believe His eyes were blue, gentlemen.
And He wore only a red glove upon His right hand,
No fig leaves for Him.
It was a terrible thing to tear His eyes out,
And I had nothing to do with it, you understand.
I wear my mask constantly
And my button is in Swahili.
I was an innocent bystander.
I had bought tickets in advance of course
But I had no idea…
I came only to see His ears pierced
And His liver torn from his body,
And I came singing.
Again, I beg to differ sir!
I had seat number 12, front row center.
His eyes were lavender, His glove orange,
on His right hand it was.
On His left hand was a small tattoo,
An ancient Sanskrit one word poem which read:
“Figleaf.”
And it was His pancreas or gall-bladder
which was torn out and dragged one public mile
in full view of the Chancellor.
I must admit, there was no reason
for tearing out His eyes,
But I suppose eagles have a leaning towards eyes.
I came with my seven wives
and my elite Nazi body guard.
And we came singing.
Gentlemen, your conduct is not on trial here.
I’m sure we all do our duties.
We all wear our masks and buttons.
I myself carry my Figleaf with me at all times,
And I have a violet and orange glove.
I know a few of you have your
Philippine Monkey Eating Eagles, as I have my
Snowy Egret.
And we all come singing.
However the case before us concerns His eyes.
The only eyes left in the nation!
They were torn out illegally and so
we must all be punished.
The sentence is as follows:
Everyone who saw this deed will report
to the Ancient L.A. Coliseum
to have their noses pierced with black jade needles
and have their hearts torn out
in full view of the Chancellor and his elite bodyguard
of Arab Terrorists,
And dragged for three public miles
We will all go willingly,
We will all die nobly
And we will all go singing…
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #13.
NIMROD OF THE SEA
MEETS
THE GREAT MYSTERY
Nimrod of the Sea and his friend, Ish-Nu
were walking down Orange Grove Ave. in Pasadena.
They were speaking together of ancient secrets,
forgotten knowledge and unknown writings.
They approached the corner of Orange Grove and
Michigan, when a bright ray of light shone down
on Nimrod’s forehead. He abruptly fell down and
was possessed of the “Spirit.” Ish-Nu sat down
and waited for an hour or so as Nimrod ranted
and raved and danced about. After awhile he calmed down
and began preaching to anyone within shouting distance.
“I have beheld the Great Mystery!” He began.
“I was surrounded by the Elder Gods of America, the
Gods of the North, South, East and West! They have
shown me their light! I was lead into the presence
of the Great Mystery!!”
“I always thought he would look a little like
Jay Silverheels with grey hair.”Said Ish-Nu.
“How did He look?”
“He was a circle of fire in the eye of the Infinite
White Light of Truth! He was the River of Life Eternal…
He was…”
“Oh sit on it and rotate, Nimrod!” Ish-Nu mumbled.
“I’m going for a burger, I’ve heard this line before.”
Nimrod ranted on however because hunger no longer
meant anything to him.
“Well, that’s the way it goes,” said Ish-Nu to himself
as he walked towards McDonald’s. “I lost a friend
but I gained a saint. Saints are o.k., I guess,
but that doesn’t mean I have to hang around with one!
Besides they’re bad for my rep.”
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #14.
SAMPANS ON THE BAYOU
Sampans are still drifting
to and fro
along the Louisiana bayou
Oriental voices ring out clear
in the Spanish Moss air.
___________________________________
The Czar’s Crystal Palace
still stands glistening
in the deep woods of northern Maine
The Czar’s hunting dogs’ bark
through the icy evergreen breeze,
is heard constantly.
___________________________________
Someone, I heard,
just dug up part of the Rig Veda
out of a rock quarry near Chicago
the only decipherable verse was,
“These fucking mushrooms are insane!”
___________________________________
I visited Chief Standing Bear
while up in Canada.
He and his friend Tarzan
hunt alligators on the very peaks
of the snow shrouded Rockies.
They say,
“The cold makes ‘em twice as mean!”
One more thing
___________________________________
If you are ever in West Virginia
take Highway 34 North to strip mine
No. 12. They say Christ himself runs
a worm farm and bait shop
at the bottom. Best damned bait
this side of Kentucky.
