




 july 1993  volume 1, number 3 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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                               Editor: KJ Gerken                            
                    Associate editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                       Igal Koshevoy                        
                  Contributing Editor: Evan Light                           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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      EDITORIAL..................................... Klaus Gerken

      AIN'T NUTTIN' THERE............................Igal Koshevoy
      BENCHMARK: CRUDE...............................Igal Koshevoy
      STREETS OF HATRED..............................Igal Koshevoy
      Jealousy.......................................Andrew Blevins
      Our Art Gardens................................Andrew Blevins
      Spiders........................................Jared Boehm
      She............................................Pasha Phares
      Battleship Heart...............................Pasha Phares
      I don't need you...............................Jari Winter
      Friend.........................................Vince Otten
      The History of Surrealism......................Klaus Gerken
      You make me laugh..............................Linda Knudson
      Small Poem.....................................Jari Winter
      LOVERS.........................................Klaus Gerken
      Today..........................................Terry Long
      The Anatomical Juxaposition....................Murtaza Officewalla
      Fear...........................................Murtaza Officewalla
      Choices........................................Murtaza Officewalla
      The Bugle Played...............................Terry Long
      Signs..........................................Francisco Reyes
      Letter to an old friend........................Francisco Reyes
      On Reading the Collected Eliot.................Brian Watcott
      Legacy.........................................Bill Marcey
      Haiku Sequence.................................Various
      This is What I Heard (a play)..................Klaus Gerken
      Liquid Legacy..................................David Hickey

      POST SCRIPTUM - Pornography....................Hakim Bey



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

      This is the supposedly "critical" third edition, which if you  survive
  to - get to it, you've supposedly "got it made".  I don't know about that.
  But  I  do  know that it has been an incredible experience getting to this
  point.  Let me tell you a bit about how this magazine is produced.

      About a month prior to production, I gather all the poems I would like
  to see by looking over at least ten megs of databases from the many of the
  available on-line Poetry conferences.  I  also  look over material sent to
  me, deciding what will be included and where.  This all  put  together,  I
  then  embark on a search for an Post Scriptum and after that I settle down
  to write the EDITORIAL.  All of which  adds up to about a month of evening
  work for the Editor.

      I  do  not  chose the poems lightly.  This magazine had its birth in a
  violent abrasion  and  will  continue  to  be  an  "alternative"  forum of
  expression.  I chose first the poets who have appeared on the many On-Line
  poetry conferences: these deserve to  have  a  permanent  place.   I  next
  provide  poets  who  send  me  their  work  but are not part of any Poetry
  conferences  whom  I  know  people  should  read  but  have  not  had  the
  opportunity  to  do  so.   Future  editions  will  include  poems  of some
  virtually unknown poetry by European authors in translation, many who have
  been for so many years  overlooked  by  our  school  system.   These  also
  deserve to be read and taught.

      In the EDITORIAL I try to sum up what the edition means to me and what
  it  tries  to achieve.  Once, all this accomplished the issue is "shipped"
  to my Associate Editors for  final  scrutiny (and they scrutinize, believe
  me!).  When we are all satisfied with the end result, only then  will  the
  Magazine be ready for distribution.  This is how it's done.


                                                       
                                     з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                          Ľ       Ľ      



    AIN'T NUTTIN' THERE
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Walking past an old cozy house
    I hear a little boy ask,
    "Mother, what's outside that door?"
    Says she,
    "Nuttin', there ain't nuttin' there."

    Time passes.
    A young boy opens the door,
    And looks outside.
    He see's the flames of Hell.
    "It's okay honey, I'll protect you," says the mother, she lies.

    Time passes.
    A young man walks out the door,
    Into the flames outside.
    His mother yells out,
    "Stop!  Not yet, not so soon...!"
    She dies waiting for her messiah to come.

