Posts
Jesse S. Mitchell
Nero Astro-Fellah and the Stars (the whole Megillah)
Ut sentias tramine
1. The Narrative
Ink dark blooded, paper thin skinned,
Lets you see everything working from deep within.
Heart-pounding-eyes that pull the light straight by the root from the bone.
These hands are made of wood
These hands are made of stone.
So waylay the gentry, kick out-eviction the gentle, and cash out your bonds.
Sturdy make study and invest all your dimes and all your trouble times in the remote control neutron bombs.
These hands are made of wood.
These hands are made of stone.
And all the rest of this body is long long gone.
And the lung collapsing sound, terrible, is nothing, nothing, but sea chantey-ditty-dirge that beats the drums-empty-page purge.
Like spider web-sailors and beating winged flies sexual merge, clocks in cannibalistic, all spiritual or suicidal gone.
And everything else is gone
Is gone
Gone but the China syndrome, palindrome, Paladin-knightfall, reads backwards and sideways and maternity ward. The howlers howl, the folk tale devils unwind, the bottles collect in the loam
And we make better use of our time.
2. The Pastoral
And all the slowly ghosts that turn lowly and in front of the sun and blot out dark blocks of disturbing light.
Ricochet.
But who fears fluttering? Who fears paganism but the pagan?
the old yellow moon. That’s who. And me and you.
Terrified of sun up.
so
Too much to too few. Champagne effervescing symphony of orchestral swelling, that sweeps clean over the hard red wheat, the fields baked starving in the sun. wispy.
The skull-and-crossbones breeze that falls, freezes and thrills the resolve, a’ tremble and a ‘quiver.
It is a reaper blade.
Glory shakes and entwined snakes that caduceus men flame and pitch, and so the medication is a success.
But it is the reaper blade that’ll take your shoulder from the plow, finally.
And this is why old rain drenched men keep their minds brimming with serious philosophical shit.
You get two words in this world when you are born.
This hand is life.
This hand is death.
And it is the reaper blade that’ll make them finally speak.
3. The Idyll
And a perestroika bloom will break red like dawn, with that old grinding Bolshevik kick, new tempo.
And the 1969-Parisian tractor batteries-battering rams, communal, will idle in the streets to contemplate
The greatest fears of famine.
Sein and Zeit, and Zeit, and Zeit, and total war.
Nothing, nothingness, oh nothing, nothingness.
So we will lay ourselves down on the soft mown grass and wait
And wait for the clouds to drop down atop of us,
And then out comes the old goji-faced (pansexual) hunger in full on raiment,
All messiah-bright and smackin’ asses, taking names, crucifuxin’, all empty geometry and sacrifussin’
But don’t dare misinterpret the same, the wild wind masses, the big cloud shapes.
It is tetragrammaton and evolutionary, all loose out of pocket energies.
And will divide out in our open hands all the atrophy and entropy and the potions of the chaos-breathing
That we cherish and build over us a canopy, a canopic glass, so the star lights do not perish, and will we burn away all the pariah words we so easily have uttered into the wasteless
Into the wasteless dark that surrounds around us and we will call it night, at our lacking…
Laying deep on the short shorn
The short shorn grasses in the calm and dream of no answers-not-ever and beautiful islands and curvy women.
4. The Refrain, how repetition begins
and every ghost in Glasgow goes back to Egypt goes back to Nubia goes back to Gondwana.
(Have you ever been to India, They’ll ask.
I know my history of the world, you can reply)
Because to you,
In black and white old train stations, so much smoke as noir, and so much steam,
Hissing,
Or
On Juan Trippe red-airliner upholstery, high above, with yellow brass fittings.
You know how to get around. Cause and effect. Your reason is sound, like logic for milk, deep in the blood cells, a modern mammal. Analytical. And savage-brutal.
(And they will say, come on lads, guilt-trip the stumbling masses, all our anythings, we’re on our ways to heavens.)
So, we all live together, in the prefecture of joy, the very center of the universe, the hungry hungry eye, the burning sun of calm furnace Glasnost of massive orbital pull, the very face of passion. The brightest thing visible, the most luminous glow known to our limited senses.
5. The Ekphrasisic Coda
theend
First, the whole gestation process. Birth.
A couple of sunny days.
And then they wrap you in a shroud.
Bury you down deep under some shade tree.
But Yugoslavia is just a disco now, a restaurant, a brand of sour kraut.
If you remember it at all.
But memories are just lost thoughts, leaky thoughts, bleeding through thin paper, a grease stain.
A tip of the hat, a drop of rain in the big bay, an moment-ice cube frozen floating, bobbing up in down in your mind.
This is how you have to see the days,
The days
And just always melting away.
