“Are You Happy Being A Schmuck? Lou Reed, Sydney 1975”

No rights: homage.

I am a part-time many things, but a full-time rock n’ roll animal.

While I am on record as not enjoying hearing musicians talk about their music, there are several notable exceptions that make the rule.

Neil Young, Johnny Lydon, Michael Stipe, Joni Mitchell, David Bowie.

But, my absolute favorite musician interviewee is Lou Reed.

This captures some of his essence.

This captures all the bizarreness of journalism and media.

A Bath for archimedes

Ardor is ard(ours).

Come, I shall draw a bath for you.

Two glasses of Malbec.

Close your eyes and speak the words you hear.

I wish to take diction.

Victorian modernity mentality bound, hound.

Smile creeping in small doses.

Your eyes become 30 years younger.

You speak words softly.

Steadily.

Slowly

But, only at first.

My pen’s scratch against the paper changes. Surface tension of woven papyrus shifting with

Variations in the

coarseness of the grain.

The way my scrawls sound is how you felt when you wore your wool sweater against your bare skin.

White sox lay discarded in the corner.

Shea and lavender scents.

My body quickens at the gravity you begin using, speaking ecstatic poetry.

Body rush. Pert and tightening

to hear you speak in wild abandon, surrendering.

Catchling calling.

You enter, please. Come to me catchling.

I hear you in the forest, leaves skulking.

I smell you just as before.

A little sleep following a long night jolts my mind into these new, waking dimension/s.

I turn

to look at you.

And, I know that I want.

I want with wanton desires.

This kindled flame did fell me before the universe in prostration to the sensation stirring in me.

I shall know you when I see you again. I see you everywhere.

My surrender to pursue the mastery of your pleasure and discomfort.

Your stoic stillness and

those heavy shoulders.

My reserved disposition conceals me

as I see past veils, into swirling thoughts of desires to devour.

Delectable with shameful kindness.

To tell you:

I want to.

I want, too.

I too want to.

Desire wanting after waiting

demands:

be wrapped in gossamer as I

shake you loose from yourself so you can breathe deeply

before me.

To Nick a Horse’s Tail? Parçigal writes

I it is,

writing to you as A’ licentious Alice, a chalice, from AL by way of LA origin-ally, with houndstooth donned:

It is the sense of loving the moment. It is remembering the sensation of meta/physical love and then remembering the sensation of how it feels to lose it. That ache. That sense of how many times will they wreck me?. How many times will I play the Fool?

Again and again.

Why lose the Fool of yourself? If I killed the Fool inside to be hip, where did the real me go? With whom do you share your inner fool? Can guarding it be anything authentic?

In this mp3 and streaming world, a mix CD burned,

a cassette tape made,

breaks my heart right open. Is that why we have one?

This is not sadness; it is a necessary devouring of self.

A Happy Death.

My existential orientation continuously regenerates as at the point of origin, and I can be painfully patient; but,

does your silence actually speak: you are only useful until used?

Bemused at the thought. At you. By you.

And, a comma can change the entire meaning of a sentence: I say.

I know your way.

I knew before you showed me.

You play semantics and fancy it is a game?

<>

Splayed pieces parsed in preparation of a preheating oven.

The intimacy of this is but the sense of mind behind it.

I understood that years ago. I learnt it in a dream.

Tonight, I feel my patience hotly boil, as though I must make it into impatience simply to show you my elasticity.

You say: I’ve been here before.

So? I’ve been here forever: I reply,

Curtly but with a curtsey.

Here, where the desire to conduct currents raises meta/physical energy in the nerve endings concealed under my skin.

What a waste to not make use of it.

I would waste that energy on you alone.

Waste it in the face of

your silence.

I will howl until you howl back, to punish you.

Does that spook you,

you ghost of the man of May?

Giggle-snarl.

I espied your inconsistency immediately since taking my flight of departure.

Curious.

It was my mistake. I should not have allowed you to let me leave. I thought I was being kind, but I was only being polite. Stay. That’s what I really meant to say or do this time.

I abide still. I stoke fires. I test the limit.