I caught a 500 pound narwhal
out of Bass Creek, a mile west of
Crucifix Caverns, with that bait.
___________________________________
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #15.
THE RECOVERY OF THE CROWN OF THOTH-AMMON
IN THE CITY OF HELIOPOLIS AT 9:20 GMT
1865, Thursday
Ah, these stinking black devils
left me without a damned tea service
out here
in
this dry, dusty, niggardly desert!
Desert me in the desert without dessert
will they? I’ll show them.
I’ll go it alone.
Hope I don’t
meet any
ARAB LAND PIRATES
out here.
According to my calculations
I should be about
20
kilometers
from the ruins of the ancient city of
HELIOPOLIS!
Will I find treasure beyond measure
with which I may lead a life of leisure
and pleasure free from pressure and
worrisome insects?
I hope so.
So, 20 kilometers later and here I am
writing in my diary about my great find…
Day 1. Found the great Crown of Thoth-Ammon
in the city of Heliopolis at 9:20 AM Greenwich
Mean Time. Found also the ancient god OSIRIS
who recovered the relic from me, no receipt
given, none asked.
Out of water as it gets
hotter and hotter like the kiln of a potter!
Think I am becoming a bit giddy. No sign of
shade. Think twice before coming this way
again…
Lord Bartley
Pasadena, California, 1976
EPILOGUE
A TALE FROM THE EMPIRE OF GILGAMESH
(How chemicals were invented)
One day Gilgamesh, the mighty Hunter-King of fabled Ur in Sumer, gathered up his many falconers, weapons makers, and a few concubines and decided to voyage across the Great Ocean to the mythic Lands of the West to have a picnic.
He wore his robe of lion’s skin as he overseered the construction of the seven reed ships that would take him over the fabulous Great Sea. He had his court butchers prepare succulent meats for the voyage, 20 tons of salami, 30 tons of bologna, and 100 tons of mixed luncheon meats including Canadian bacon, olive loaf and summer sausage. He also put aboard cheese, crackers, potato chips, pickles, mustard, and a vast quantity of potato salad. Yet he worried a bit about ants and gnats spoiling the picnic, for bug spray had not been invented yet. But he was an heroic man and there were giants in the earth in those days, so he took a couple to help build a great city, just in case. In a few days the ships raised canvas and Gilgamesh sailed into the West.
After many days sailing they finally reached the unknown Lands of the West, which they felt, must be China, as they knew even then that earth was round. So they went inland and Gilgamesh builded him a great city in the forest to keep the ants away from the picnic area. However they were disheartened and saddened to find most of the meat did not keep, as BHT, Sodium polysorbate and Sodium Nitrite had not been invented yet, nor any preservatives to enhance color and freshness.
So Gilgamesh rose up from his place and slew him some natives and fed them to his crew to strengthen them. Yet many had perished from eating bad potato salad. So seeing this Gilgamesh boarded his reed ships and sailed back to his empire post haste, leaving behind his great city in the forest and legends among the aboriginal people of white cannibal gods. When he returned to his empire in Sumer he scolded his court butchers calling them a bunch of brats and punished them by grinding their bodies into bratwurst. Then he called upon his sorcerers and magicians to invent the valuable preservatives and chemicals to keep the “brats” fresh until he could consume every one. These same chemicals are included in our food even unto this very day. Later on during his reign they wrote some other stuff about Gilgamesh which, for the life of me I cannot recall at this moment.
The End
Pasadena, California, 1976 (revised.)
CHAPTER 3
NOTES FROM THE NAUTILUS CHAMBERS
OF PRIMEVAL PERSEPOLIS
Poem #1.
STRANGERS IN PARADOX
She had in her hands a large,
metal object used for flattening children’s ears.
And he maintained a horde of deadly Q-Tips.
She loved him with a passion that equaled
slavocracy.
He had on his royal rabbit nose mittens
they were strangers in paradox.
Not since time immemorial had such a two met.
Not since the lungfish met the lamprey,
had such a two met.
Not since the time of Sheba and Noah,
had such a two met.