Nero Astro-Fellah and the Stars (the whole Megillah)
Ut sentias tramine
1. The Narrative
Ink dark blooded, paper thin skinned,
Lets you see everything working from deep within.
Heart-pounding-eyes that pull the light straight by the root from the bone.
These hands are made of wood
These hands are made of stone.
So waylay the gentry, kick out-eviction the gentle, and cash out your bonds.
Sturdy make study and invest all your dimes and all your trouble times in the remote control neutron bombs.
These hands are made of wood.
These hands are made of stone.
And all the rest of this body is long long gone.
And the lung collapsing sound, terrible, is nothing, nothing, but sea chantey-ditty-dirge that beats the drums-empty-page purge.
Like spider web-sailors and beating winged flies sexual merge, clocks in cannibalistic, all spiritual or suicidal gone.
And everything else is gone
Is gone
Gone but the China syndrome, palindrome, Paladin-knightfall, reads backwards and sideways and maternity ward. The howlers howl, the folk tale devils unwind, the bottles collect in the loam
And we make better use of our time.
2. The Pastoral
And all the slowly ghosts that turn lowly and in front of the sun and blot out dark blocks of disturbing light.
Ricochet.
But who fears fluttering? Who fears paganism but the pagan?
the old yellow moon. That’s who. And me and you.
Terrified of sun up.
so
Too much to too few. Champagne effervescing symphony of orchestral swelling, that sweeps clean over the hard red wheat, the fields baked starving in the sun. wispy.
The skull-and-crossbones breeze that falls, freezes and thrills the resolve, a’ tremble and a ‘quiver.
It is a reaper blade.
Glory shakes and entwined snakes that caduceus men flame and pitch, and so the medication is a success.
But it is the reaper blade that’ll take your shoulder from the plow, finally.
And this is why old rain drenched men keep their minds brimming with serious philosophical shit.
You get two words in this world when you are born.
This hand is life.
This hand is death.
And it is the reaper blade that’ll make them finally speak.
3. The Idyll
And a perestroika bloom will break red like dawn, with that old grinding Bolshevik kick, new tempo.
And the 1969-Parisian tractor batteries-battering rams, communal, will idle in the streets to contemplate
The greatest fears of famine.
Sein and Zeit, and Zeit, and Zeit, and total war.
Nothing, nothingness, oh nothing, nothingness.
So we will lay ourselves down on the soft mown grass and wait
And wait for the clouds to drop down atop of us,
And then out comes the old goji-faced (pansexual) hunger in full on raiment,
All messiah-bright and smackin’ asses, taking names, crucifuxin’, all empty geometry and sacrifussin’
But don’t dare misinterpret the same, the wild wind masses, the big cloud shapes.
It is tetragrammaton and evolutionary, all loose out of pocket energies.
And will divide out in our open hands all the atrophy and entropy and the potions of the chaos-breathing
That we cherish and build over us a canopy, a canopic glass, so the star lights do not perish, and will we burn away all the pariah words we so easily have uttered into the wasteless
Into the wasteless dark that surrounds around us and we will call it night, at our lacking…
Laying deep on the short shorn
The short shorn grasses in the calm and dream of no answers-not-ever and beautiful islands and curvy women.
4. The Refrain, how repetition begins
and every ghost in Glasgow goes back to Egypt goes back to Nubia goes back to Gondwana.
(Have you ever been to India, They’ll ask.
I know my history of the world, you can reply)
Because to you,
In black and white old train stations, so much smoke as noir, and so much steam,
Hissing,
Or
On Juan Trippe red-airliner upholstery, high above, with yellow brass fittings.
You know how to get around. Cause and effect. Your reason is sound, like logic for milk, deep in the blood cells, a modern mammal. Analytical. And savage-brutal.
(And they will say, come on lads, guilt-trip the stumbling masses, all our anythings, we’re on our ways to heavens.)
So, we all live together, in the prefecture of joy, the very center of the universe, the hungry hungry eye, the burning sun of calm furnace Glasnost of massive orbital pull, the very face of passion. The brightest thing visible, the most luminous glow known to our limited senses.
5. The Ekphrasisic Coda
theend
First, the whole gestation process. Birth.
A couple of sunny days.
And then they wrap you in a shroud.
Bury you down deep under some shade tree.
But Yugoslavia is just a disco now, a restaurant, a brand of sour kraut.
If you remember it at all.
But memories are just lost thoughts, leaky thoughts, bleeding through thin paper, a grease stain.
A tip of the hat, a drop of rain in the big bay, an moment-ice cube frozen floating, bobbing up in down in your mind.
This is how you have to see the days,
The days
And just always melting away.
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