Autumn Collage by Serge Gurkski (online e book reading .TXT) 📖

spheres
and awoke to different mornings in the same, surreal light.

II. Pendant la nuit

It’s night and from a distance
World’s turbulences appear asleep.
Our perturbed brains seek rest, too,
Embalmed in highly censored memories
Our bodies in that dim-lit living-room
Are mollified by gratuitous doses of
Pentothal. As I can move still, I ask you:
“ Babsi, wouldya mind some
Bruckner?” You grunt, I nod and slam
The CD into the slit, because I
Need his Fourth to get the most out of my high
And swiftly click through to the Fourth movement,
Bewegt,doch nicht zu schnell. And close my eyes.
Leave me alone, bitch! But a slow-motion look
Over to your deluxe chair tells me that the anesthetic
Does its proper job on you. Or Bruckner did. Anyway
Before I float away, let me state the guy‘d be good therapy
For ADDed America because he feeds your flickering ears with
New themes every five seconds, keeps you busy. And only then I notice
I haven’t shot the damn stuff in my vein yet. All the better, I think.
I pour myself some greenish Escorial and smoke and revise
My choice of music for the night: Scriabin Poème de l’extase.
Then I sink down with the sodium thiopental gripping my mind.
It drowns me in Scriabin’s exploding waves of brass and I suffocate.
Suddenly tiny islands of light appear and reach out for me smiling.
On small chuckling sailboats of flutes, clarinets and strings patches
Of myself sail forth on unsteady waters communicating with a
Merciless astronomer, call me: time, Dumbshits.
Finally our saviors, the fires, emerge and
I awake because you kiss me out of this nightmare.
You hand me a glass of buttermilk and a reefer
And I grin at you: “Must we flee?
You explain: “We’re just keepin’ the house good, but tonight
Maybe, we slow it down a bit and enjoy
The view from the Alpes maritimes.” -
“And read some Mistral and smoke herbs and make love?”


III. Naschmarkt Passion

We are lurking around the Naschmarkt
In Vienna, greedy for something special to nibble.
I need your entertainment to numb the pain
Of candy craving, so we share anecdotes
Of the most hilarious punters we’ve met.
You feed me a ciggie, we suckle on a can of cheap beer
While I give you the tatterdemalion’s tale,
Who handed me over his belt before he knelt down
On the floor of one of the filthiest public bathrooms
I’d ever smelt, and yelled at me to hit him harder,
Amidst a terrified group of innocent travelers,
Which made the reeking sap ascend the steeple of the vein*.
You chuckle with disgust, and then bewilder me with your
Haunting story of a harmless foot fetishist named Herb
I even happen to know from self- help groups,
A arms Hascherl, as we say, a poor lil loser.
You so made sure, you tell me, he got a beating
After he came between your high-heels,
Because he scared the crap out of you:
“If he does not hunger for the honey
Dripping from between my legs, am I not
Almost obliged to fear the worst?”
I nod, feigning: a pervert, for sure.
And while I puke, the candy-man shows up
And we disappear into the Vietnamese clothing shop
And chase the dragon hidden by colorful silk scarves.
I don’t have to love you as long as I still need you.

——————–
* S. Plath: April Aubade


IV. After Club Reminiscing

If I wore dreadlocks, I would be in for ya know…
A dirty finger dance. But Babsi does! Shit!
Out in the Caribbean and moneyless.
Of course we’re not really in the Caribbean.
It’s just good old yellow-fogged Berlin. Hail Jamaica!

I have no clue why my white brethren are that lame.
Ignacio invites Babsi and me to his place. It is
A noble residence in the Kantstrasse.
It is an apartment on the second floor. Altbau.
I’m confused, jealous. “Ig?” – he turns around
I need to look into his eyes. “I know what you want, Serge:
Yeah, I have it all up there!” He thinks, I’m not able to love
A woman. Fucked be his smack! “Babsi, you won’t?!” I whisper.

I’m back on the streets, riding muscular horses, bought
Blue Sunglasses. While I’m watching a Japanese family
Hushing by ( to Schloss Charlottenburg?), a dread-locked
Flashback hits me. I calculate my losses:
“Do we ever really lose what we love?” I ask
The human catastrophe sitting next to me.


Themes over Hiatt


1. Not close

where am I
when I open my tired eyes,
at about 5
to a young Ukrainian morning,
to a young morning in the east

over lead-gray fields
yellow mist hushes
and
in a far distance rise
black clouds and steeples.

I close my eyes again
and I try to ignore what is uncomfortable:

too many losses too soon,
my pastures are emptied out
but for sterile greens,

Leeves, i bite leaves for
what else can I do then,
I let my mind ride a black
stallion of hope out into
lighter darknesses than I envision.

