III The Lyre Sermon
The stream pavilion lies open, the rosied fingers of dawn
Stroke and press into the wet bank. The breeze
Freshens the green land, and heard. Angels saunter about.
Turgid Thames, He tames and slows, till I end my song.
The river swirls its empty bottles, sandwich wrappers,
Silky toilettes, cardboard boxes, cigarette butts
Or other accusations of slumlord blights slowly now. Angels dauntless on high.
And their friends, the translated saints of cities departed;
Directors, have left there their addresses.
By the waters of Champlain, I stood and wondered. . .
(Grassy field plains of Babylon, what folly build you there?)
Thames He tames, run softly till I end my song,
Tart Thames, lie mutely, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a warm gust I hear
The rattle of bones, and laughter peeled from ear to ear.
A cat slipped softly through the vegetation
Brushing its well groomed belly o'er the flowered bank
While I toyed with fishes in the bright canal
On a timeless day glow round behind leaf sheds
Where the healing leaves medicinal dry and cure
Musing upon a thing my brother left
And on the thing my fathers left before him.
Peach hued bodies naked on the grass soft ground
(And hues of gold, barley, and chestnut, vanilla bean)
Bone china on cream tablecloths in tree house rooms nearby
Rattled by the leaping cat's paws curious as cats so oft are
(Year after year, timeless years of curious cats meaning no harm)
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of bells and horses, which shall bring
Peter bar Jona to Mrs. Porter, eternal spring gate.
O the moon shone bright beneath Mrs. Porter
(Mrs. Porter was the light.)
And on her daughters.
They wash their feet in blessed water.
Et O ces voix des aînés commes d’enfants, chantant sous la coupole!
[trans. And O these voices of elders like children, singing under the dome!]
Tira-a-lira lira, tira-a-lira lay
Tootle-loo, ta-ta, cheerio lovey-dove
Berkshire Bessie and Surrey Suzie sing just so, unforced
And so true.
Disraeli City
Under the crowned fog of a summer dawn
Mr. Eugenicist, the flesh merchant
Clean shaven, with a pocket full of vials
COD* London, documents unseen, [trans. *Cash on Delivery, USA abbrev.]
Asked me in Limerick two step verse
Cock 'em, block 'em
Why not drug 'em?
Dumb down, Dumb 'em
Shannon Limerick
London dimwits
Bribe 'em, deal 'em
Mc's for sale, O
Slimey Limey
O so grimey
Nice for crime, E
For Eugenics, K
For Killing Niggers
Who cares, the jiggers
Kali's a bitch
Pakistan witch
Screw the liquor
Dose 'em with H
Meth ain't proscribed
In the Koran
God's dead besides
I Got no time
To make this rhyme
Ta-ta, good-bye.
Let's do lunch on Cannon Street
(He sells cannon too.)
Followed by a weekend at Interpol.
They got the dope on Eliot Thomas Stearns
Bank clerk extraordinaire, record clean as a whistle.
Clean is what laundering is all about.
Blackmail is clean mail unexposed;
Besides, his wife's a loon; that's a boon.
At the violent hour, muggers start to rustle
Deep purple veined blood prepares to flow.
When violet hued fingers seize the day
As fingers choke the light of life from victims,
The eyes and back turn up in alarm of
Clock whistles, grandpa clock chimes.
Violent violet twilight demise of day
Turn eyes and back upward from the desk
Of suspect paperwork, unconfirmed reports,
And the human heartthrob waits throbbing
Like a getaway car disguised as a taxi throbbing waiting.
I, M. Tiret-si-as*, French though not blind, bob 'twixt two tongues [*trans. Hyphen-Yes- suffix]
Old man with man-boob breasts who toked too much weed
Can see that hyphens are much abused though clearly legal
In compounding French terms: Marxiste-léniniste
Karl's leftist creed conjoined to right wing circumstances, oh, please
Spare me Karl and Vladimir, just give me the hyphen please.
Middle road, straight and narrow to paradise leads
De this and de that, de, de, de, de. Tiret, je dit, tiret! [trans. of, of, etc. Hyphen, I say...]
The revolution brushed aside those de people by guillotine or firing squad
Prêt, en joue, tirez! Oui, tiret, tiret! [trans. Ready, aim, fire! pron. tirez & tiret is same sound]
Then Napoleon came, great French hero who detested us
Not because we are fools and rude, rather we do not pronounce our e's and other letters
For you see, Italians not only sing their vowels, they vocalize them in speech.
They mock us though French continues to mute and nasalize. At this rate
Within a few centuries French will be the only living language entirely mute.
But that's another point. Besides the French, land of Marcel Marceau
Are the acknowledged masters of mime. They'll get by just fine.
Tourette's Syndrome is a terrible affliction. Tirets Syndrome is far worse:
The stubborn unwillingness to use hyphens when making compound French words!
And as Voltaire before me, I have flown the coup, you might say, to England, liberal England
Where men are free to use hyphens liberally. And so I clerk beside Stearns bitterly
Till that day when France receives the light, a hyphenated beam of revelation --
Dot, dash, dot, dash, hyphens but a dash, period.
Vowels are female letters, open like womb; males are consonants;
The Hebrews have all consonants, the misogynists, except Aleph
Is really a vowel left unspoken.
“Shut up bitch,” as you might expect from misogynists.
Hebrew ends with a 't' sound, and the cross leaves off to start the New Testament.
Greeks, misogynists too but much charmed by witch and goddess, not as much;
Alpha and omega, begins and ends with a vowel.
Omicron and Omega, two O's, Oh my!