And not long after this they would never meet again.
but…
Be that as it may or maybe that is as…
He stroked her zipgun gently,
she returned his stroke with a rollicking limpet.
They talked besmerchingly of each other
as the otters balked and squirmed
in their deadly grasp.
When would it end?
or
When would it begin?
or
Was it even taking place?
But as it is written, so it is, or has…
She gave him her school hapaxlegomenon,
he gave her his large, shaggy guanaco.
She kissed him once and said “Skotoun!”
He grasped her and whispered “Oppugn!”
And so they parted, swayed and fell forever
strangers forever in paradox,
lovers forever in Komsomolsk!
Pasadena, California, 1976
Poem #2.
PRIEST EATERS
Jesuit monastery starry eyed Priest Eaters
attack altar on Christ’s birthday waving
diseased fists at the sky, yelling:
“NOW IS THE TIME!”
When is yellow
What is blue
Who am I
Who are you?
Chanted in the night forever.
IN A MOMENT
OF ETERNAL RAGE,
GOD’S WRATH WAS FELT
BY ALL PRIEST EATERS
AND THEY GAVE UP THE GHOST.
DEVOURERS OF HOLY FLESH
HEAR MY WRATH, SO YE SHALL
BE DAMNED TO ETERNAL PAIN IN
KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI.
Pasadena, California, 1976 (revised)
Poem #3.
TALES OF UNCLE MOE AND
THE CRIMSON CREAMERY
“Shut the fuck up in there!”
Yelled Uncle Moe.
He was yelling at his cows.
Yelling did not help however,
because the vivid blue cows
could only just hear him
over the chug-a-chug-chug
of their solid purple jade milking machines.
Uncle Moe yelled anyway however,
as he had nothing better to do.
“It’s these damn Chinee cows and
their forlorn mooin’ that drives
me to drink!” Uncle Moe thought aloud
to himself.
Uncle Moe called the cows “Chinee”
but the sapphire blue cows actually
came from Venus.
To Uncle Moe anything out of the ordinary
was “Chinee.”
“Shut the fuck up, I say!”
Yelled Uncle Moe. He glanced at his watch
(Gold inscribed railroad type.)
It was 12:15, yep he had nothing’ to do
for three hours
except yell.
The old Crimson Creamery was
Uncle Moe’s bane.
The blue cow’s purple stone
machinery and their ruby red milk
were all “Chinee” to Uncle Moe.
“Probably Comminist Chinee too!”
Uncle Moe spat into his solid gold cuspidor.
Uncle Moe never did like Communism
he was from the “Old School” as he put it.
Actually Uncle Moe never got through
Grammar School.
“Would you Goldamned, glasseyed
moo cows please, please, pull-eeeez
shut yer gawdlovin’ yaps fur Chrise sakes!?”
He yelled.
Uncle Joe’s real job was to sing
to the Venusian cows. He found that yelling
got a better response.
The more Uncle Moe yelled
the more content were the kine and
their crimson milk flowed like
thick wine into the
megalithic granite drums.
The red liquid smelled like
fresh Lilacs.
To Uncle Moe the milk smelled,
“Like a fag bar.”
But he’d never say that to the
various gods and goddesses that
drank it.
Uncle Moe loved the Crimson Creamery.
Uncle Moe loved the gods and goddesses who had hired him.
And mostly he loved to yell.
“Shut the fuck up!!” He yelled.
Pasadena, California, 1976 (revised)
Poem #4.
MISTRESS OF BABYLON
Oh, Primeval Persepolis,
lo, lo and behold!
She is arriving.
Mistress of Babylon riding
her Iranian Ibex
horns of beaten gold
rubies gleaming
Oh, Mistress of Babylon ride on,
ride on…
She wears a silken sari which flies from her shoulders
like the open wings of the Egyptian vulture, soaring.
Upon her head the crown of dull brass, ten horns
reaching towards the seven heavens, set with sapphires.
Her lips red like the fires of Baal. She set upon them
the juice of pomegranates, sweet as her breath.
Her eyes are twin portals of death, yet gleam like
sea-green jade from far Kathai; they fall upon the ones
who dare.
