"Death is but a sleep"
quaint rationalization
even to Revolutionaries.
Think of Robespierre
holding his bleeding jaw
or Marat outside--
eyeing the inscription,
scofula no longer distracting while
tepidly emptying bath water.

2
Dreams, poetry of painting,
deathly pastel shades alongside
granite canyons
entwined with rosebuds and leaves--
bone horseshoes clanking in the dark.

3
Catch basin, drainage ditch
upon which the raspberry
parts its tendrils and
human remains, the loathing
of the living ("not dead yet...."
...appropriate obscenity:)
scrawled on one Victorian
mortuary, windows knocked out,
coffins in full view a
hand's reach away on a dare
dignitaries in a pile pried loose;
one, few years hence across
the Channel, sworn enemy
to the French.

[32]

No open barge
crowded with nameless waifs
or junks in a teeming harbour--
just odours spilling from
a back alley,
stair wells littered with cheap saki
bottles, one propped
to rifle the door.

[33]

The way I figure it, a number of people are
out of control at any given time ...
gin rummy & hockey notwithstanding.

Mickey bottles and varicose veins
are sure signs of indulgence
as are, proof-positive, speed-traps &
roll your own Black Cat.

Sure 'nuff, even Sunday driving stands
at the motor edge of frenzy while
Mom's apple pie is little more than just peaches & cream
home baked greed.

Take stock car racing or the trots, Little Orphan Annie
Comics or Budweiser. Vice, like charity, starts at home.

Each curtails a larger problem and self worship
begins the moment your zipper opens.

[35]

Mood food. In deep, deep water
without the thought of water bottom,
I thought of you.

Sous la peau rouge,
Chartreuse, I thought
of you.

Dans le cafe du paradis,
ile au emeraude.
Cascades aux ecrivisses
la belle aux Bois dormant.
Tir a l'arc, volcon.

Precious little majesty to Words
nor necromancy of place names,
ma douce.

Partout, je te vous.

[36]

Lingerie,
black pumps
a navel creamy enough
to drown a kitten--
the clothes assemble
in microwave fashion
--crackle of fire--
the silver pants zoom across legs
with curves so caress bound
a formula racing driver
might tumble.

As eyes rise
in jade lantern face
& hair is brushed
with all sheen aside,
the lady is more than
a Godiva
or Goldwyn-Mayer cinematic production,
this oasis of sparks,
twin peaks of McKinley-Matterhorn fame,
her calendar of words
pulling Oil of Olay
& perfumed honey thru
each studied remark.

[37]

The night before ...
sultry Martinique, a
tortoise shell cat
climbed, lap to pipe,
amid curbs of orange smoke.

2
Mount Pelée, a
smoking hard hat
with the candle-wax of longing
gutting in paraffin for
30,000 souls sent to the Crematorium
her harbour hissing
lava foam;
even coffee beans fused into
other metal bits, a
danse macabre twittering machine,
(nature au contraire),
tortoise shell improviso with
splotched colours weaving dawn's light
& feline crouching.

3
--the curl of her island's paws
lanced in heat,
brief wisps tugging Pelée's
synopsis (dark & smouldering), with
cat eyes glowing
up the mountain dark
into vegetative whiskers.

4
Pull of my pipe full leap of centuries
before the bite of the stem
dumped fire again

[38]

With the smile of morning
in her purse,
the dark laughter of her
cat napping
in the crevice, half-alert,
Martinique (angelique)
on padded paws
climbs from night.

I saw her hair-brush
the lava to warm the bay,
crinkle little St. Pierre
jammed into one
parking lot, volcanic embrace.

In the little museum
--the holocaust cenotaph--
Nature pared essentials to the bone,
a cauldron of smoke
peers from old photographs
to cement (danse macabre)
bric à brac ivy/stone and
coffee beans wedded
in grandeur
fission-fusion-froideur
resembling masses of bees,
grotesqueries & beards
upstaging even Miro & the distant surrealists;
where reality masked vampire fiction to
roll sulphuric heat toward belches of
St. Pierre's prison.

And Cygnet
(his name close in French to "Swan")
leg-irons)
(subterranean chamberling peeking out),
undaunted solitary survivor--
the bars on his charnel house
were the fingers of God
pointing the way free.

[39]

Fantasy, Capri. The edge of a pillow.
Certain words--murmur, seashells.
A face beckoning thru time, lacy windows with
purple shades simultaneously drawn.
Tears of gold. Love signs,
glass of champagne.

A tree of hemlock nearby. A delightful print
tablecloth that signals the breeze. The courtier
in fancy dress. Twin bottles of vintage wine abreast
rider and horse.

Potables. A blue eggshell. The sun stirring Virginia Creeper
that moves in unison with the wind.

Electra and electricity, the current that prods the mind.

[40]