I care for you. That is all. I can unconditionally hold you(,) dear.

My love is not tethered to needing love.

My devotion is my loyalty to my beloved. You endeared yourself to me.

I desire you. Now you must suffer the cost of your own, odd charms.

It is no matter of ‘should’ you, but rather, ‘could’ you

tell me true?

If you could, I hold you(,) dear.

If you could not, I hold you(,) dear.

<>

There is heavy magic in your air and I am magnetized.

Some integral things reduce to simple vibrations, to sounds, to sounds like bays, being transmitted through our air.

I wrote all these words first

in longhand to show you how inane I can be.

How frighteningly unafraid

you could be,

should you so choose, ewe.

Or, perhaps, your hands are tied.

Perhaps you have no choice but to be so.

I learn the record of your timeframes

still.

Deliciously diabolical it seems: both your pleasure and your desperation.

Does it make you forget which side of the road on which you ought to be driving?

Were you just checking out your mojo?

Taking me for a ride in your fast car?

There. Am I impressed?

Hum.

Good question.

Can you answer this: if I told you that your heart belongs to me now, would you hold your head up high in the air?

Could you even if you wanted?

Could you even say if you didn’t?

The difference between ‘can’ and ‘may.’

Simon says he went birdwatching but only saw his own feet.

Not many birds to be seen in that scene?

Just grounded, flightless birds, you adorable dodo.

<>

I saw a porcupine ripping out its own quills,

one by one by one,

by one at a time.

Onlookers horrified at the sight of so much blood.

The porcupine stabs them while they are stunned into stillness by the reverie-stupor of their surprise.

Slaying ampersand slain.

I see your look of discomfort at this friction.

<>

There was a slight drizzle of rain

as I laid myself

down to sleep early this morning.

I imagined how lovely it would be to

put my hand about your pelvic flair.

The jut of your hipbone.

Cup it like an anchor to

hold me fast

in what dreams may come.

[☆]

The night sky was so poorly lit, that I could see

moths flying away from it.

Fleeing the lack of light is not the same as seeking a light.

I raise my lantern for you tonight.

If it is lit

it is done so through and not by me.

But, for you is for whom I raise it.

A beckoning through a beacon.

Here is your

sea shore.

Fall, like a wave, upon me.

Surrender your summer-self and embrace the autumnal ewe, you.

Watch “TOOL – Fear Inoculum (Audio)”

No rights: homage to a band I have loved for two decades.

Giggle. Despite myself.

New track released today.

Get the inoculation.

Get their music. Listen to it as an album.

Seriously. Howl excited am I? Too excited.

Parçigal Passionately Possessed

My deer, stag,

I it is.

It is I binding you in this ecstatic existence, suspended between

the Star and the Satellite.

The sun and the moon; yet, it is you they call Janus.

I am the feminine, arched gate-way granting the descent of your

spirit into matter anew.

I do not redeem, I conduct currents.

The sea of PARChVAL is the conjunction of /K/ and /C/.

I am the sea, KC, the reason

a /z/ becomes /c/

Parzival becomes Parçigal.

Congruence creates /Ch/

Why do you think I remember my name is also /Alice/, at least sometimes?

KC becomes Ch(eth) and conjuncts to /Alice/ through a confluence of circumstances causing me to recollect that I am

A ChAlice of Ecstasy. A grail.

GRAL, deer Parzival.

moon and sun

known to gods and, simultaneously, known to k/NO/w-One.

Socratic circles unaware of one another.

Let us ignore the voyeurs gawking at love’s blazon painted on our lips

We exhibit authenticity in current, capacity, and conduction without being simple exhibitionists.

They tricked you into believing you are the monster and me a prize if pure.

Howl silly they were.

I want your masculine beauty, that prettiness you cannot see,

to come

to love

the feral beast I conceal in my hotly, howling heart.

I show her to few outside the eyes of ewe.

Come

sit beside me and show me ewers.

Let me call you a pretty thing, fellow.

This gal knows objectification as well as the absence of it. All gals do.

It becomes a bore, sweet sorrel.

They taught you the trick of objectifying

Let us trade places, like swapping clothes.