Oh, Gate of Dragons
open, open and let her pass.
She has arisen.
Mistress of Babylon riding
her Thracian Hippogriff
wings of carven pearl
emeralds glittering
Oh, Mistress of Babylon pass by,
pass by…
Who is this woman? Bred by the bull god Baal for
the destruction of men’s souls, she will pass by…
She has hair black, like the obsidian stone polished.
It is wrapped with silver and red amber, heavy with perfume.
Upon her fingers are gems from the world’s end,
white gold upon white skin, coruscating malachite.
Heavy silver set turquoises and lapis from Persia.
Her breasts surrounded by pearls,
draw men’s eyes towards them as the golden apples
of Hesperides, no one may touch them
and live.
Oh, Ziggurats of Agamemnon
open, open and take the Mistress in.
She is in need of rest.
Oh, Mistress of Babylon riding
the Dragon of Death
with scales of orichalcum
diamonds shimmering
Oh, Mistress of Babylon sleep forever,
sleep forever.
Forever.
Pasadena, California, 1976 (revised)
Poem #5.
KING SKY
King Sky rains in the waters of heaven
He has a thundering laugh
and of course he is as quick as lightning
Be that as it may
His sword of judgment hangs upon the wall
of his turquoise castle
His great, flowing white, hairy beard hangs
over the folds of his midnight blue velvet
robes
He wonders what has become of his
winged servants
and he ponders the questions of eternity
as he stares into his silver chalice
worked with strange circles and lines
He stands, raises his cloaked arms
and takes his burning golden shield from
the dark, ebony wall
He strides slowly across the floor
of shimmering lapis lazuli
His shield before him
He takes down his sword of judgment
Suddenly
His winged servants flock around him
He speaks: “I will go forth to battle!
With Father Time and Mother Earth to
protect me I cannot fail!”
His winged servants sing his praises,
His battle song, his death song.
Quickly now he leaves the castle of turquoise,
ebony, silver and lapis lazuli and enters
the land of Black Emptiness
At first he strides triumphant to the fore
But suddenly he is assailed
by a billion, billion silver spears
and the invisible warriors which wield them
His golden shield saves him but he must retreat
Hurling his shield away he retreats
to his cool, blue castle
Yet he has magicks still
For before the door closes he flings
His mysterious silver chalice out
into the Black Emptiness
Where it lays forever outside the doors
of the turquoise palace a talisman against
the Emptiness
He is defeated
But magickally the billion bright
and piercing spears and their invisible soldiers
may not pass
the shield of gold
the silver chalice
nor the blue castle
and the King though not conquering
Is not conquered
For he is King Sky and though his sword of judgment
hangs over us all,
He is our protector
Hail! King Sky Hail!
Pasadena, California, 1978 (revised)
Poem #6.
ELVIS THE PELVIS
Well he get up on the mountain
and he call his…bearcat
and he becomes a god
god of houndogs and jailhouse rock
LO!
I have beheld 500 Britons
GYRATING
in a pelvic hysteria
a leg-shaking madness
clutching the image of their god
never touching one another
doing their out-of-synch ghost dance
of the 20th Century
begging
sweating
and still
across the ocean
Elvis the Pelvis
grinds, bumps, wails
whispers
to his followers
they call
he hears
and he loves them tender
and he loves them true
and he calls his bearcat
(and when the bearcat comes
the hound dogs
stand back.)
(This poem was written
in 1975. Two years be-
fore Elvis died, was
resurrected by his fans
and became a dead god,
worshipped by the mil-
lions. Loved by all.)
Pasadena, California, 1975 (revised)
Poem #7.
BUT…CAN YOU DESCRIBE HIS FACE?
He cried out
I cried out
The warships of destiny have arrived!
I waited silently, my head like a pumpkin
or a squash,
mushy inside, hard outside.
My greasy finger moved
furtively
towards the time to come
towards our undoing.
He cried out
I cried out
and out of the sky
we appeared
as a light behind the light
as a thief in the night
we appeared as “HE,”
and inside my pumpkin head
a voice asked
but…can you describe his face?
I cried out
it is not time for a description!
it is not time for the New Jerusalem!