    A long time passes.
    An old man emerges from the flames,
    Bowed legged, bent backed, tattered and frayed.
    He's seen the flames.
    He walks past a cozy little house
    And hears a little boy asking his mother,
    "Mother, what's outside that door?"
    And he quietly mutters to himself,
    "Nuttin', there ain't nuttin' there."


                                                     -Igal Koshevoy (LH^m)
                                                      April 8, 1993; 4:19pm
                                                      RADIOACTIVE STUPOR 15:1




    BENCHMARK: CRUDE
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    I remember a bench that stood outside a beautiful house.
    The bench was surrounded with bright flowers,
    And its polished surface shined like glass.
    The cyprus tree in the yard of the gorgeous white house looked
    As happy as a tree could be.
    I remember playing with someone's lost kittens there,
    Remember listening to the birds as they sang, as I sat on the bench.
    I remember sitting there with a girl, both in love.
    So many happy memories, so many happy thoughts.

           Today, I walked up to that bench,
           But I could not sit down.
           The old piece of wood lay on the ground,
           Rotting beside an old abandoned house.
           The boarded up windows stared out,
           There was a stump in the dusty yard now.

           And where someone carved on the bench,
           "IK & KG: I  U FOREVER"
           A swastika's there now.


                                                     -Igal Koshevoy (LH^m)
                                                      April 8, 1993; 4:25pm
                                                      RADIOACTIVE STUPOR 15:5




    STREETS OF HATRED
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    There were simpler times,
    There were memories,
    Of me smiling joyfully.
    There were singing birds,
    Flowering trees,
    And cheery helpful people.

    Now those are all memories.
    The birds all lay dead in the dust,
    The trees are stumps now,
    The people - I can't trust.
    Those people, all against me, or they simply step away
    As I walk down my grand ol' Avenue Of Hate.


                                                   -Igal Koshevoy (LH^m)
                                                    April 8, 1993; 4:28pm
                                                    RADIOACTIVE STUPOR 16:1






    JEALOUSY
    ~~~~~~~~
    I am hanging from the ceiling
    and I am flat, I am pretty,
    I am jagged, I am pink, I am green,
    I am black and white and I'm flat
    and I spin from a string.

    I think I caught your eye baby,
    I think you are drunk with me,
    I think you spin as I spin
    and I spin and I reflect the light,
    the light that meets your eye
    makes you spin, spin like I do,
    until you stop, stop and go back
    to something I'm jealous of,
    I'm jealous of the pretty package
    that you've got in your hands,
    the thing that's become my enemy.


                                            - Andrew Blevins




    OUR ART GARDENS
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Where among you
    are the roses?
    supposing you are,
    wealthy with art,
    abundant with starts,
    and best weeded
    attractive.

    For some have never
    found their garden
    let alone
    a rose
    and by this
    I would hope
    you could start
    to plow your heart
    and germinate
    a garden
    for you.

    Before the rain
    of everything
    suppressing
    stirs up a mud
    so black
    that even
    your sight
    relay no messages
    from me.


                                            - Andrew Blevins





            Spiders
            -------

            spider webs hide the windows,
            dust alights on the nightstand,
            the cellar door is open,
            inviting creatures from beyond,

            the spiders creep near,
            i watch them scurry,
            and weave silken traps,
            to capture their dinner.

            the pale moon illuminates,
            the figure at my side,
            a nameless being,
            weaving a web.


                                            - Jared Boehm






                 SHE
                 ~~~

            She opened her eyes
            for the first time this morning
            she looked at me
            for the first time tonight.

            I opened my eyes
            for the second time this morning
            I looked at her
            and knew everything was alright.

            She cried, she cried
            O please, keep me warm
            held her arms out to me
            closed her eyes to the light.

            I cried, I cried
            loved her tiny form
            held my arms out to her
            closed my eyes to the sight.

            She kissed my cheek
            for the first time this morning
            I held her hand
            for the first time this night.

            For the first time this morning
            I saw my own daughter
            For the first time this night
            I saw her tiny smile.