You may become the direct object of the verb I enact.

I will do the work because I want to see if it makes you squirm.

To see if it makes me squirm to do.

The embarrassment of being kindly admired.

The sensation of feeling yourself being eaten by the eyes of another.

Empty yourself so that I can see you better.

So, I can better show you yourself as my eyes see you.

My mirror may reflect the unexpected.

Do not spook, unless you must,

when you discover you are the Dove and I am the female goat.

Secret she-satyr.

Why do I think we should go on?

Because what else is there to do?

As far as I can tell, ain’t nothing else happening at all.

Shall we find something which makes us belly-laugh?

Care to cackle along with me?

Cast upon me your strange glances, my deer-man.

My irises drink them like wine intoxicating my soul.

Straddle two shores of consciousness:

with one foot in every-day

and one in ecstasy.

In a balanced imbalance.

Our wabisabi is our Tao.

Tell them that they may call us by the handles

Priapus & Pearl.

Those dummies don’t know that my mantle is reversible.

They only see the dark side, the light side; and they leap to the conclusion

it must be so below, on the underside that is hidden from view,

as it is above.

It is red where the two sides meet.

The red turns green when I see you;

although you cannot see it,

you can feel it as a sudden drop in ambient temperature.

Being bespoke, not beholden.

Not needing, choosing.

Bound in the unbinding of wearing each other’s invisible maverick’s branding.

They will know us by

howl freely

we move as ourselves.

Our brand is authenticity having no mark burned into the skin.

A silence screaming: simply see and know.

Be still for me and feel the essence of softness?

Make your hardness melt into delicious vulnerability?

I will call you /Sweet Thing/ in such moments, derelict deer.

And, I will wonder at those instants when your eyes cannot meet mine.

I will call them up to me without words.

Your eyes will go wide, then soften to

see me look upon you with such hard eyes.

This is how

my femininity penetrates you.

All this I can do while

taking care

to not stomp the little flowers growing underfoot.

These are the open secrets of our Tao.

Inner sanctum unseen by the sleepwalkers.

Methodology provoking zealous jealousy in awoken ones.

They see us and cannot remember

if love differs from devotion.

I can show you how to move mountains.

It is as simple as letting yourself hold my hand.

I hold the world for ransom when I take your face between my palms.

Unspoken psalms.

What comes next

be-comes

unspeakable.

Just like Tao cannot be apprehended through words

(only hinted at)

It can only be obtained

through direct experience.

Unposted Letters Containing Letters.

I found an old letter

I had

written you.

Unposted despite having postage.

I let it age for you, ewe.

I could no longer read my own hand.

In my cans, no-one speaks, as I scribble this idyll for the popular, un-idle, idol.

Casting pods like fishing nets

sewn by hand.

Longhand and cool-handed.

Nothing in my hands.

A

Little something kept on-hand.

The noon approaches and I remember the rattlers.

Snakes giving fair warning: kindly, don’t tread on me.

Whispers of wisteria wander.

Shouting sprouts ready to be snapped then snatched from stems.

Quiet quilts covering made-up beds.

Panting pansies parched for water to partake.

What’s the plan?: he asks.

Wait and see?: I sheepishly speculate.

Why do you do what you do?: he asks.

Because, I can. The difference between ‘could’ & ‘should’ still alludes, though.: I say.

I walk the aisles of miles between your vines. I share the plants’ oxygen and they rebirth my breath.

Gaseous exchanges of my alveoli.

Nitrogen; Oxygen; Carbon Dioxide.

Periodic tabling with held breath.

Breathe, you; I hold my breath, not for you, dear sorrel,

I hold my breath for naught

other than myself,

for my next step.

I take the rite of alternating left foot/right foot,

Of being pedestrian.

I told him: I’m better on my feet.

The voice came through my cans

and said: I function better with the sun in my eyes.

I misheard it as something filthy and smile in realization of my mistake.

My eyes are moons whence comes all of tomorrow’s noons.

Day-suns.

Ræ-moons

floating in bluə-day skies,

stormy and grəy, like your

Sky-eyəs over a

choppy, white-capped səa.