He cried out
it is time for the harvest!
it is time for the ripe to be plucked up!
but…the voice whispered like a cat’s purr
can you describe his face?
I cried out
He cried out
His face is my face!
The voice was silenced.
Pasadena, California, 1978
oem #8.
A TREE-TEASE
(the Autumn of our love.)
“Willow yew leaf me alone? Yew birch!” He said.
“Oak-K. Just don’t bark at me! Yew really know how to shoot yewr mouth off, Bud!” She said
“Just leaf me alone! I am very poplar with quite
a few people, yew know.” He said.
“I still think yew’re an ash.” She said
“I don’t cotton to wood yew’re saying, yew nut!” He said.
“Just let me tell yew wood I think, Ginko!” She said.
“Don’t call me a Ginko, yew beech! I’ll snap yew like
a twig!” He said.
“Don’t call me a beech, yew knothole-peckerwood! Just let
me get to the root of the problem.” She begged.
“All right, what is it yew pine about?” He laughed.
“Yew! Yew think you’re a big man around Aspen, but I think
eucalyptus!” She whined.
“Clipped yew? what wood yew say that fir?” He axed, astounded.
“Yew know the old saw…yew can’t see the forest for the trees? Well that’s yew all over, yew son of a birch! Now yew’ve cut our family to the quick. Yew lumber about making all kinds of un-poplar friends…and I know yew’ve been seeding her!” She said.
“I never cedar!” He cried
“Is that so, Mr. Ironwood. Well I don’t be-leaf yew!” She barked.
“Yeah? Well yew just stick to your be-leaves and I’ll just stick to mine, pinon head! Yew really are a beech!”
“Maple I am and maple I’m not…but I know what yew are! Crotch rubber!” She said willowing in self-pity.
“I see that our love is no longer evergreen. We shall split. Our family tree will be uprooted!
And what will become of our little saplings?” He cried.
“Who cares? Yew were once the apple of my eye and I was yewr peach! What a pear we made.” She creaked.
“Our love has just entered into autumn. I can’t keep my sap flowing. I’m stumped, tapped out! I’ll just take the woody, it’s in cherry condition. Yew take the saplings. I just want to leaf, blow this town. I can’t stick it out anymore.” She whimpered.
“Yew are a hardwood to fig-ure, baby. This is a real cut. Yew always were sappy. Go on, take your leaf. I know yew! Yew just want to branch out! Palm the saplings off on me. What wood yew care anyway? If this is your final deciduous, then yew can leaf me out of it. I can’t stand it anymore. It fig-ures yew always spring to the wrong conclusions. Yew think yew rooted me out, found me pollinating with my pistol, hanging around with another beech. But yew’re wrong, yew’re barking up the wrong tree my Magnolia blossom.” He said.
“Magnolia Blossom? Why yew haven’t called me that in a Dogwood’s age! Do yew still want me to leaf, Forest?” She asked.
“Of course not my Magnolia blossom! I love yew forever! Here, come sit down and share the fruits of my labor. Have an orange!” He said
and so she did.
(Written by a wise, old sage.)
Pasadena, California, 1978
Poem #9.
THE PRINCESS WHO SMELLED LIKE A FISH
I knew a princess I knew a princess
who smelled like a fish she was from France
She ate bagels she went outside
from a golden dish without wearing her pants
I knew a princess I knew a princess
who smelled like a skunk like a bird she could sing
but she tasted like wine I could have loved her
that’s how I got drunk but she stole my ring
I knew a princess I knew a princess
who looked like a dog who smelled like a fish
she kissed me once she ate only trout
I turned into a frog and a potato knish
I knew a princess I knew a princess
who walked like a dream who danced like a faery
her only problem she danced with me one night
when she talked, but at dawn
she would scream would not tarry
I knew a princess I knew a princess
who ran like a deer who ate like a goat
and when she died she ate all my paper
I shed one silver tear ’s and that’s all she wrote.
Pasadena, California, 1979 (revised)
Poem #10.
