Christmas for Andrei Tarkovsky

You do not need to rush to say goodbye
and the poet stands on the edge of the platform
beginning to sway uneasily at the start of the poem
and from the bakery, the vomit of Christmas
jingle bells, jingle bells, unceasing, and a fairy
on a tree, plastic, blue eyes, cupboard blonde,
stands with a wand to wave over his childhood,
a yakusa a ferret type, leafs through a magazine
full of tatoos, what else would he want to read!
his body tight with the intensity of a wound
up violence, a malicious stereotype ready to injure
You do not need to rush to say goodbye
and in the Priory looming up in the horizon,
the interior echoes with the footsteps of the pious
and essentially middleclass, make the sound of lips
smacking with turkey and desire, oh Christmas,
customers from a pachinko sloop out like dogs
caught shitting on mother's best green carpet
and the waves, the waves, a leitmotif of the poet,
crash and crash against Christmas, breaking Colonel
Sanders and sweeping away the obnoxious carols
like Silent Night, two sardines in brine,
then around thirteen, around the strike of that line
You do not need to rush to say goodbye.


Stephen Pain.
-----Original Message-----
差出人 : pain <[log in to unmask]>
宛先 : [log in to unmask] <[log in to unmask]>
日時 : 1999年12月12日 17:07
件名 : poem: administration


>a bit late as the initial thread is lost in cyberspace
>
>
> administration
>
> What is it now? The arched eyebrows
> move in tandem with the flaws
>and the glasses the open frog-leg strut*
> of temples gone long before
>mock the introduction which I read
>to those all assembled, and now
> quickly I go through my delivery
> of the classic Freudian slip
>and upon her look my very being trips.
>
>identity card personality pressed like
>Victorian flowers for all of those hours
>the blush on your face painted by her
>taunt KNOW THY PLACE with others
>she might kow-tow but in your presence
>she simply doesn't know how and in the
>absence of civility she practices
>the dark art of incivility by dropping
>a please she can like the vixon mark
>her territory with a scent that tells all
>in the room, she's in charge of this low-life
>this miscreant. this drip of humanity.
>
>*found in Buddhist temples
>
>



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