Autumn Collage - Serge Gurkski (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗
- Author: Serge Gurkski
Book online «Autumn Collage - Serge Gurkski (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗». Author Serge Gurkski
Or: trance. As someone mainly interested in women, words and vodka
(permutations are encouraged) this sparkle from the scattered disk
I mentioned in my Stanza # One gifted my mind with
a remarkable genetic trance-ability. Mostly quite confusing
to everyone including me.
XXIV: si le vent frappe à mon porte
If the wind knocks at my door
and tells me it is time to rise again
I follow …
And out in that final night
to be followed by a new day
lighted by a bleaker sun – it’s winter -
than the day before, I cannot but just
follow the call of life again.
That’s just how sentimental
it will ever get.
Hope pales, wishes dwindle. Lovers
lie more, the more I
reincarnate. Also a kind of
evolution. God becoming
more gnostic day by day.
More distanced, more cryptic,
more of and like themselves.
Displaced birds roam desperate skies,
They gyrate towards final singularities.
I so had wanted to have wanted maybe you
or anything alive and fine to me, but
sincerely once at least.
Will then you, sparkle in my soul,
raise me up to my ultimate
beyond?
XXV: Chicken picking on echoplex
We must not play gods if our hearts
don’t match the marbled ones
of those adored up at Athen’s
Acropolis, with all of them
deities slaughtered ever so nice-
ly by Jesus meek and mild.
Come and go Constantine the
obviously unavoidably great.
(And yes, I don’t like you at all,
Mr Kavafis:You may have beeen as Alexandrian as they come.
And that’s not for your having been gay but because of your
ever so arrogantly anti-Julian the Apostate-attitude,
as if Mount Athos had born you in pain. )
Once having been a real god (of Thracia) myself,
cornered ever so sweetly by hot model legs
spreading out over clouds of sweet smokes.
Oh don’t you mess with boogie piano man,
he always means it right. Say hello to Mr
Conkeroo and then with a sweet smile
greet your night. Just another one.
to cum.
You’d preferred it vanilla? Wrong wish!
This is for all the bums of America (and beyond that
piss-colored horizon):
My message spells: Keep going on!
For the all drop-outs of all the big fat
in-corporated states,
handing out bad tasting candies to
all of us losing out. And it spells:
I’ll bite your finger cause I lost my gag reflex.
Oh baby! Of course
I meant no mean when I
told you that your
love would be invain. What
do you think of me now?
I’m glad you don’t bother
but rather have turned back
to your sweet and strong num-
bing perfumes, chasing by inhale
the muddy brown air-waves of earth
away.
Your Rum’s not smelling that fine
as it did last night? I’ll tell you why:
Yesterday, it was only yesterday, it was alright
to drown another lost day of your life
into
Well they tempt you, man, with silver
And they tempt you, sir, with gold
And they tempt you with the pleasures
that the flesh does surely hold*
but wrong!
(So sorry for the French, and even the more so
if it is Greek to you, may it be katharevousa**
or dimotiki***.:
Chicken picking on the echoplex:
*lyrics from „Pink Cadillac“
**Καθαρεύουσα
*** δημοτική
XXVI: Gardener of Love
Mostly to my astonishment girls start distancing themselves from me,
but then I think: It had been high time anyway. And I always prefer them
leaving me, because my own good-byes hurt me so much more.
So hey! yeah, there’s another one down and up
and a-drowning in Niagara falls.
What can you, a gardener of love do but
hatch them for a while till they float and fly away again?
Once their heart turns to cold, you
better step away.
XXVII: Slopes of the Ozark
All the grass on the Ozark slopes.
colored green by the sun.
is dipped into touches of blue.
Call it Bluegrass if you need too.
Three hours later on the highway
You meet another brown-haired black-eyed
cutie just two steps away from the local
whiskey bar. You of course invite her
for a dance and there you roll.
Next morning though you notice
another ring on your hand and you
ask yourself: how you made it from
Black Oak, Arkansas to Las Vegas
and back from there too that fast!
XXVIII. A Gift To Myself
Floating on the waves of memory back
into a strawberry-blonde kid’s here and now,
I can, for the first time in almost five
decades find traces
(absconding the light of your lightest touch and ephemeral like butterfly wings)
of a “happy childhood“,
to which by any means belongs learning by heart
this Rhapsody in Blue in order to sing it to myself
at times of boredom or pain or both. I was rich in those and there-
fore sang it often.