THE CARRION CROW
and
THE JUDAS GOAT
About 20 miles from the edge of reality
and about 3 miles to the right of Arizona
the Carrion Crow
and
the Judas Goat
were having a conversation,
a talk about who had the worst job
on God’s green earth.
“You have the worst of it, Crow!” Said the Judas Goat.
“You feast on stinking corpses, the squashed roadside
dead, the bloody battle dead. When they see you they
know death is around! You circle and circle until you
are sure Death has done his job. You croak; ‘Oh, Death!
Make me a feast from the living! Make me a banquet from
the weak! Let me eat dead flesh cold and damp!’ And when
you land you preen your sleek black feathers and you sink
your shiny black beak into an eye or a tongue and pull
with your strong, jet black claws to get all that rich,
raw, dead flesh! You have the worst job, Crow, you
really do.”
“No, no Judas Goat, you’re worse by far than I, you’re
the worst on God’s green earth!” Said the Carrion Crow.
“You lead the innocent young lambs to slaughtering floors!
You lead the fat ewes and rams to the charnel house! They
follow you because they think you are courageous because
of your fine, long horns and your head held high and your
wise old beard. Yet in the end you walk out free, bleating:
‘I am the best of the best! I take my orders! I do my job
and I have a human name: Judas! I have haughty horns and
cloven hooves! I am the best!’ But you’re the worst of all,
Goat, you really are!”
“No, no!”
“Yes, yes!”
On and on they swore at each other that each one was the
worst on God’s green earth.
Then the world became suddenly silent
and the Carrion Crow and the Judas Goat
became quiet and looked around themselves.
Coming down the long, dusty road was a Man.
On his left side walked Death, red, ruby-fire eyes flashing,
grinning, skeletal teeth beneath his sooty black hood.
They passed by and the whole world held its breath.
And behind the Man and Death walked Satan himself
in the image of a dark and ugly satyr who played
his twisted pan pipes and grimaced and capered
and made evil signs and funny faces behind the
Man’s back and wherever the Devil’s cloven hoof
set down during his mad capering there was burning
and desolation.
Satan noticed the Carrion Crow and the Judas Goat
and smiled at them,
an ugly, bitter smile.
The Judas Goat turned away his eyes and chuckled softly.
“There goes the very worst on God’s green earth! Yes,
the very worst of them all!” He said.
“Oh, yes! You mean Death and the Devil, they are bad
very bad, that’s for certain!” The Crow cawed.
“No, no, Crow! The worst of all is Man! He takes his
orders from the Prince of Darkness and does Death’s
work for him! I lead the lambs to slaughter for Man’s
sake. And for Man’s sake the whole earth is become
a slaughtering floor. Judas was a man’s name and Man
gave that name to me and taught me well in all I should
do. I serve Man and Man serves only himself.” The Judas
Goat bleated.
“You are right again, Goat. Man does not circle and
wait patiently for Death, he brings it with him
everywhere he goes. He heaps up stacks of carrion
which my brothers and sisters and I would need a million
years to consume and this he does in a day! To Man the
whole of God’s green earth is a corpse which he picks at
and eats and gobbles up just like a hungry crow. Yet
he does not think of the hungry crows or the prideful goats,
he only thinks of himself.” The Carrion Crow cawed.
“True, too true, Crow. Well, that makes me feel better
already!” And so the Judas Goat and the Carrion Crow
went off about their duties, each thinking he had the
best job on God’s green earth.
Pasadena, California, 1978 (revised.)
Poem #11.
CINNABAR
(OR: How Mercury Was Made.)
Cinnabar was a violent looking young woman
of about 16 summers
and
Mercury was a beauty of a young god,
quick to thought,
quick to action
and extremely quick to leave before his mistakes
were found out.
Mercury was dallying in a field of Hyacinth when
he came across
young Cinnabar, applying a particularly mean looking
harpoon
to the belly of a fish
in a pool.
Cinnabar looked up and saw god Mercury watching.
She spoke:
“How long have you been standing there?” and
“Don’t try anything or I’ll take this mean
harpoon here and gut you from belly to brisket!”
She brandished the harpoon.
In a flash less than a millisecond
Mercury had taken hold of her and tossed away
the ugly fishing instrument.
