Trampoline​

A girl was born and baptized Trampoline

Unlike most kids, she wasn’t wicked or mean

Unlikely beautiful she always will and always has been

A girl came under the name Trampoline

Like a desert, the flower doesn’t fit the scene

She kept mostly quiet as a dream within a dream

She kept her petals rolled up in her sleeves

A girl became a woman known by Trampoline

I never saw her speak but I swear I heard her read

She had never said a word as a baby never screamed

As if she existed in some other realms it seemed

Built a fortress around herself with walls made out of steel

A woman so superior still named Trampoline

Her hair was long and red her eyes a violent green

When she picked apples in her garden she wore high heel

And when bathing in the lake she left there with the apples peeled

The woman breathed a silence yet efficient as the wheel

She was tall but yet still so small it looked unreal

In front of the cross and crucifix she bent and kneeled

All the way up until the papers from the city learned her deal

A girl came, and woman passed her tomb spells Trampoline

She was wounded by a gunman who claims he saw her bleed

But it was not in liquid, it was not red and not concealed

On her back being examined by the best forensic team

They all claimed her blood was airborne like music so redeemed

None gave any interviews, some switched churches but the sighting sure made all of them

Believe

How To Move The Island

(…Out of admiration for a scene in a well known tv series)

The mush mush moist jungle near the station Orchid
The jungle surrounds it now after what happened at the Pearl, broken.

These are the steps you must take, whomever to this is concerned.
These steps and exactly these if you not by now have learned.

There’s en elevator, guarded by a hijacker. If you are
And the generator takes you down with a lifejacket if you are
Who you say you are. In that I do believe.
May the south pacific greave if I’m mistaken taken you for who you say you are.

He’ll let you pass, he will not be interested in you. Who really is that really anyway?
In this tall grass.

Well inside youll press the button of iron
It’s engraved with a symbol of a lion
Press it one time and wait.
Press again, not too late
And it will take you down
It tastes like being reborn
It will take some time
Well hang on

It will be an old gitter that doesn’t automatically open
It’s glistening with glitter don’t soap it, throw your rope in

Try to make it to the hook, open your eyes, you have to look.
Everything is made of steel, not the bricks, is that the way you feel?
Once hooked upon, then just like in Swan, you will se saint-john

At least what’s left of his old fragment, can you imagine?
Being dead before time, and still never miss rhyme

“What’s the secret of the sphinx?”
Ask that question and saint john
will just blink

The gitter door opens when he’s gone again
He dont’t have time for all his agony, loneliness and pain

Ascend into the room and light a fire
Cause where we are going
Is as cold as the Grimphen Mire

You’ll find wood in piles, neatly lined in aisles
You brought your matches right?

Proceed down a ladder older as the be in the sentence
“Let there be Light! Climb down in your vengeance

I know it’s a long ride.

On the bottom there reigns a darkness
Like the bottom of the well, completely artless

Light the lamp you will need it
Down here you’ll get seasick
Let there be light
now pride, so bright, so healthy and damp

You see the horizontal steering-wheel
With the squeeks you will just have to deal
Ascend the wooden ancient work of art
Grab on hard, hold on tight-

and the island moves quicker than a dart

To somewhere not even saint benjamin knows
That doesn’t matter, now again you’re lost.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Wall

Have I gone missing like the good doctor Holmes in Sir Doyle’s futuristic tale of universities, mystical chants or disappeared into the flag without value flying in the wind like dense teeth, like some black jungle smoke from the papal conclave after the first Armenian presidential general election sings me into another vision before midnight on this midwinter tuberculosis night, a vision is shown me as I ascend my horse, my staff, my wife, my children, as I descend from all of my nightmares to unlimited freedom. Freedom shapes itself brilliantly chameleon like bits of spider web before me, ancient musical instruments play in the distance

On the back of my horse at the speed of nakedness as only freedom unlimited can provide I hear the melody of the song of the first earthly dreamt dream of man, the strings speak as if they had their tongues cut off, distant, blurry, slow and with hesitation before and after and during every syllable,

become the church, the fireplace, the ashtray gasoline cities and all the time the music follows me as if to whisper in my ear; trespass, my friend, poor over yourself once but not now, choose something from the highest point of the land, raw meat, gold and silver, diamonds and pearls, or merely a dead cadaver half eaten mole but not yet, after this first of my nearly never ending wall of tasks.

