Tuesday, May 8, 2012

2 poems || A. J. Kaufmann

Pink Dawn

Pink dawn sparkled matches’ heads
vines entwined: kites along the aqueduct of clouds
drops in worlds exploded silent on freighters
flashed traffic lights cigarette in an instant
scattered dusk, millions of people simultaneously
scored a lighter, echoed the Russian bard songs
kettles, guitars, sticks, ate rice for a while before
the only meal of the day in poor times, songs
all were small, but fulfilled, modest, but filled
w/ the afterglow of distant dawn - kiss starless zones
belts spilled milk on the thigh smokers
wrapped in a naive unification
awakened with the rest of the population, it has retained
a certain sexiness
actresses of the silent era, and her thigh rub the snout
hunched, blackened beast that shakes no longer
dark tambourine, took our rhythm, ragged beards
uncomplimentary to the masses of religion, are only waiting until the author
will blow the trumpet, to  leave the cemetery dressed in velvet
new paintings in the morning, with bandannas of proverbs
on the hips, looping in his personal odyssey
everyone is hungry and meek, but certainly not dead
heart beat, and draws the singing throats, cheerful
cry of freedom, words omitted
written in the chronicles of life, for fear of
internal censor, canon rhythm
but now all these people, the absolute cannon
stare at the crematorium ideas
sadly, beneath them, the only place that have not rubbed against the sun,
the aforementioned beast, there is real insanity
adequate space occupied, and millions of peoples sighed
with panoramic relief when the roles reversed
smoker burst out in laughter, improved hair
and peered into the bedroom where the Messiah is revealed
in an undertone
playing guitar, and frankly even she, desired
angel of the masses, failed to break his gaze
songbook eons of tiger skin spread over
at the foot of a young musician, orchestra resounded in the background
and wild tribal drums, attracted by India, he wept
Pacific, but no one could hear the notes
hummed by the chosen one: everything sings
and so it was repeated - repeated staring at the moon
in her lover, and he, staring at your woman
shrugged and went make-up
an oil lamp was still burning, but everywhere crowded sun
baby pink light of dawn
pagan thread universes
angels standing at the threshold
collected from all lifetimes

Circular Sleepwalker’s Recipe

When I lie in the interstellar camels’ skull watering dish
I feel a bone under his breath, I see the humps on chalice,
I hear the hoofs of sand, creped urns, jars mirror
hounds are jumping in the fountain, resulting in hunters
stallions fall into the well
in sudden liberation
penetrating fun, you’ll meet them in death
inclined constant conjunctions
I drink water, what-iffing the fate of the dead
the gas clouds’ drifting bodies
dried fruits of space – digest the juices
desert oases and wrong paths – metamorphosis:
first lunar tribes, falling in crocodile jaws
I takes away the wild cat, and then think about it – the first drop
of vinelike, heavy draperies, fragrant orange hair
suspended from my arm – heavy steel warrior
boastful and eager to fight
companion magic, whispering in your ear song
about the imminent end of war, I’d lunatic today,
changing the subject, and go unconscious
to my windowless tower, lock myself in a cramped cell wall, scribble
then, the old monastic habit, or jump from the top balcony
suspending my pole in the air, burn my blood and honey
around the motion in the sky
as the last instant of life, splashed to the bottom
atomized air – maybe someone could find a monk
and read verses of madmen
encouraged by the spectacle gawker
oasified over himself – I encourage you to enter the camel remains
putting dysfunctional steps
commonplace over this line:
thick line of prohibitions
and as often as their own horrendous falling towers:
only in this way you’ll find parasites, gobblers of our consciences
choking infant skulls, which then grow into right
and tight uniform civil – in any such outfit
one million dancing clowns – just
loosen off the yoke
love to live elsewhere, and neither the doctor nor the mathematician
fail to prepare the plasma cavern
circular sleepwalker’s recipe

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