                                            - Pasha Phares




                 Battleship Heart
                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            I float and roll
            on the waves of roiling emotion
            I strike heavy
            and curse in the night.

            Deep in the core
            there is darkness and stink
            I gnaw at the fog
            that obscures the view.

            What do i mean?
            Why do I mean?
            I glisten and smirk
            with airy delight.

            My battleship heart
            all coloured and grey
            seeks the defiant target
            seeks the helpless prey.

            Seeks for the kill
            snuffles for blood
            tries to escape
            tries to succumb

            What do I here?
            Why do I here?
            pounding the flashing green
            my battleship heart.

            O let it end
            now for the fall
            O let it out
            my battleship heart!


                                            - Pasha Phares





            I don't need you
            I snarl
            I don't want you
            I wouldn't crawl!

            You'll never hear my words,
            You'll never hear my words,
            You really went away with
            not fragile bridge between us

            Now that the day is gone
            I'll stand proud
            I'll wrap my self in
            a stary black shroud

            Like all before
            You decided that
            I wasn't what you wanted
            And you left me where I sat

            I don't know why I care that you're gone
            You were the sun
            to this creature of
            the night.

            And now my poetry's gone
            all sour and unmetered.
            And the worst and the best
            is that you'll never see how shattered
            I still walk the night.


                                            - Jari Winter






                    Friend
                    ------

            Out of nowhere,
            Which is where friends come from,
            You jumped in.

            We don't know each other well,
            Which is probably why we're friends:
            We grabbed the brass ring.

            Later, we'll be wiser, but by then it'll be too late:
            How can you stop being friends?
            I don't know.


                                            - Vince Otten





                   The History of Surrealism

            An artist must regulate his life
            The day will come when we realize that
            One is deeply tired of that world of antiquity
            Not merely in order
            Of the wind the door the bird and the valise
            But a kind of primitive
            Ready made
            Each factor separately enjoyed
            (Even people can be wed)
            As a metaphysical bias
            Between shots
            A rhythm
            Unseen unheard
            All in one's head
            Like the great central ball
            That's why they don't exist
            In a mystic reality
            Merde
            You must give verdict for that
            A violent reaction to something unknown
            A sense of the theatrical
            Black humor
            At it's center of gravity
            Sixteen years...
            A wedding on the Eiffel tower
            Become a weapon
            Almost pragmatic
            They invite us to dinner
            Little men with canes
            Not knowing that the dynamos
            Are still disconnected
            The echo of the noble mind
            Crazy beautiful and funny
            In the time we've fabricated
            In which we live
            Completed by the spectator
            On stage
            With actors as an audience
            With a blindfold
            Over their eyes.


                                            - Klaus Gerken








                    You make me laugh
                    And make me smile
                    I hadn't done this
                    For a long while.

                    It is not summer
                    Nor is it spring
                    But flowers have bloomed
                    And grass is green.

                    My problems are here
                    They are still the same
                    But you, my friend
                    Have lessened my pain.


                                            - Linda Kundson; March 6, 1992






    Small poem
    ~~~~~~~~~~

    I know
    How a broken
    heart feels...

    Like an ice cream cone that's eaten too fast and sits between your
    stomach and your throat, so cold that it makes bone ache.


                                            - Jari Winter





    LOVERS
    ~~~~~~
    Like a beggar I climb through your window
    Needing ablution for love
    Lonely I kneel at your service
    Candle light shines from above
    Our love is consumed in the shadows
    The scent of your body is strong
    I shiver to think of the morning
    With words of despair on my tongue

    My love is the alter of service
    I sacrifice all I can give
    The breeze of conception will take me
    And scatter my words e'er they live
    With no one to guide me I falter
    My rose has no beauty but thorns
    O help me to see through the shadows
    My future looks pale and alone

    No compromise can solve this problem
    A total commitment is all
    That can be accepted in duty
    From lovers who survive the fall
    But something is terribly wrong here
    If love is a one sided deal
    Words spoken in haste spell disaster
    And no one can lodge an appeal

    I'm frightened of love like a swallow
    Is frightened of eagles that soar
    The future collects desperation
    And I cannot speak anymore
    I struggle against my true feelings
    For which no defence has been lodged
    I struggle against a disaster
    I cannot so easily dodge

    So this love remains in the shadows
    Shrouded by unknown ideals
    The lover dies from his commitment
    To silence...that hardly seems real
    So burn for his wanting a candle
    And cradle his 'paradise lost'
    We all must be needed by someone
    While others just die from the frost.