As a song to myself.
Letting all the sharp Blues contours cut the surface
of the forcedly pacified waters of convention.
Beware the neighbors! Bullshit like that.
And delighted in it.
And rightly so.
Because a single blue note
saved my life.
B
in C sharp minor.
Thank you!
XXIX: Pratidanam – returning the compliment
Je ne sais pas non plus comment vivre sans toi.
Non, chuis pas malade si tu me demandes.
How to live on without you I don’t know anymore.
No, I will tell you, should you ask, I am just fine.
My heart is a prince among the small people:
all those delicate fragile souls yearning
for warmth and a smile.
Whenever I sing a song smooth
to myself I do it to pamper it and to
embalm it with all the sympathy
it does deserve.
Pratidanam is sanskrtam and it means:
a present you give for a gift you received,
and sanskrtam – that is Sanskrit, the ancient holy
language of the same people who collectively
dreamed up both: the Ramayana and the Mahabharata -
compounded but ever so carefully by Panini who wrote
the most advanced grammar for 2000 years to come.
Panini, a Leibnizian mind, winking at us from a far far time
and a far far place.
XXX. “Out of a misty dream,“
recited Lee Remick Dowson’s poem, “our path emerges for a while …“ but that was no dream: a nightmare it was. And yes, the ocean knows no time.
Ebbing and flooding and ebbing and flooding again
erasing the traces of sorrow by washing away all castles built on sand.
And the ocean is life, in which all spit-out Jonahs are to drown.
Sooner, later, but finally always.
I have not made my mind up yet
in who to better trust:
a lover liquid or rather one of flesh,
but anyway I ‘ll be and stay a slave.
XXXII. Hurry
sorry , ‘m in a hurry
shops are gonna close soon
runnin out of money
runnin out of booze too
gotta better run now
rockin down the alley
better gonna get me
what I think I need
will be broke by sat night
till then I have fun.
XXXIII. Nap Girl
You need to get in the flow with
me now.
Won’t you
mount my blue balloon as it takes off
to softly friendly skies
and kiss their charmer, that’s our sun?
Let’s sail off into another swinging night
of lush and lust and love and lay- lay back
with me:
Sail with me and let’s bump on chuckling clouds
before they rain themselves dry and drown out down
on thirsty soils of yearning
and dream up fantasies of better no returns.
Smoothly talk to me, please!
I laid down my arms:
The roses are not on war anymore.
————————–
“Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you.”
from the lyrics of Georgia on my mind
XXXV. Sunny, sunny winter time
Sunny sunny winter time
and me out there tryin to get me
another fix. Brother brother
can’t you please spare a dime
on me?
Went over to the river,
watched me out a bridge to pass
away,
humming Berryman all to myself
closest ever
to that draw of the bridge,
but it
would not work, I was
not stoned enough yet to
leave earth and life like that this day.
Watch me tumbling down
to the shelter, mumblin
obscene prayers to myself-
Man, I am on the low-down.
Can’t you help yourself this time?
Someone just had snapped away
a cigarette
and the butt was glimming still.
So I put it up and leaned out
over the railing,
closed my eyes and inhaled
the nicotine and mem’ries
of a pretty woman smiling
right into my deepest dark.
Wandering along the bluely shaded alleys
of a long and so missed
past,
But now they’re
missed no more.
(had help with this -not to mention chemicals – by Boz Scaggs and Duane Allman, which is why I ll fatten this one up:)
Bozscaggities
Came across some melodies
made me wanna swing.
XXXVI. Bozzscagitties
(Miss Riddle, I’m stuck in the middle again!)
I rather feel I do not want to dance to this tonight -
yet-
“It’s a long way home and it’s late and yet we pretend.
It’s a long way home and you called last night: Just friends!“
yet I can’t resist the beautiful
trouble you are
to me
tonight
and you know who I am but
I have
no clue about you.
You suggest. I better play along
nicely, a voice a caressing velvet
to please you best-
with my voice playing along nicely
and it better be
a lower baritoned velvet
touching
your ears.
To do it to you
best!
(Payday)
My Shoe-shiner could you kindly keep it down?
Do we really need an apocalypse right now?
….
Come payday: “
Crystal chimes meet wah-wah: friendly intercourse
Sun’s a friend and she helps me walking out and
down to town on a friday night.
