APOCALYPTICAL TATTOOING BY PAUL CLAVÉ

poetry

the tragedy of the leaves…

I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady’s note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, ancient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that’s the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world had failed us
both.

Bukowski…
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Pierre’s Inferno pt 1

“When I had heard my sage instructor name
Those dames and knights of antique days, o’erpower’d
By pity, well-nigh in amaze my mind
Was lost; and I began: “Bard! willingly
I would address those two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind.” He thus:
“Note thou, when nearer they to us approach.
Then by that love which carries them along,
Entreat; and they will come.” Soon as the wind
Sway’d them toward us, I thus fram’d my speech:
“O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrain’d.” As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;
Thus issu’d from that troop, where Dido ranks,
They through the ill air speeding; with such force
My cry prevail’d by strong affection urg’d.”


dead flag blues

the car’s on fire and there’s no driver at the wheel

and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides

and a dark wind blows

the government is corrupt

and we’re on so many drugs

with the radio on and the curtains drawn

we’re trapped in the belly of this horrible machine

and the machine is bleeding to death

the sun has fallen down

and the billboards are all leering

and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves

mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble

and pulled out their hair

the skyline was beautiful on fire

all twisted metal stretching upwards

everything washed in a thin orange haze

i said: “kiss me, you’re beautiful –

these are truly the last days”

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it

like a daydream or a fever

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down

for sure it’s the valley of death

i open up my wallet

and it’s full of blood


i will not go…

They are waiting to take us into the severed garden
Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful
comes death on a strange hour
unannounced, unplanned for
like a scaring over-friendly guest you’ve brought to bed
Death makes angels of us all
and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven’s claws.

(from A Feast Of Friends by Jim Morrison)


The Eternal by Joy Division

Procession moves on, the shouting is over,
Praise to the glory of loved ones now gone.
Talking aloud as they sit round their tables,
Scattering flowers washed down by the rain.
Stood by the gate at the foot of the garden,
Watching them pass like clouds in the sky,
Try to cry out in the heat of the moment,
Possessed by a fury that burns from inside.

Cry like a child, though these years make me older,
With children my time is so wastefully spent,
A burden to keep, though their inner communion,
Accept like a curse an unlucky deal.
Played by the gate at the foot of the garden,
My view stretches out from the fence to the wall,
No words could explain, no actions determine,
Just watching the trees and the leaves as they fall.



Dylan Thomas

Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound
In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat
On the silent sea we have heard the sound
That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.

Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.

Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned.


Avalanche by Leonard Cohen

I stepped into an avalanche-it covered up my soul-when I am not this hunchback that you see-I sleep beneath the golden hill-You who wish to conquer pain-you must learn, learn to serve me well. You strike my side by accident-as you go down for your gold-The cripple here that you clothe and feed-is neither starved nor cold-he does not ask for your company-not at the centre, the centre of the world. When I am on a pedestal-you did not raise me there-Your laws do not compel me-to kneel grotesque and bare-I myself am the pedestal-for this ugly hump at which you stare. You who wish to conquer pain-you must learn what makes me kind-the crumbs of love that you offer me-they’re the crumbs I’ve left behind-Your pain is no credential here-it’s just the shadow, shadow of my wound. I have begun to long for you-I who have no greed-I have begun to ask for you-I who have no need-You say you’ve gone away from me-but I can feel you when you breathe. Do not dress in those rags for me-I know you are not poor-don’t love me quite so fiercely now-when you know that you are not sure-it is your turn, beloved-it is your flesh that I wear…