He spoke:
“Why do you brandish weapons at gods?” and
“Let me teach you to love me and fish and Hyacinths.”
Cinnabar, startled, yet undaunted said:
“And let me teach you manners…” as she trod
on Mercury’s beautiful toes.
Mercury abruptly, and without malice aforethought,
changed Cinnabar into a rock.
He spoke:
“Gods will be gods.” He said,
and he wept for his lost beauty
who was now a reddish-brown lump.
And his silver tears fell upon the rock
and Cinnabar, sorry as hell about her deed,
caught the tears and held them
which was a feat in itself,
for Mercury’s tears are the hardest of all things
to hold.
But time was running out for Mercury
as it was the twilight of the gods
and he left
in a flash.
But as he went he broke pieces of Cinnabar
and into all the earth he scattered her.
And to this day if you find a piece of Cinnabar
you will have the “Touchstone” with which
golden treasure may be found. And if you break
her and pound her and get her hot and stir her
up and pour chemicals all over her, she will
release the tears of Mercury which she has held
for so long. Tears hard to hold,
the tearful silvery treasure of a young god
shed for a violent young lady
of about 16 summers
who is still a pretty tough nut to crack.
Pasadena, California 1978 (revised.)
Poem #12.
PARCIVAL IN WORLD WAR THREE
(BLACK RAINBOW)
The Black Rainbow
bends over the sky
Purple, bluish-grey
the colors of the goddess
Nerve Gas.
Colorless color
Parcival views all this
through his glass eyes
flat
in a muddy trench
Somewhere in Afghanistan
Somewhere in the Holy Land
oil wells gutter and burn
24 hours a day
Parcival, his innocence shattered
his patriotism was attacked
his intangibles were lusted after
by someone in Russia
or China
or somewhere East of Grail Castle
It started
this 666th Crusade
In Persian Persepolis
where fifty innocents
were trapped
unable to write home
for Christmas
Someone told Parcival
that all wars ended
before Christmas
He believed that sacred day
could stop a bullet,
that was when the gas
followed the plague
which followed the hordes
which followed the Calm
Before the Storm
World War III
lumbered along slowly
like a wounded bison
dropping drops of blood
here and there,
where they landed
war broke out
No one had listened to
the movies
War follows War
it’s called the Darwinism
of Nationalism
Parcival called it
“Death’s Footprint”
Someone somewhere decided
the Holy Grail
was in the Jaws of Hell
not knowing that it had been
plucked out,
that blazing Jewel of Hope,
from the head of some Thing
which had forgotten its own name
millions of years ago
But Parcival knew
it wasn’t in Afghanistan
or Babylon or Persia
or Jerusalem or Arabia
Who can claim the Holy Grail
as a national symbol?
The grey sun
breaks the sky in two,
red and sickly green
The colors of the god
Nuclear Energy
destructive colors
As for the Grail
“Maybe it’s in Outer Space,”
thought Parcival
viewing all this
through his flat,
dying eyes
in World War III.
Pasadena, California, 1980 (revised)
Poem #13.
THE GRANDE ASSDUKE’S ARRIVAL
“The Grande Assduke is arriving!”
Shouted the headless horseman.
“And he is coming like a bat out of hell!
Relieve him, give him sustenance
and succor!
Let him suck the milk from your mother’s teat!
He is the one and only!
He is such a nervous wreck!
He is sight to the sightless!
Bid him welcome,
he is the King of All Things!
The Lord over the lords of the Hordes!
The Merciless Mercy!
The One-Of-A-Kind!
Introducing the Grande Assduke’s arrival!”
A groan went through the dusty crowd
they all waved their gloves
and showed their buttons which all
invariably read,
“Figleaf.”
in one language or another.
A flock of wild Brant Geese went up from the crowd,
they were immediately struck down
by the Grande Assduke’s flock of
heartless Gyrfalcons
blood was everywhere
swords were hidden
The Grande Assduke had arrived!
The Grande Assduke made all things
swear fealty to him.
“Swear fealty thou stinking moat!”
He shouted,
and all the water rose up in one wave
saluting.
“Swear fealty thou ungrateful castle!”