Straight into another
superbly star-lit night-
Dancing in the limelight.
Swinging in
(permutations are encouraged) this sparkle from the scattered disk
I mentioned in my Stanza # One gifted my mind with
a remarkable genetic trance-ability. Mostly quite confusing
to everyone including me.
XXIV: si le vent frappe à mon porte
If the wind knocks at my door
and tells me it is time to rise again
I follow …
And out in that final night
to be followed by a new day
lighted by a bleaker sun – it’s winter -
than the day before, I cannot but just
follow the call of life again.
That’s just how sentimental
it will ever get.
Hope pales, wishes dwindle. Lovers
lie more, the more I
reincarnate. Also a kind of
evolution. God becoming
more gnostic day by day.
More distanced, more cryptic,
more of and like themselves.
Displaced birds roam desperate skies,
They gyrate towards final singularities.
I so had wanted to have wanted maybe you
or anything alive and fine to me, but
sincerely once at least.
Will then you, sparkle in my soul,
raise me up to my ultimate
beyond?
XXV: Chicken picking on echoplex
We must not play gods if our hearts
don’t match the marbled ones
of those adored up at Athen’s
Acropolis, with all of them
deities slaughtered ever so nice-
ly by Jesus meek and mild.
Come and go Constantine the
obviously unavoidably great.
(And yes, I don’t like you at all,
Mr Kavafis:You may have beeen as Alexandrian as they come.
And that’s not for your having been gay but because of your
ever so arrogantly anti-Julian the Apostate-attitude,
as if Mount Athos had born you in pain. )
Once having been a real god (of Thracia) myself,
cornered ever so sweetly by hot model legs
spreading out over clouds of sweet smokes.
Oh don’t you mess with boogie piano man,
he always means it right. Say hello to Mr
Conkeroo and then with a sweet smile
greet your night. Just another one.
to cum.
You’d preferred it vanilla? Wrong wish!
This is for all the bums of America (and beyond that
piss-colored horizon):
My message spells: Keep going on!
For the all drop-outs of all the big fat
in-corporated states,
handing out bad tasting candies to
all of us losing out. And it spells:
I’ll bite your finger cause I lost my gag reflex.
Oh baby! Of course
I meant no mean when I
told you that your
love would be invain. What
do you think of me now?
I’m glad you don’t bother
but rather have turned back
to your sweet and strong num-
bing perfumes, chasing by inhale
the muddy brown air-waves of earth
away.
Your Rum’s not smelling that fine
as it did last night? I’ll tell you why:
Yesterday, it was only yesterday, it was alright
to drown another lost day of your life
into
Well they tempt you, man, with silver
And they tempt you, sir, with gold
And they tempt you with the pleasures
that the flesh does surely hold*
but wrong!
(So sorry for the French, and even the more so
if it is Greek to you, may it be katharevousa**
or dimotiki***.:
Chicken picking on the echoplex:
*lyrics from „Pink Cadillac“
**Καθαρεύουσα
*** δημοτική
XXVI: Gardener of Love
Mostly to my astonishment girls start distancing themselves from me,
but then I think: It had been high time anyway. And I always prefer them
leaving me, because my own good-byes hurt me so much more.
So hey! yeah, there’s another one down and up
and a-drowning in Niagara falls.
What can you, a gardener of love do but
hatch them for a while till they float and fly away again?
Once their heart turns to cold, you
better step away.
XXVII: Slopes of the Ozark
All the grass on the Ozark slopes.
colored green by the sun.
is dipped into touches of blue.
Call it Bluegrass if you need too.
Three hours later on the highway
You meet another brown-haired black-eyed
cutie just two steps away from the local
whiskey bar. You of course invite her
for a dance and there you roll.
Next morning though you notice
another ring on your hand and you
ask yourself: how you made it from
Black Oak, Arkansas to Las Vegas
and back from there too that fast!
XXVIII. A Gift To Myself
Floating on the waves of memory back
into a strawberry-blonde kid’s here and now,
I can, for the first time in almost five
decades find traces
(absconding the light of your lightest touch and ephemeral like butterfly wings)
of a “happy childhood“,
to which by any means belongs learning by heart
this Rhapsody in Blue in order to sing it to myself
at times of boredom or pain or both. I was rich in those and there-
fore sang it often.
As a song to myself.