                                            - Klaus J. Gerken 1986





    Today there is so much unrest,
    Putting people's patience to the test.
    I pray that blood won't be shed,
    For that is something that I truly dread.
    The people are oppressed but not their mind.
    If their vision is allowed I know they will find.
    The peace and love that all of us seek,
    A warm handshake or a kiss on the cheek.
    It doesn't take much a smile for a start,
    Would break even the coldest heart.
    A nice and cheery hello,
    The kindness would surely flow.
    I hope this isn't a world of make believe,
    Where people are just content to deceive.
    I hope all the madness will someday cease,
    And have everlasting peace.
    Guess life was met to be this way,
    Everyone wants their say.
    Doesn't matter how much things get out of line,
    Although people see it they still remain blind.
    If people would give peace a chance they would find,
    It doesn't really take that much to be kind.


                                            - Terry Long





    The Anatomical Juxaposition of two Orbacularis Oris muscles in the state
    of contraction.

    The dawn is here
    The sky is blue.
    The bees humm
    Flowers with dew.

    You're besides me
    I'm holding you so tight.
    I love you so much
    This feeling is so right.

    The clock strikes five
    You get out of bed.
    You say you have to leave
    My heart is heavy as lead.

    A passionate kiss
    You give to me
    I can never stand
    In your path to be free.

    I feel like a fool
    To have let you go.
    You have no parallel
    Either friend or foe.

    It is not possible
    for me to be true
    To somebody else,
    after loving you.

    I try to find you
    But it's all in vain.
    You have left me
    in so much pain.

    As I look around me
    it's you that I miss.
    I will never, ever forget;
                our last kiss.


                                            - Murtaza Officewalla




                  _______
                /
               /----
              /  ____  /\    /-\
             /  /     /  \  /   )
            /  /---  /----\/ \ -
              /____ /    \/\  \__



                 >>>>>


            The Fear of Death;
            It Has Been Said,
            Is The Greatest Fear Of All.

            But I Do know;
            There's Something More,
            More Fearful Than The Call.

            This Fear I Feel;
            It Makes Me Kneel,
            Under It's Sharpened Knife.

            This Fear For Which;
            For Death I Wish,
            Is My Fear Of Life.


                                            - Murtaza Officewalla



            CHOICES
            ~~~~~~~
            Be happy, do smile
            This world is alive
            with sensual new beginnings

            Sadness is the snow
            which melts as you know
            In the sunshine of your achievings

            Don't live in the future
            for today is it's past
            Enjoy it from the start to the ending

            So be gay be merry
            all you Tom Dick and Harry
            Enjoy your life while you live

            Go climb up a mountain
            or swim up a stream
            All that you've got, give

            As I tell you this
            in my hour left to live
            do heed to all my advices

            For I have refrained
            living my life to the fullest
            And now I've run out of...choices.


                                            - Murtaza Officewalla





    The bugle played the last note of taps,
    Wish I could just close my eyes and walk away.
    Just another line across the map,
    Nothing more than the games people play.
    All the painful abuse that goes on,
    The blues player playing his lonesome song.

    Memories etched ever into the minds of existence,
    The treadmill of time just as unforgiving.
    It somehow has tried everyone's patience,
    The more one thinks if its worth living.
    Life's cycle of the ups and downs,
    Like the face of a crying clown.