Let, sweet, me not quote here

de profundis,

I breathe still so
what? so what?

In this morning I liked to live like
man lives in summers
sweat-drunk,
surrounded by
bee-rich blossoms
of colors full.

Breathing out poisoned sugar
gathered in nights of
unwanted gifts of,
of
you.

2. Unspelled

to be free now
makes rich,

Richer than a bee:
than mancanbees
guiltlessly
crawling out of shadows
drowning me in fear.

It feels good but so
unusual
and like new
I concentrate
on deep, deeper
deepest pain:
who allowed you to hurt me?

Was it mom or
another demon like her?

Get out of the shadows,
the murky darks,

take my hand monster
and before you talk smile
dare
like me

3. Something's coming up

after night mares

fresh and rosy and smelling
like new spring,
fresh like new light
on abused dawns,
like fainting new life.


We old know all
how to rekiddify us scary,
jumpandshout again for
now

Out of crowd of mouths
joy by force of desire

so she left me or i her we us.
Roll tears down.

summin deep is what i am
round and big with now
a ball

I wanna , must go
down South now:

close up souls
lemme pray sweetlings
Allow for a bit uv
outofmindjoy
blues:

I hurt kingly.

If I open
will you come helpin me up?
Help me help help me!

Oh beautiful bird of baptism blue:
saviours of my failings, come!
Come!

I bow
And in the afterthis morning:
After thisses and thats,
painbehindnesses

this man growing wild on words
instead of a cushion of sleep
sings to himself sorrowless life

sings
still

4. What can we sing in the end?
(for Mel)

For my, myest,
in my deepest
or what in my self pierces me most
is due to raise
a voice soothin':

sing sweetest to me,

paint me a frame
to live safe.
my tongue is bitten of
oh from all the fun
and still love bites
over perfumes of fresh
desire, evernew
you then have to
dance to new tunes.

Now I am a ball
with feet ajumpin' still
and my legs in the air.
Wanna jump with me?

5. For (you the living,) Parker

I, like no one, can't foresee future,
any oddities aside,
I am glad to have met you,
a brilliant man already
and who and how big
will you get who can tell.

And do we care?

Your heart must grow
bigger than any planets up
in our mutual skies

look up friend
and be good

6. Grandish finish

Batten down the hatches

is it says:
prepare for bad times
or
why if in love's frenzy
you'd step so far?
Your secret and I leave it with you.
So instead: a dance.

Me and my last fellow hittin the street,
so we sit there and him is a jealous of me boots

Someone, a nice fullah
gifted us smokes.
Dig!

You know , and all the things you do not know..
But my boots are of dark leather
and slippery on posher grounds.
I can trample down the world if
but
I dont want to but rather
smile you down.

Hobolore:
my friend and I

ok, the night is there
and clouds cluster warmth
for us
so because we have
no needs but time,
i wanna please you and myself
before we go.

HOBO GOSPEL

Is that my friend your last bottle?

(and this is how the free ones dance )

been walking around in
blue cloth jackets and ties of gold
know all of this petty crap inward out

had good smelling women
on every fucking finger of my hands

And cadillac-a-lights, the epitome
of suck asses:
a big Kuh to impress the world,

So my man,
Tom or Joe or Jim or whateva ya name is,
cheerio

Man, he remarked, as i handed over the bottle,
you sure got a mean tongue.

He needed a fat drink
so I held my tongue mean.
Gods! He sure was thursday.

It is a couple of hours before a
new dawn,
and we're a-booze-a-.lit,
and moon not a sphere.

So as yousee: slighterly drunk.

But wild decent folks
parkin under stars.

I have I say as of late
this heart-throb.

My doc, whatcha know?
My stinking felloow bends over
and after listening closely
to my heart: you have a shunt.
Don't talk dirty, I respond,
right my man, be funny
and he has
through all nights open eyes
and anyone else
would have to pay big money.
for a heart like this..


It seems, I say,
i think,
my shoes break.

It is maybe 2 or so,
he says.
And he shakes his ugly head.
Let's gonna care tomorrow
again.
So yeah, he falls asleep with me
left half empty bottled,
I gladly mutter:
I mean no holes
still and so far.
And bla


The hatches my friend,remain unbattened.


Iced Beers

I. Iced beers and warming laughter cognac-dipped

In the end

even I made it

out: to steer my I-boat

thru

the frosty blows of air

promising-threatening

us over here

with a harsh and extra-chilly

cold so

heavy-weight that

only ice bears

can dance to it.

So I had one two three

ice beers with the

medium-sized,

measured by degrees of

danger to the public

being me,

guys

To cut it short I

could relax.

I re-talked what

depressed me most

and they even listened.

That’s rare, because

if you join them for

a happy blue hour

time, male-ish you, you

don’t bring your family

with you.

Makes perfect sense