MP Powers, 01/12

Französischer Dom Rapture Overture

The night is a bursting juicy sour green apple. But I am stuck
here inside your heart-shaped womb, listening
to my mind and all its driving
orchestras. I have seen somewhere a raven
that changes into a dove that changes back
and takes the dark Berlin sky. It soars over a Gothic
church, lands on the dome & I am it and it is me,
courting tramp disguises, dressed in my purple threadbare
snakewine coat and sarcophagi tie.
I scale the steep snowy arc, my trembling fingers
rummaging deep through my five-fold trouser
pockets. I turn them inside out, turn them again;
currency has no meaning here, Time no religion
or language left to speak. A Matisse crucifix
on a gold watchchain blossoms into a fake
Japanese tree. The ancient Greek poem I’ve become
reinvents itself in Sinhalese.
None of the parishioners can see
me up here, they can only hear
or imagine or feel my 3rd century
hurdygurdy gurgling
something like suicidal hymns & I am drunk up on the muzik.



I used to be an incurious
clotheshorse; now I am a judus
tree crawling with chinese
bird spiders. the evening
slithering out in front of me
as I stroll along in my
battered star-of-persia hat,
my second-hand saskatoon

berry jacket and garlic
mustard trousers. I’ve got a crucifix
rheumatism theme
on my chest. my wine-shot
and blancmange eyes
glazing under the moon.

it’s made of bone
cancer and casts down
an enormous
head of light. it feels
up the alleyway and the stage
i’m dying
on. my anxieties dreams fears rage

and the greek
chorus leading me on.
my pants look really hairy
in this light.
my mind
utters a disembodied hog’s head.

Promote. Poetry.
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