Keston,
Dr Mephisto is a work in progress, and a very large change in direction for
my writing. For some time I posted pieces (early versions) as they emerged
on John Kinsella's list. There's almost a book length collection now, but
the pieces need a fair bit of re-working before they're finished. Thank you
for your valuable comments. Here's a few 'repeats' if you missed them first
time round.
12 KOPFE
the butchers' heads are sleeping under fished-out light
Mephisto quite shambolic beside the verdigris of frozen mugs
the muted gnawing from our mustachioed patresfamilias
waist deep among darling teeth the goatees in pert folds
quite comfy combing the oily hairdos among each smashing dad
(asbestos dust slow in the culvert once again)
all the interfering vistas tuning in to Mephisto's bones
a racket dimmer than before weaker than before voices
crackling like bacon on winter streets transmitting
exhausted nights and guzzling at the party fringes
Mephisto taps his cane and farts beside such notions
bored with the circuitous putsch the absolutely naked
torpor where mouths divvy up miracles for the people
each ravenous head purporting new customs for hygiene
purloined gossip in each furlough's nightsong and cold wires
the echoes beyond cubicles and bloody senators
it's all a case of balding scalps and eyes back here
winsome gazing under gorgeous beams of light
umber mountains cobalt mountains black mountains
each clarifying brow above angled cheeks still cute alas
harping on about allegiances and the patina of empty shoes
17 THE CRUCIFIXION
Surfing as I'd known
because the kerfuffle
I'd caused by steppin in
here to confine mysel
to vinegar and shoe laces was fine
I'd taken mysel off
to the dun tanks long afore
those half-fish scaley things
sommat in that I guess dancin
thet procession all fluke
an jes urbane enough
in the muted tones so I gather
for Zanzibar or somesuch extravaganza
and that perfumed vertiginous whoring
oh yeah I skedaddled
all tonsils and no fillip
most queer
is all
jes eat me
for I fume
no docket intended
I int kiddin here
either
[exeunt]
10 THE END
My ending up like Vesalius
it seems, auditing what looks
raw, shored up and inoculated,
dying for a hit as I come
to a halt freeze-framed
below the east side slums
with their little whiff
and puddled ground,
their steel night tingling with
gorgeous wreckage.
Those concrete genuflections,
my old zones still multitudinous
on the blackbird's field of souls.
My local dominatrix squats
to contemplate dimpled vertebrae
with eyes just slits above
a burning ciggy. So I'm murmuring
betrayals in the sodium night
calming our nerves, so to speak,
of watchful demons and liquid panic,
so swanky I've regaled
myself not to mention
the running walls, the cabbage field,
the clanking stove pipes,
and doling out such unconsidered
rapture in my mingy arse.
Just gadding about with this
angling for the grave.
A lover surging in the vigorous
mechanics of the soil. It's true,
you'll come to know
all beauty is butchery.
--
Best
Chris
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The Poetry and Writing of Chris Emery
http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/Square/1664
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