Deliver. Deliver. Deliver. Galloping over desolate deserts and thick thundra’s full of ice the color of rice, the color of surrender, more white than the actual color of surrender, but this permafrost over these steppes fakes not only their caves, their bearded women, their wooden lake, their plastic sanctuary and ice-cold fires, yes; they also fake their whiteness.

After listening to a sudden shattering of a shatter of a glass like the whole of the moon had come crashing down before my very eyes, somebody, some woman comes towards me, and she carries with her bells, bells that chime of independence, bells that chime of phony and ersatz ways of tricking jokers and jesters and magicians and talk show hosts into their endless dwelling and coal mining caves one hundred thousand miles below the frost, she comes towards me. Is that a song her mouth is forming? It’s getting colder, so cold that even this Lady of Nine of gasoline and serpentine, of oil, of wood, and incense sticks forms? Is that for me or simply to not make her stone cold lips freeze making it impossible to eat through mouth or nose? It’s getting colder darker, more black, in the middle of white. I slow down.

She slows down. I grab my staff, she grabs her wool overcoat and we pause our motion just for as long as to enjoy the moment, then after hours of visions and faking and numbness of cold we lay eyes on each other and at that moment our horse vanishes, like the great vanishing point, into the night which could be day because it all and everything looks the same here, we both know, and we both forget, when we meet, I kneel, she prays, I eat, she stays. We light a fire. Not sharing one single word.

How far do I have to tread? She begs for my mercy asks me in nearly her own voice if she can come along on my wall of tasks and help me do them quicker and more efficient as a result of a double cheeseburger inside a globe in some shipwreck, radiance, betrayal, black as ravens uniform eyes she has got without any trace of glitter that provides her mouth never to properly smile before immense pain is released from God know where. She sucks my dick, she cuts off her head in my hands, she shouts, she grunts, she loves, and cooks me a meal of wild goose but I know even one bite is enough to make me into a flat stuntman husband slaving away with rotten teeth with no glory left in any glory hole in the Galaxy, effectively delaying my wall of tasks even more, I cannot accept. I cannot speak. Like some great family secrets sworn to hide I keep my mouth away from fish, from cow, from pork, from, fish, from chicken, from horse, from fish, from deer, from dog, from fish, from the meat of a dying bird with gravy and pommel noisettes. I don’t even have a beer.

Later when she is burning at the stake, I will have to keep my distance to the same fire that made me for a brief ray of time makes me remember warmth, because this fire is as green as the ice is permanent and I could easily drown in the flames together with the beauty, I have no horse, I don’t even have a sip of beer, I just move. Move, be in motion, always, always do not forget to move, said the Ace of Spades and the Alligator in perfect harmony, forming for themselves a howling choir as the clock ticks away around midnight. My internal human clock never fails to surprise, even impress the best of men, but to me I could not have been blessed with a bigger curse, always in motion. Don’t forget to move. So I don’t.

The sun is shining down on the prairie of the land I have reached within the hour of 3, here starts and continues my tasks as they so nicely line up making the great wall of China look like a children’s act, mixed together with my heartbeat the rhythm of the explosives I carry in my belly starts to tick louder, maybe my ears just plays a trick, but as the sun is shining down upon nothing I realize. My first task is done, now I have to set free the demons of the troubled journey posing and yearning to rest in the sand together wind ants, and singing prophet’s, and sexy jesuits and beheaded marqui’es barking from inside my head, desperate to be unleashed out the way they would have been forced in. No, stay in motion. Don’t forget to move. So I don’t, I rise and heads straight for the next tasks hanging on the wall like empty bottles and shells from another Santa Claus drunken and praised my his children towards the edge of how much torture one deadly man indeed can handle.

Next task. So far, so good. So what.