Roma splits the difference: start vowel and end consonant, the z,
Half of the Nazi swastika, macho revolt against feminist cant.
Letters 26, oh, no! Half of weeks and deck of cards,
We could easily go for 52 and drop upper and lower case.
Fit just fine on keyboard, and spoken dictation the coming thing.
Now homeward my thoughts turn as the sailor home from sea,
The 26 letter typist home for tea, clear fast food wrappers, lights
Her stove, and lays out food microwave bowls.
Out of her window perilously tilted her
A/C, but under English sun, if crashed not much ado.
But its her allergies you see. Maybe better an air purifier?
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Pantyhose, slippers, blouses and bras.
I, Tiret-si-as, old frog with wrinkled man-boobs
Espied the scene, and foretold the rest --
I too awaited the expected mule.
He, the y
oung man, carbuncular with gems, arrives
A small house agent's clerk, with one cold stare
One of the low on whom insurance sits
As a made man in a Mafia/judge arranged scam
(He ain't doing time. Pass go; go directly to community chest.)
The time is now propitious, he guesses,
The deal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavors to engage her conversation
Which is much unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once:
“So, Pirate Jenny, what think you this life of crime?”
“Ah, my stash continues to build. My little cottage
In Devon awaits with dwindling mortgage.
This dreary flat, sitting on my arse typing
My circulation impairing, standing at the copier,
Some nabob nigger with condescending air.
'You little English lily, your pasty legged clots
Of varicosity! How disgusting!'
“If seized by white slavers, I'd gloat in his disgust
At my varicosities. But it's not so bad, and my escape
To retire still young, my country cottage airs.
Pirate Jenny, why it's English tradition,
And I don't even have to go to sea.
I might suffer from mal de mer or maybe not.
I shall rent a sailboat on that lovely little pond
Just down the road of my lovely with Devon cottage.
I shall take up fishing, rent a rowboat, buy a gun;
Hunt for grouse, pick berries on the shore, learn
All about mushrooms, plant a garden, a small one,
Buy a horse, bounce my English bottom round about.
If a lady passes in greeting, I will put on my vilest
Liverpool, East End dialect, mix them all together.
What would she know, a grin with delight at her
Condescending air. I did not take up a life of crime
To be looked down on by snotty ladies.”
Exploring glances encounter no defense:
“You got any kinky girlfriends or acquaintances
Looking for dinner, show and 100 quid?”
His vanity requires a response
And she makes a welcome note of his indifference.
“Ask Bob in the mail room.”
(And I Tiret-si-as have foresuffered all
Enacted in the closet behind this divan or bed
I who have visited Thebes on holidays, and walked
Among the tombs of Greeks, for 5 quid
Travel expense, Sunday dinner and a shag
Watch over my comrade English bird for
Deals sometimes go sour, with my Walther at ready,
Speed dial to the police as last resort, and I'm old
And still horny, lonely. We talk of hyphens;
She knows a little French. Je l'adore, un peu. [trans. I adore her, a bit.]
She bestows one final patronizing kiss
And I grope my way out, finding the stairs unlit.
She turns a moment and looks in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed protector and old lover;
Her brain allows one naked thought to oblige her:
“Well now that's one more war won: and I'm glad it's done.”
When lovely woman stoops to conquer penury
(Even though showing signs of varicosities)
Paces about the room gainfully, vaulting proceeds carefully
She smooths her siren hair with contemplative hand
And enters a ledger entry to her well hid palm pilot.
“This musical swept down upon me from above
And along the Strand up Queen Victoria Street.
O, City, city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public fountain, lowly tames the ear
The pleasant voice of angels singing by lyre
Amid the clatter and the chatter from without
And St. Magnus Martyr bells enjoining well
Inexplicable splendor of celestial music, bright as gold
Jesus, Jesus burning bright
In the forests of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could heal this varicose cry?
What dread Father, What the Mother
Dare stay this curse reprieve? Not I
Did he whose blood did flow so free
Not have power to heal? You see.
Pirate Jenny learn tai chi, the dog, stretch or two;
On the job Pilates, why sell your soul?
A bit of wisdom here and there
From China, India, America too.
Price of a CD, a class or two at worst
Even Jane Fonda might save your soul.
Though I wouldn't count on it, a bit too frenetic.
The river sweats away
Oil and tar like morning dew
The garden barges drift
With the turning tide of life
Wide to Narrow, straight and true
To leeward, sells produce in Southwark fruit bars.
Green sailed grocer pier to pier
The kennel barges wash
Wash drifting dogs.
Down Greenwich reach
To the Isle of Dogs.
River winds but not time
River winds but not time
River winds but not time
Straight and true
Into the blue
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala
“Gams and lusty pees.
Highbury walls free. Richmond to Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I leaked on knees
Supine on the brick of a narrow alley.”
“My feet wet at Moorgate, and my fly
Over my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’
I made a comment. Public pay toilets, à l'allemand?”
“On Margate Sands.
I can pee free
Nothing for something.
The broken oyster shells on dirty sands.
My people bumble people who expect
Something.”
la la
From Roma then I came
Soaking washing raining rinsing
O Lord Thou cleanest me out
O Lord Thou cleanest
raining
IV. Life by Water
Jonah the Hebrew dad, a fortnight raised,
Recalls the cry of gulls, and the deep sea tell
Of the prophet and gain.
A rock boy arose asea
Fleshed his bones in heartbeats. As he rose to tell
He rent the stage of his age and youth
Proclaiming the war whoop.
Gentile or Jew
O you who break the wheel of fortune and look to heavenward,
Consider Jonah, who was once fallen and dead as you.