Letting all the sharp Blues contours cut the surface
of the forcedly pacified waters of convention.
Beware the neighbors! Bullshit like that.
And delighted in it.
And rightly so.
Because a single blue note
saved my life.
B
in C sharp minor.
Thank you!
XXIX: Pratidanam – returning the compliment
Je ne sais pas non plus comment vivre sans toi.
Non, chuis pas malade si tu me demandes.
How to live on without you I don’t know anymore.
No, I will tell you, should you ask, I am just fine.
My heart is a prince among the small people:
all those delicate fragile souls yearning
for warmth and a smile.
Whenever I sing a song smooth
to myself I do it to pamper it and to
embalm it with all the sympathy
it does deserve.
Pratidanam is sanskrtam and it means:
a present you give for a gift you received,
and sanskrtam – that is Sanskrit, the ancient holy
language of the same people who collectively
dreamed up both: the Ramayana and the Mahabharata -
compounded but ever so carefully by Panini who wrote
the most advanced grammar for 2000 years to come.
Panini, a Leibnizian mind, winking at us from a far far time
and a far far place.
XXX. “Out of a misty dream,“
recited Lee Remick Dowson’s poem, “our path emerges for a while …“ but that was no dream: a nightmare it was. And yes, the ocean knows no time.
Ebbing and flooding and ebbing and flooding again
erasing the traces of sorrow by washing away all castles built on sand.
And the ocean is life, in which all spit-out Jonahs are to drown.
Sooner, later, but finally always.
I have not made my mind up yet
in who to better trust:
a lover liquid or rather one of flesh,
but anyway I ‘ll be and stay a slave.
XXXII. Hurry
sorry , ‘m in a hurry
shops are gonna close soon
runnin out of money
runnin out of booze too
gotta better run now
rockin down the alley
better gonna get me
what I think I need
will be broke by sat night
till then I have fun.
XXXIII. Nap Girl
You need to get in the flow with
me now.
Won’t you
mount my blue balloon as it takes off
to softly friendly skies
and kiss their charmer, that’s our sun?
Let’s sail off into another swinging night
of lush and lust and love and lay- lay back
with me:
Sail with me and let’s bump on chuckling clouds
before they rain themselves dry and drown out down
on thirsty soils of yearning
and dream up fantasies of better no returns.
Smoothly talk to me, please!
I laid down my arms:
The roses are not on war anymore.
————————–
“Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you.”
from the lyrics of Georgia on my mind
XXXV. Sunny, sunny winter time
Sunny sunny winter time
and me out there tryin to get me
another fix. Brother brother
can’t you please spare a dime
on me?
Went over to the river,
watched me out a bridge to pass
away,
humming Berryman all to myself
closest ever
to that draw of the bridge,
but it
would not work, I was
not stoned enough yet to
leave earth and life like that this day.
Watch me tumbling down
to the shelter, mumblin
obscene prayers to myself-
Man, I am on the low-down.
Can’t you help yourself this time?
Someone just had snapped away
a cigarette
and the butt was glimming still.
So I put it up and leaned out
over the railing,
closed my eyes and inhaled
the nicotine and mem’ries
of a pretty woman smiling
right into my deepest dark.
Wandering along the bluely shaded alleys
of a long and so missed
past,
But now they’re
missed no more.
(had help with this -not to mention chemicals – by Boz Scaggs and Duane Allman, which is why I ll fatten this one up:)
Bozscaggities
Came across some melodies
made me wanna swing.
XXXVI. Bozzscagitties
(Miss Riddle, I’m stuck in the middle again!)
I rather feel I do not want to dance to this tonight -
yet-
“It’s a long way home and it’s late and yet we pretend.
It’s a long way home and you called last night: Just friends!“
yet I can’t resist the beautiful
trouble you are
to me
tonight
and you know who I am but
I have
no clue about you.
You suggest. I better play along
nicely, a voice a caressing velvet
to please you best-
with my voice playing along nicely
and it better be
a lower baritoned velvet
touching
your ears.
To do it to you
best!
(Payday)
My Shoe-shiner could you kindly keep it down?
Do we really need an apocalypse right now?
….
Come payday: “
Crystal chimes meet wah-wah: friendly intercourse
Sun’s a friend and she helps me walking out and
down to town on a friday night.
Straight into another
superbly star-lit night-
Dancing in the limelight.
Swinging in
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