Autumn Collage - Serge Gurkski (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

unsaved,
but alone, but still alone.
Brother, brother, can you hear me,
can you listen to
my sympathetic whispers?
Serge pulls out of his
never-ending pocket a
- polished from the rubbing of tonight -
flask of AMARETTO saved
for sweet communions with
the sighingly fallen
leaves of sorrowful
in that golden-brown
October of all-so-well-
- knowing and totally
wreckshipped hearts.

Bob-a- baby-now
grasps-grabs a gulp of
taste of the wonder that is
a fluid of almond distilled
into sweetly numbing
the unbreakably broken
hearts by drowning
them into benevolent
smilings of healing shelter.

Serge, the man who came
to save you by
saving himself, squats
close to the
man in pain and
mumbles into the
growling waters
a quote from a poem
by Seamus Heaney:
“What’s in the sea and the waves that keeps you spellbound?
Here earth breaks out in wildflowers, she rills and rolls
the streams in waterweed.”**
—————————————————————————————————————-

*song by Crosby Stills Nash and Young

**Seamus Heaney: Virgil Eclogue I


V. Mirror's mirror's mirror


Breakfasting Kaufman and consorts at dinner time,

digesting with due desire, due to a black jazzed brain,

I can’t avoid taking critical notice of a lack of

syntactic power hidden behind signals

of alarming sound, fraught with lasciviously teasing

make-ups of mellow and surreal perfumes.


In a night grown-up enough for a fatal appointment

with a sun still yawning at the oblique breaking of the dawn,

I watch and reflect upon a poet’s reflections on

a sulkily wailing and moaning saxophone, itself

reflecting upon the huffy human condition

by turning somber blackness into blue delights.


Gurkskogony

épopée délirante lautréamonthéâtrale de mon nativité étrange


I. Scattered disc

It’s close to midnight on the ides of March.we write down the year

one thousand nine hundred sixty three Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi

on a coaster on a table in a bar in a United States Armed Forces

garrison town in southwestern Bavaria.

Must have been then or close to it that a sparkle of

one of the icy planets of the scattered disc hailed down

and right into the almost boiling seminal plasma of GI Bill

thereby nobilifying vile male lust, transforming it into a trigger for holy

insemination of a fecund ovarian follicle of a B-girl

neither pretty nor smart but willing to go farther than

her contract demanded… .


II. GI Bill: a portrait from a distance far

also an hommage to Dave Brubeck in heaven


Actually America to me spells mainly Jay A Zed Zed

you might not be with me and you’re free to dis-

agree but America is just the mother of it.

Swing and Bebop, Cool and Free,

Fusion, Blues and Bossa Nova, import from Brazil.

In nuce: take 5, Dave, and brubeck it down on me please.

Age of 13 an aspiring pianist, my fingers fox-

trotted in vain of course to the sheet music of 5 over 4

and instead of me tickling the ivories and the ebonies

they rather tickled me but it was only them

who laughed. A cruel case of unrequited love.

I tried to connect via Jazz to my Dad but only

could hear the border-lining voice of my tipsy gipsy soul.

And that’s that.


III. Ladies on the loose


How is it that my house’s burnin down

whenever I clinge, Serge in heat, to another female hottieness?

I of course -what a question?-

love salted mango and figs dipped in honey,

taste her belly while I lick up the drops of her longing.But

my house of heart keps burning down

meeting ladies on the loose.,whispering to me:

“Lick my cherry sweet

it tastes fine, somewhat salty

now you ‘ll be mine!

Put your hands on my ass!

Bring my pussy to your tongue,

lick me til I beg for more.“

Then they leave me with my heart on fire


IV. Lovebirds mine

My lovebird flew away

but it returned picking up the crumbs of your longings,

then took off again. What a volatile, elusive guy he is!

What a loser this bird is!

Is he crashed or what? I need my love

going on with me. And I will only whisper

my desires to her..I love her yes. Adore her.

I want to be inside of her deep. I want.

I hope we won’t going to meet, but if we do

I will be strong enough to tell her to go

and to leave me alone. I can’t take women

(into my apartment these days.)

But I am afraid she will come.

Because she hasn’t hit the sun yet and I want to help her to go there


V. Whore-Talk

There’s a heartburn turning away while I listen to her,

talking about small Turkish cocks not impressing her much

when back then she was a whore.

She is a warm woman to talk to,

So how could I leave her out, the season being

that cold ? And we talk about her sister in arms.

