Sitting here alone, in peace
With my private sadness
Bared of the acquirements
Of the mind’s eye
Vision reversed, upended,
Seeing only the holdings
Inside the walls of me,
Feeling the roots that bind me,
To this mere human tree
Thrashing to free myself,
Knowing the success
Of these burstings
Shall be measured
By the fury
Of the fall
To eternal peace
The end of All….
Reference:
Bob Kaufman
String-chewing bass players,
Plucking rolled balls of sound
From the jazz scented night
Feeding hungry beat seekers
Finger shaped heartbeats,
Driving ivory nails
Into their greedy eyes.
Smoke crystals, from the nostrils
Of released jazz demons,
Crash from foggy yesterday
To the light
Of imaginary night….
Copyright 1959, by Bob Kaufman.
Reference:
Bob Kaufman
My body is a torn mattress,
Disheveled throbbing place
For the comings and goings
Of loveless transients.
The whole of me
Is a unfinished room
Filled with dank breath
Escaping in gasp to nowhere.
Before completely objective mirrors
I have shot myself with my eyes,
But death refused my advances.
I have walked on my walks each night
Through strange landscapes in my head.
I have brushed my teeth with orange peel,
Iced with cold blood from the dripping faucets.
My face is covered with maps of dead nations;
My hair is lettered with frying ragweed.
Bitter raisins drip haphazardly fr