    Today's world just doesn't seem to care anymore,
    Guess they can't see the forest for the trees.
    Peace somehow eludes white sandy shores,
    People are drying so that they can be free.
    The bittersweet smell of woodburning smoke,
    Uneasiness settles into the worn and broke.

    Time passes through but never stays,
    Always unrelenting and never stopping.
    Like the wind that always strays,
    Peace of mind seems to be dropping.
    All that ever seems to come about is war,
    Wished they would stop I can't take it anymore.

    Can't make up my mind where to go,
    Guess it doesn't really matter.
    Would like to go where peaceful waters flow,
    As events unfold it makes me more the sadder.
    I need the strength to make it another day,
    It gets harder and harder to find a way.


                                            - Terry Long






                  Signs.
                  ~~~~~
            Sometimes we can
                 read between the lines.
            We see the things
                 we were not supposed to see.

            Sometimes we ignore
                 the warnings written everywhere
            and then we call life unfair.


                                            - Francisco Reyes; March 28, 1992




            Letter to an old friend.
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    I asked.
         you answered, and the answer was no.

    I said it was ok,
         you asked if I wanted to know why.
    I said no.

    Would my love for you change if I knew the answer?
    Would my heart beat at a different drum if I knew?
    Would the tears dropped come back from the past?
    Would you feel better if I knew?
    Would your long lost trust in me be restored?

    Let the past rest, for it is dead
    we are still alive
    so are our feelings.

    Let the present live.
    Let the future bring many more surprises
    but be assured that one surprise
    you will not get from me
    is my feelings towards you.
    It is constant as the change of day to night,
    as sure as death.

    It has taken a long time to be able to live in peace with my past.
    I have learned that
    I live in peace with my past, or I don't live at all.


                                            - Francisco Reyes; March 28, 1992





    On Reading the Collected Eliot.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    Why wouldn't I read the banker's balanced disburse?
    In search of one more charge, like realizing
    The God-Almighty Prufrock's written in verse!
    Looking for what other corpse,  he's visualizing.

    Imagine, he came from the States, and lived in France
    In his English twenties (seeing downy hair ) a virgin
    He could look, he could wish, but the backlash of romance,
    'Not at all', withheld him from his urging.

    He never got his long longed-for heart's desire
    without disencumbrancing his better self of thoughts
    of what he ought to and properly, not admire:
    At length, how bitter the taste of what he sought!
    In pursuit of happiness lies great sad
    better content with what he had than bad.



                                            - Brian Whatcott; March 29, 1992





                     _____Legacy_____

            From ancient mists the line extends
            as light of stars that cease to be
            into the cauldron one by one
            the spit of them created me.

            frothy yeast of undone ends
            bubbling mead of vanished dreams
            meager mucilage of man
            is all we leave our sons it seems.

            life is the legacy that I bequeath
            the gift my father gave to me
            do not the magic of it waste
            upon creations mystery.

            when you are called step up my son
            and spit yourself into that brew
            upon your shoulder you will feel
            the fathers hand you never knew.


                                            - Bill Marcy







            HAIKU SEQUENCE
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            First buds
                   Why were they
                           never seen before?      (Klaus Gerken)

             Facing the Other
                   To share a tale
                           Of silent pictures.     (Todd Rokholm)

            Life hides
                   within the waking
                           dreams of now.          (Jackie Doty)

            May be yet awaken
                   Splash of water
                           Silent frog.            (Klaus Gerken)






            THIS IS WHAT I HEARD
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
            (a play in four acts)