And how she not so well copes with her love affair

being over. And only pain is what she’s left with..

She tells me of her former lovers and I hug her

to feel her body. I won’t be her lover, but the feeling was pretty .

And that’s all I want to share.


VI. Serge is in the loop


It´s gonna kill me but at least I was free.

I cleaned my flat so I won’t die like Cobain.

Should I have to wait for another 50 years

till I get freed from the world as I know it?

I’m in my prime.

Should I strive for hot sex like

Neruda’s Caballero solo does?

Should I read even more books,

getting wiser day by day

with people getting angrier because I

know just so little more than they do?

Never ever have I been in the fishbowl

like Amy Winehouse or Ann Sexton.,

moribund of love both, but exposed

myself so much I can’t

refrain from blushing.

So you could say, shame is my cancer.


VII. Il faut que tu saches que*:


I caught it, it caught me?

I am not sure anymore.

The virus of love

will just not go away,

pass out or die.

It will stay with me close.

You can see it

in the sparkle

of my eyes,

you can read it from my lips,

being hungry for your kiss,

you can feel it in my touch.

and perhaps my love is strongest

when we fight.

Sweetest Taylor, call me Burton,

but I doubt that

I’ll watch Who’s afraid of

Virginia Woolf ever again.

I’ve had my share.


VIII. Too plastered to die yet


There is in Joyce’s “Dubliners” a story

of a man found dead on the loo of a pub

(dead from boozing, it is a pub after all.)

So I thought, while I am at it:

let’s rap and ramp down

the fear of death and

instead ramp up the joy of being alive

still!

Baby, be my maybe baby,

be the sweetest stanza 1

of my best poem, talking love,

that has yet to come

alive!


IX. Watching eagles mate in mid-air

Eagles are mating

below swaying clouds,

just like angels do above.

Smiling wet-eyed is the best,

I feel best then. Don’t know why,

and even better than best I feel,

when my lover kisses my tears away.

Those eagles are fine, but

you are much finer than

any eagle could ever be.

I’m bluer than the moon in full.

I’m your snowman if you need my drug.

I give for free

if you will pay back physically.

And should it all turn out

not the way we wanted,

I demand that I reincarnate

as an eagle mating in mid-air.


X, XI,XII Closing Time

X

It must have been 7:30 a.m. on my life clock,

when early on an august morning,

yawning out bulgy clouds

of amassing grey into the

whispering yellow of the back

of the stage design

of that summer’s play,

my parents kidnapped me to Italy.

For a first taste of what life could also have been like.

XI

Closing time’s close by by now,

so let me share another last

anecdote with you

when the world still made

la bella figura and still impressed

this boy in me, shy and blonde

and blue-eyed me. Me with a ball on the beach

being scared of the waves of the sea

and me knowing nothing yet

of the pain that comes with love for free.

XII

And by now, when my life clock

is close to midnight with me

in the mid of my life

I must admit that questa bella figura,

the world was once to me,

only comes alive again,

when I trigger and tease

my neurotransmitters

to make all my heart’s memories

fall into oblivion

and let my smiling mind

sway into a swoon

I’ll never return from again.


XIV. I.: Brain DUI *

“Oh, dearest, sweetest bartenderessa?“ -“What’s it, baby?“,
her boobs, stretching out my shirt**, in stereo inquire.
“Can we have some more of the same ole liquid Blues please?
I promise to double the tip! But can you make our drinks triples?“
- “By we you mean …?“ – “Means: my friends and me“ – “ Your imaginary allies then?“, pointing at the books in my head and: “Deal“, she says, “but don’t you drown them before you drown!“
She is that smart, you see? As if this was about smartness.
“Drown in what?“, my eyes ask winking at my shirt on her.
“Get out!“ she yells, letting me in.

But my allies had to stay out. They were not missed
(so soon).


XIV, II.

I wonder who

It took me, friends and foes, years to be specific, to find out which combination of liquids
would serve me best taste- as much as spiritwise: one third of rum and one of coke is best
shaken, not stirred with a last third of cherry liqueur*. I doubt that, but cheers first to all,
Kerouac or Berryman would have declined my offer. At least , as I a writer, have the precious
priviledge to, now they’re dead, adapt their tastes to my needs and propensities (monetarily
speaking): so I dunno if I have already told you that remarkable anecdote about John, Jack and
Serge,