TS Broadside Edition - March 2001




      3 Poems
      - By John Birkbeck

      2 Poems
      - By Tom Blessing





Page 24          Contents           Page 26



    HE HERMIT KING

    He sits in his musty chamber
    with a dog for unconditional love,
    a pair of slatterns for lust,
    goats for milk and cheeses,
    slaves to manage the household,
    and more slaves to tend the fields and forests,
    and to gather grapes to press into wine;
    and twelve disciples to ensure his posterity,
    courtiers to flatter him-- and scribes
    to take down his tortured thoughts
    and to endure his capricious tantrums
    which he gathers into volumes
    and scatters to the four winds,
    and thus to the far ends of the world;
    he wants fame only on paper
    and not to shine in celebrity.



    THE KLEIN JAR

    Myself
    loop-legging
    aimless streets
    and faceless
    buildings
    facing me;
    the surface
    of one is the
    inside of
    the outside
    of another one
    next to it
    like some sort
    of Picasso land
    come to life.

    A woman's
    voice sings
    somewhere
    inside or
    outside-- her
    rich contralto
    irretainable
    in my ears,
    ingesting the
    harmonics
    of the melody
    heard and seen
    and felt from
    inside out.



    COMEDIAN

    A funny man
    or a clown
    is a man
    who is mostly
    pissed off,
    a magnet
    for trouble
    not of his
    own making.

    The worst things
    happen to the
    wrong people
    by surprise
    by no justice;
    evil is rewarded
    and good is
    despised as
    weakness.

    The comedian
    cries in solitude
    so as not to
    become narcotised
    by mere mirth.


    - John Birkbeck 2001



    of penguins and dead poets


    i guess i'd like to know,
    corso, if the milkman
    had delivered that penguin dust
    would you have lived
    a few more years?

      in memory of Gregory Corso, beat poet, died 2001





    an old story


    here
    in this no man's land
    death comes
    from above
    below
    and cold rain
    falls
    on whitening bones

    there is no glory
    no martyr's welcome
    in flesh blown
    from breath

    this is war
    this is death

    even the lice
    now starve
    in the blood muddy
    ditches

    the dying gibber
    and moan
    rifles rust
    and the seasons
    turn their slow course
    while songs of
    christ's birth and death
    echo
    hollow voices
    inside cracked skulls

    flowers
    will not remember
    for god has cursed
    hero and coward
    and death
    makes his choice
    ignoring prayer
    in the bullet
    chipping dawn

    only the buzzing flies
    celebrate
    our demise

    - Tom Blessing 2001


Edited By Jim Chandler & Haze McElhenny


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