The Geranium Hotel Poems

inhale                               breathe            ask the night for what the day can bring an ear brushes a thigh high rises enclose a million castles rising                crumbling kissing your feet your face will twitch and to keep you alive I will kiss you all over breathe... The heart is a muscle inclosed in a cage A pull at the zip and fondle the gland In the ocean the foam grinds the sand grand          high                  painted red from pink slumber to heavy crimson roar In the light                  synthesised inhaled the taste of true masculinity sweet flavours mixed with sweet Ask the night why the sounds are so primitive so...        guttural we pace we wal...

Allow me a little time to rest the clamour Upon the contours of your form The mirror gaze within your reply Will flash and fall and rise and build response Verbal shouts and gutteral groans In my room we both are right In hotels we are wrong Where will we die? Where will we scatter? Face down, lovers bodies, Russian grasses, Russian ice Before that I will paint you I will bury you in colour, on canvas While you tell me of your youth Of chasing birds and pretending you could fly The clamour is merely collection of one stands A collection of songs Trapped within my head, resting on your form And the guardian angles are sculpted into the architecture And I can see beautiful shade below your stomach As your leg is raised and it is an arch One to hold and make prayers from As I bow down and taste the flesh of man What will happen to us? Where will you die? You who was born to the poet and the siren Where will I go? Me, the hunter who has yet to return from the hi...

Tears are the streams like the lines on the page The seams that hold the melody, the music, together Echos and bruises keeping the shadows with the light Stretching and pulling explosions in the night Fighting from the burrows, and tunnelling for escape Means, ways and circumstance, the metaphors made you leave But the seam of age has tied you to the past Who are you, you are the poet, the seam who holds generations The language of the new and old held at hostage- the cream of the gun The cream of the crop? no the warning, the beautiful sun reflecting And Danger is as danger does and the notes explode and die The tears are the streams and seams and the rumour is the axle for the truth But the day is a road and swamps are drying below abstract trees Where faces of wild men are carved and they groan Naked belly's rubbing against pine needles Human transport, Human ankles in hand and the coming will go Finding stray back hairs caught together with sap from trees Yo...

Ginsberg. I am not afraid I am not afraid of your nineteen sixties television opinions I am not afraid of your twentieth century expansive heroic verse I am not afraid of your fan-mail underwear dance Your communist lover’s scissor cut Your Broom-stick-fuck publicity short story Your Lorca/Crane/Batman army reputation I am not afraid And I know I know all about Denver’s broken arm with bloody shirt I know all about your opinion of the reflection in glass I know the secret of the lion that did not eat you And I know your ego only meant sweet, sweet love And I know your beard was the soft cover for life and the universe in your arms And I know that your big fleshy 1997 man corpse was nought but a golden memory album that consisted of Corso’s days with sun on the axis of a needle, your own graveyard gifts and manic ego declarations, Orlovsky’s barefooted fecal snowflake poetry and William’s hard-boiled look and big old cock. I know of little Jean. He who pretended to be his ol...