                 I

    Understanding is the predestined course
    Of course
    There is always a favorable emptiness
    Red and yellow cars are everywhere
    Transcendental meditation they call it
    It was an electrician we called yesterday
    A poem was written It was a long one
    My hand hurts
    The electrician came and ordered a great everyday
    Were you ready for it
    The shock treatment no
    He left and everything was alright again
    The lights went out
    Sometimes we laughed
    The women were so beautiful
    They were just young enough and old enough to know
    Knowing is everything
    In Spain there was a bar which was the best bar
    It was in a novel
    The novel was good
    There were things in the novel that were even in real life
    Like the war
    The war was not good It was horrible
    There are a lot of people on bicycles these days
    It's good that one can talk of other things
    Five years ago there were many parties
    Five years ago no one knew each other
    That statement is very true
    It is very rare to hear true statements nowadays
    The music is playing again
    That is good
    Let us go then you and I
    And we can watch the football game
    We can watch it on TV tomorrow just the same
    It will be a good game
    I'm sure of it
    Are there any apples
    Look in the fridge there should be some
    Is there anymore rum
    There is but you can't have any
    Why not
    You are drunk
    Is it a crime to be drunk
    No but we shouldn't drink so much It is not good for us in the
    future
    
    But this is the present
    That is something none of us is sure about
    This is both the present and the future
    Let us go somewhere
    Where
    Let's go into town
    It's too hot
    We might as well
    Let's take a room with five baths
    And cool ourselves down
    Shall we take anything to drink along
    Take a bottle of whiskey We can wrap it in a towel
    Have you ever read a book by Fitzgerald
    Yes I'm at it now
    O and is it interesting
    Yes I've been reading it all day
    It is good to find a book that's interesting
    They are so hard to find these days
    Yes they are
    There are sure a lot of books here
    Have you read them all
    The majority of them Yes I have
    Ah and so we must remember
    There are only certain things we do not read
    The poet said it best
    No one reads anything he hasn't read before
    And that is that


                 II

    Pull up an ashtray
    Why are all those cars parked out there
    The steering wheel came off
    O is that very dangerous
    Only when you drive
    Well in that case we won't drive
    That is very commendable
    Do we really have to stop for school busses
    Yes In case they don't
    That is a very good law
    We can't have more slaughter than is necessary
    No that is very true
    Have you visited that part of town yet
           where you have not been for a long time
    No I always wanted to but did not get around to it
    A bottle of wine would be nice
    No I'd just get drunk
    Wouldn't it facilitate that atmosphere
    That it would
    
    Dead fish floating near the beach
    Yes they do
    You're shivering Do you want your jacket back
    No you keep it You are beautiful tonight
    She didn't say a thing
    There are girls who say very few things
    I like girls like that
    They draw you out into a mystery
    It is good to be within a mystery
    There is always mystery where there is hope
    Not false hope
    There is always hope where there is true mystery
    Does anyone understand that
    Perhaps no one understands that
    And because of that I will not repeat anything
    That is repeated in my mind
    My mind is a fluctuating image
    Impressed upon a multitude of other images
    Do you like that song that is playing on the radio now
    Yes
    Talk was small when they talked at all
    There are very few good songs these days
    Olivia Newton-John is at the Ex.
    That's the only thing that's worth it at the Ex.
    All other things are without mystery
    The sunshine is so pretty today
    Do you understand?


                 III

    You are quite right
    And you are wrong
    What is wrong cannot be right
    And what is right cannot be wrong
    It is as simple as all that
    Nothing is that simple
    What do you mean
    Insanity is a social disease
    Does that mean that when you are alone you cannot be insane
    If that is what you wish
    The personal touch
    Do you ever understand it
    Was the girl nice
    Yes she was very nice
    Did you love her
    Perhaps I did I cannot recall exactly
    Those two were nice Those two that just passed
    Yes thank you There's the bus
    But they were too young
    Do you think there will be a lot of snow this winter
    There could be
    The squirrels are digging up the yard
    
