
he sings the alphabet
in the half-sleep of his level
swimming in the amazon of
combinations
somewhere between the andes
and the innocent beauty of samos
taken
by the bone-man’s violation
his conscious being’s finger
on the pulse of an aged eros
yet – still greening below
the pomegranate groove
at the waterfall of rejuvenation –
he sings again
all sings
in an electronic world of
newly creation he visited on his
last lap’s remembrance of a
denuded muse
tearful marie magdalene.
he sings –
jean-jacques – to pink flow’s music
a conundrum of ears rushing in
like rats to the piper’s tune saving
the cities of a deadly peril/ pipers
john the piper/ piper jacques/
drummer pink/ mushroom trumpet
miles/ who’ll call at such an early hour
of lacquered blue skies
sticky gum of dirtied air’s sugar taste
titillating the taste buds for a tete-a-tete
with fate’s open window
closed with a black-brown curtain?
It’s a new world again –
If it’s bold or brave
we’ll see in fleeting time
of flash-electronic travels –
already en vogue with artists/ poets/
writers/ who devour words their
gilded muses bring them
manna from the body of a planet
whose body
not yet deadly wounded
where the amazon queen
not yet slain by new-age achill
whose tears not yet flowered
into narcissistic creatures
we have subscribed to
at one time
in the past
when life was to be discovered/
fresh/ an unlined piece of paper
the poet was born.
he sings. he sings.
zoltanzelan
zjg-poetry’20.