Project CultCrit Returns Again! -- Submission J
So last week's was pretty obvious. Welcome aboard, Charles Bernstein, by a vote of 3:1!
Onto our next hapless victim!
Libretto
Night is dark
On the streets without names.
Men piss in the ditch, on the toe of their shoes
Thinking it must be rain or hail.
The feet of their women swell like a melon.
Their ironing boards bow
Under the weight of beautiful linen
They do for other women.
Radios are turned up to beat thunder.
Translations of the gospel
Back into tongues.
The tiger lilies' tremble.
Bottles get busted, somebody cut.
A man in a black shirt
Gets off the bus with no suitcase,
Leans on his wife. Umbrella
With a broken spoke.
A girl sits out of doors in her slip.
She turns fourteen, twenty-eight, fifty-six,
Goes crazy.
The saxophone plays it for someone else.
Play hell.
Everything Good
Between Men and Women
has been written in mud and butter
and barbecue sauce. The walls and
the floors used to be gorgeous.
The socks off-white and a near match.
The quince with fire blight
but we get two pints of jelly
in the end. Long walks strengthen
the back. You with a fever blister
and myself with a sty. Eyes
have we and we are forever prey
to each other's teeth. The torrents
go over us. Thunder has not harmed
anyone we know. The river coursing
through us is dirty and deep. The left
hand protects the rhythm. Watch
your head. No fires should be
unattended. Especially when wind. Each
receives a free swiss army knife.
The first few tongues are clearly
preparatory. The impression
made by yours I carry to my grave.
It is just so sad so creepy so beautiful.
Bless it. We have so little time
to learn, so much...The river
courses dirty and deep. Cover the lettuce.
Call it a night. O soul. Flow on. Instead.
And It Came To Pass
This june 3
would be different
Time to draw lines
I've grown into the family pores
and the bronchitis
Even up east
I get by saying goddamnit
Who was that masked man
I left for dead
in the shadow of mt. shadow
Who crumbles there
Not touching anything
but satin and dandelions
Not laid his eyes
on the likes of you
Because the unconnected life
is not worth living
Thorntrees overtake the spot
Hands appear to push back pain
Because no poet's death
Can be the sole author
of another poet's life
What will my new instrument be
Just this water glass
this untunable spoon
Something else is out there
goddamnit
And I want to hear it
Onto our next hapless victim!
Libretto
Night is dark
On the streets without names.
Men piss in the ditch, on the toe of their shoes
Thinking it must be rain or hail.
The feet of their women swell like a melon.
Their ironing boards bow
Under the weight of beautiful linen
They do for other women.
Radios are turned up to beat thunder.
Translations of the gospel
Back into tongues.
The tiger lilies' tremble.
Bottles get busted, somebody cut.
A man in a black shirt
Gets off the bus with no suitcase,
Leans on his wife. Umbrella
With a broken spoke.
A girl sits out of doors in her slip.
She turns fourteen, twenty-eight, fifty-six,
Goes crazy.
The saxophone plays it for someone else.
Play hell.
Everything Good
Between Men and Women
has been written in mud and butter
and barbecue sauce. The walls and
the floors used to be gorgeous.
The socks off-white and a near match.
The quince with fire blight
but we get two pints of jelly
in the end. Long walks strengthen
the back. You with a fever blister
and myself with a sty. Eyes
have we and we are forever prey
to each other's teeth. The torrents
go over us. Thunder has not harmed
anyone we know. The river coursing
through us is dirty and deep. The left
hand protects the rhythm. Watch
your head. No fires should be
unattended. Especially when wind. Each
receives a free swiss army knife.
The first few tongues are clearly
preparatory. The impression
made by yours I carry to my grave.
It is just so sad so creepy so beautiful.
Bless it. We have so little time
to learn, so much...The river
courses dirty and deep. Cover the lettuce.
Call it a night. O soul. Flow on. Instead.
And It Came To Pass
This june 3
would be different
Time to draw lines
I've grown into the family pores
and the bronchitis
Even up east
I get by saying goddamnit
Who was that masked man
I left for dead
in the shadow of mt. shadow
Who crumbles there
Not touching anything
but satin and dandelions
Not laid his eyes
on the likes of you
Because the unconnected life
is not worth living
Thorntrees overtake the spot
Hands appear to push back pain
Because no poet's death
Can be the sole author
of another poet's life
What will my new instrument be
Just this water glass
this untunable spoon
Something else is out there
goddamnit
And I want to hear it