    Did you see that movie too
    Yet it wasn't very nice
    It was alright
    I never like the smaller culture much
    Do you know her
    Who
    That girl that just looked at you
    Could be but I didn't notice
    When I write I notice nothing
    Do you like your job
    It could be worse
    We all have to make money I guess
    That is what we've got ourselves into
    I know Isn't it a shame
    It's stupid
    They don't have anything in life except money
    Their god is money
    That is al the same
    They should get new brakes in that car that just pulled up
    That's up to them
    Why are you sweeping the floor
    Do you want me to move my feet
    No I can sweep around them
    Let me cross my legs the other way
    I think they've fallen asleep
    It really is a lovely day
    Yes too bad we have to work
    Why don't we just quit
    We could do that but wouldn't hate whole structure
           of society break down
    I couldn't care less
    I see you bikini left a tan
    The sun is kind to me
    And you talk about a devine mystery
    We all do
    Let's let all the birds free from their cages
    Wouldn't that be cruel
    They're not used to freedom What would they do with it
    Look at Portugal
    They're all crazy
    Tell them that
    Perhaps they're sane and we're the crazy ones
    Perhaps we're all crazy


    
                 IV

    Was that a bell I heard
    It might have been
    The ocean is a pretty place
    The cream of the universe
    Why is everything so big
    Because we are so small
    Could be otherwise
    Could be anyway
    Let's go to the beach
    No let's stay here
    Do you ever read the bible
    No I don't believe in god
    Why not
    I don't know
    You should believe in something
    I believe in faith
    She was very beautiful
    I remember her often
    We were both together
    She was one of the few who understood
    When I asked her to marry me
    And she said yes and when I
    Changed my mind I was shattered
    There were too many strings pulling everywhichway
    It was a foggy night
    A lot of people are afraid of bats
    Let's not stain the page with tears
    A car just drove up the side of the eiffel tower
    And we're all lost
    Yes she said
    She had a lot of books and
    No
    Bookshelves.

         (Curtain)


                                            - Klaus Gerken; August 23, 1975





            The Liquid Legacy
            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Sunlight stretches down
                    in
                    invisible
                    streams
               indivisible
               dreams
                    a lover's touch
                    a forever-caress

            the river catches her glory
                    for an eternal instant

            a golden span of
                    liquid light
                    liquid love

            a living bridge of
                    golden Jello
            rushes to meet my feet

            boats cross her path
                    a human brush stroke
                    to an ever-changing
                          painting

            Gold melts to orange to white
                    as the orb catches her
                            glory
            for an eternal instant
            and
               carries
                      on
                        the
                           Liquid
                                 Legacy

            with
                    invisible streams
                    a lover's touch
                    indivisible dreams
                    a forever
                            caress


                                            - David Hickey






   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸      ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸           ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;           ; ;             ;   
  

