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June 17, 2000
BUANA - bamboo book
BUANA
...
dividing madly (I am) tossing the dime at the late-night-vultures, eating crystal-dry cherries sitting on a carcass (I am) dividing madly (and) out of control bleeding (I am) dividing madly and no nurturing back in the farm-jungle (I am) dividing madly all right mum I feel dry I lie I know (I am) dividing madly napping on the pinky couch smitten arms of me rocking slow over (I am) dividing madly in the dark room (I am) dividing madly in such in such a beautiful way (I am) dividing madly under a sheltering sky (I am) dividing madly and spin you out mum (I am) almost calling your name (I am) dividing madly and rolling out and while (I am) dividing madly in my own stochastic way I almost get it (I am) dividing madly but sounds polite crawling I almost (I am) dividing madly holding walls scattered promising I (I am) dividing madly mum are those guitars girl are they? (I am) running past the building, (I am) sure there is a way to get through the fence.
Some suggest I should elaborate on or somehow find, somewhere, folded or lost in the bamboo leaves, 3 words about sadness, of being helpless, lonely and not enjoying it, in despair and not laughing again at it. A serious look, my friend whispers, at the fireplace littered with beer cans and dirty socks; for once not a fascinated look. For once, not distilled away into another inevitable form of euphoric entertainment. That lonesome man would ask then for a prayer, a dig out.
And yes, I do. In the style of Margaret Burns.
SANDY TORSO
...
Oh Sandy Torso Oh Sandy please tell me what should I wear on tonight, wolverine light new millenniums drive? Sandy Sandy Oh Sandy Torso where should I go tonight Oh Sandy Torso please tell me of the Y10K bug and why should I care tell me of the boys which one should I want? Oh Sandy Torso what shoes am I going to screw up tonight and how many rooms shall I make? Sandy Oh Sandy Torso Oh how many miles to my everyday life? Sandy Sandy Oh Sandy Torso can at least you suggest what color the stick what brand the new tires what sex to the kid if blonde or burnt silver and what hands to touch if any around and what then to ask to myself and I what should I believe in and if I should cry. Oh Sandy Oh Sandy Torso you never do talk nor blink of an eye but there I still keep you between me and I.
Occasionally I do think with somebody else's mind. Or in mind. Mind about. What matters is the baby is black and on a white back. Anakid is a true-lonesome cowboy. By rule. Paid by how cool he plays it. Flat personality. Girls do complain. Girls, we understand, caress the smell of feedback, the idea of kindness, the value of warmth. And end up feeling like a fly and drop out, a good virus boy splattered. Replicating but buying nada. Also, when it comes to play he play almost anything. Somebody have seen him on the shore discussing with men of sailing and fishes and with the old ladies at the fancy barn with proper giggles and aged enough curtains or with a half-Japanese in crowded discos early morning in the county-side. It is not the moon and it is not the smell of fresh asphalt on my frozen tires. I love his raven's nose cutting the stage like a laser beam. The queen loves his pink chin when he brings new customers to the dance. Bring on the night with orange juice cheesing around tomato sandwiches in a salty Bloody Mary with the man without preferences.
I have been paid.
You only owe me for the flesh.
I'll be patient on that.
Believe me.
ODD JOBS
...
A Jassassin and a gay with no real interests once he was a chaperone. You don't know what that is. I knew you were going to ask. As a chaperone you must be concerned very much of the way you walk and of the way you answer questions. You have not to be in a hurry. Never. Your feet should listen and rip the crowd in a certain melly way and go. And you then would answer with a vague 8kHz and tune on the yard accordingly. Questions on this job are remarks from a side-by table. Remarkable ones eventually. And you never run once the job's done, that would be grossly childish. You would grow possibly (true or acquired) bright white five-inches-fangs to show off on Sundays as "divine blessing" to the trying or buy a pair of cowboys boots to tickle the old leggie. Accessories a real pro won't recommend anyway. I knew one guy that used to go out barefoot and his tag was very high. True trueness. Ultimate tango. His name Gal.
© Fortunato Caragliano
Posted by lck at June 17, 2000 04:52 PM