He shouted,
and the castle bowed its stony battlements
and shook the earth like a leaf
in a breeze.
The Grande Assduke rode up to the corner
of the castle
and smote its flanks!
“You call that a bow? Thou most
ungrateful and low stinkard!?”
He yelled.
And the castle yelled,
“Ouch!”
And it bowed once more
shaking the earth like a buffalo
shakes its shaggy head.
“That’s more like it!”
The Grande Assduke said.
“Give me succor!”
He roared,
and the world gave him cherry suckers.
“Give me sustenance!”
He shouted,
and they gave him green alligator suitcases
full of next Spring’s fashions.
“Let me suck thy mother’s teats!”
He screamed,
and all the mothers of the world
came to him offering him their left teats,
of all shapes and sizes they were,
and each one gave milk,
and the Grande Assduke drank deeply,
from every one of those teats
until he was worn out.
“Now that’s what I like to see!
More titty action than any man ever knowed!”
Said the Grande Assduke.
He took a nap until 4:00 PM
then he left town,
like a bat out of hell.
“The Grande Assduke is departing!”
Yelled the horseless headsman,
and all the mothers of the world cheered.
Pasadena, California, 1980 (revised.)
Poem #14.
“LEGEND” Part I of the EPIC
There, ruling without justice
in a silver throne
high atop his mountain castle
was a king,
A legend in his time
a radio played by his side
with music loud and clear.
He sat pondering
his heavy load…
his castle was built of
cotton candy
and peppermint sticks
and below it was
a moat of liquid lead
in which his hippopotamus’
swam—–endlessly…
Many things came and went
and the king sat awhile,
then he arose in all his
Mighty Majesty
He called to his hippos
and wardogs, and his flying dolphins,
his squires and knights
and cast himself and all…
Into the sky.
Pasadena, California 1973 (revised.)
Poem #15.
“THE RETURN OF THE CANDY CANE KING”
Part V of the EPIC
In a moment of imagination
a world was created
and destroyed.
The king of the Candy Cane castle
with its molten moat of leaden lead
frowned from his position in the sky.
His hippos groaned
his wardogs cried
his flying dolphins circled, lonely.
The seas were dried up
the land shriveled like
a piece of melted cellophane.
It seemed to say
“I’ve had enough.”
Then it went out like a light.
The king lit a votive candle.
He lit one thousand candles
he built a cathedral of bees wax candles in the sky.
It lit up the heavens and God
(finally out of His paper sack,)
smiled down at the cathedral and blessed it.
He built a world of diamond to reflect it
He built a moon of white gold to mirror it
He set a new sun like a living circle of light
into the heavens above it just to make sure
the king would not get a big head.
The Candy Cane King looked down on the diamond world
and he left his candle cathedral for it…
and the wax melted away like rain upon it.
The hippos swam in its pristine clear rivers
and the wardogs romped in the crystalline forests
and the Candy Cane King watched his dolphins
dance in the silvery sky and thought…
This time It Is Good…And I shall call it Persepolis.
Pasadena, California, 1981 (revised.)
EPILOGUE
“FIGLEAF”
*******************************************************************************
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(Without whom all of this would not have been totally
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the Ed.
You’ve reached the end of the book and it really isn’t necessary to keep reading or anything. This is just filler. Just dross to while away the few remaining lines that are sometimes like those messy little pieces of confetti which you have to clean up after a big party…and this book was sort of like a big old party, wasn’t it? I mean if you really think about it. I had a lot of fun anyway and saw a lot of old friends and had a laugh and a chuckle or two and even a cry now and again. If I’d had a few stiff drinks and a girl to kind of wink at and flirt with then it really would have been a party after all. Although not a literal party. But this book could be used as a party favor, you know or a really nifty Christmas present or even an anniversary or birthday gift. It would be nice if there was like some other books along the same lines that you could do like a “boxed set,” type of thing with like nice “leatherette” covers all gold embossed and looking like those old volumes of forgotten lore you see on Masterpiece theatre. But of course that all depends on if anyone buys this book or not. Still, if you think of it as buying a party or a nice wedding gift then it might not be THE END.
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