  PORNOGRAPHY
  ~~~~~~~~~~~

       In Persia I saw that poetry is meant  to be set to music & chanted or
  sung - for one reason alone - because it works.

       A right combination of image & tune plunges the audience into  a  hal
  (something  between  emotional/aesthetic mood & trance of hyperawareness),
  outbursts of weeping, fits  of  dancing  - measurable physical response to
  art.  For us the link between poetry & body died with the bardic era -  we
  read under the influence of a cartesian anaesthetic gas.

       In N. India even non-musical recitation provokes noise & motion, each
  good couplet applauded, "Wa!  Wa!" with elegant  hand-  jive,  tossing  of
  rupees  -  whereas we listen to poetry like some SciFi brain in a jar - at
  best a wry chuckle or grimace, vestige  of simian rictus - the rest of the
  body off on some other planet.

       In  the  East  poets  are  sometimes  thrown  in  prison  - a sort of
  compliment, since it suggests the  author  has  done something at least as
  real as theft or rape or revolution.  Here we poets are allowed to publish
  anything at all - a sort of punishment in effect,  prison  without  walls,
  without  echoes, without palpable existence - shadow-realm of print, or of
  abstract thought - world without risk or eros.

       So poetry is dead again - & even if the mumia from its corpse retains
  some healing properties, auto-resurrection isn't one of them.

       If rulers refuse  to  consider  poems  as  crimes,  then someone must
  commit crimes that serve the function of poetry, or texts that possess the
  resonance of terrorism.  At any  cost  re-connect  poetry  to  body.   Not
  crimes  against  bodies,  but  against Ideas (& Ideas-in-things) which are
  deadly  &  suffocating.   Not  stupid  libertinage  but  exemplary crimes,
  aesthetic crimes, crimes for love.

       In England some pornographic books are still banned.  Pornography has
  a measurable physical effect on its readers.  Like propaganda it sometimes
  changes lives because it uncovers true desires.

       Our culture produces most of its porn out of body-hatred - but erotic
  art   in   itself   makes   a    better   vehicle   for   enhancement   of
  being/consciousness/bliss - as in  certain  oriental  works.   A  sort  of
  Western  tantrik  porn might help galvanize the corpse, make it shine with
  some of the glamor of crime.

       America has  freedom  of  speech  because  all  words  are considered
  equally vampid.  Only images count - the censors love  snaps  of  death  &
  mutilation  but  recoil  in  horror at the sight of a child masturbating -
  apparently they  experienced  this  as  an  invasion  of their existential
  validity, their identification with the Empire & its subtlest gestures.

       No doubt even the most poetic porn would never  revive  the  faceless
  corpse  to  dance  &  sing (like the Chinese Chaos-bird) - but...imagine a
  script for a three-minute film set  on a mythical isle of runaway children
  who inhabit ruins of old castles or  build  totem-huts  &  junk-assemblage
  nests - mixture of animation, special-effects, compugraphix & color tape -
  edited tight as a fastfood commercial...

       ...but  weird  &  and  naked,  feathers  & and bones, tents sewn with
  crystal, black dogs,  pigeon-blood  -  flashes  of  amber limbs tangled in
  sheets - faces in starry masksa kissing soft creases of skin - androgynous
  pirates, castaway faces of columbines sleeping on  thigh-white  flowers  -
  nasty  hilarious  piss  jokes,  pet  lizards  lapping  spilt  milk  - nude
  break-dancing - victorian bathtub with rubber  ducks & pink boners - Alice
  on ganja...

       ...atonal punk reggae scored for gamelan, synthesizer,  saxophones  &
  drums  -  electric  boogie  lyrics  sung  by  aetherial children's choir -
  ontological anarchist lyrics, cross between Hafez  & Poncho Villa, Li Po &
  Bakunin, Kabir & Tzara - call it "CHAOS - the Rock Video!"

       No...probably just a dream.  Too expensive to produce, & besides, who
  would see it?  Not the kids it was meant to seduce.  Pirate TV is a futile
  fantasy, rock merely another commodity - forget the slick gesamtkunstwerk,
  then.   Leaflet  a  playground  with  inflammatory  smutty  feuilletons  -
  porno-propaganda, crackpot samizdat to unchain Desire from its bondage.


                                            - Hakim Bey














                                                                            
ۿ ۿ  ۿ ۿ   ۿ   ۿ ۿ ۿ  ۿ  
 ۳  ۳    ۳   ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳ 
   ۳    ۳  ۳ ۳        ۳  ۳    ۳  ۳ ۳  ۳ ۳  ۳ 
   ۳    ۳ ۿ     ۳    ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳ ۿ
   ۳    ۳       ۳    ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳
   ۳    ۳  ۳ ۳             ۳    ۳  ۳ ۳  ۳      ۳     ۳
   ۳    ۳  ۳ ۿ        ۳   ۳ ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳
                          

         ۿ ۿ ۿ ۿ ۿ ۿ ۿ ۿ ۿ
         ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳
         ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳  ۳ ۳      ۳  ۳
         ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳  ۳ ۿ   ۳
         ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳  ۳    
         ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳  ۳  ۳ ۳      ۳ ۳
         ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳ ۳ ۿ ۳ ۿ
                




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            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            THE CONFERENCE ANTHOLOGY edited by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS 1986, songs by KJ Gerken
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
  

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             Ŀ
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                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors.   Any  reproduction  of
  these  poems,  without  the  express written permission of the authors, is
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  YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken

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