little birds who sing in the night
little mice of the fields, little mice,
stop nibbling, listen to me, the Poet,
I'm talking about a faun, a faun who was crying...
they
aren't listening!
little frogs, charging little frogs,
the color of baby crab, so pretty, so charming
cease for a moment croaking at the edge of the pond
listen to the story of a faun, a lycanthrope...
What's a lycanthrope?
He is a were-wolf, and this one...
but please listen to me... I'm a Poet
couac couac kwissli croak
what is it a poet? Is it good to eat?
They don't listen to me! Moon, oh, beautiful moon,
moon
round as a golden tittie, more beautiful than
the
mistress of Solomon
moon my mother listen to me, I'm a Poet...
Mother, mother, bring me my balls, i left them in
the drawery
yes darling and be quiet your forehead is all
sweaty
I'm the moon
I'm listening to you
John Wieners, "October" The Journal of John Wieners is to be called Scott Street for Billie Holiday 1959:
ReplyDelete*The Waning of the Harvest Moon*
No flowers now to wear at
Sunset. Autumn and rain. Dress in
blue. For the descent. Dogs bark at
the gate. Go down daughter, my soul
heavy with the memory of heaven.
Dogs bark in my ears. My man lost.
My soul is a jangle of lost connections.
Who will play in the light at autumn,
when all men are alone.
Down. And further yet to go.
Words gone from my mouth.
Speechless in the tide.
dromena--the things that are *done*