DECONSCRIPTION-Writings of Curtis Cottrell 1980s Poems
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Authentic
Respiration I go from day to day
Wasting myself away
Each breath a gasp
Second from the last
Using up each moment
To the penultimate
second Going to the precipice
With nothing to grasp
This morning we kissed
And the vital surge
Flowed into our veins
To the tops of our
heads And as we mingled juices
An overwhelming joy
Pulsed through being
And I was finally breathing
The fresh clear taste
Of all that is meant
to be This inexpressible
yet articulate rapture Thrills life into the
nerves Charging past nevertheless
Sparking through each
synapse Into the fundament
of copula Am Is Are Brief Blink
Beyond Perched atop the pineal
cone, The inner optic aperture
opens; Slithering aside cerebral
sand, Kundalini cobra arises
erect Shredding the shroud
of illusion. Where are you going; Where have you been?
Are you looking For more than a friend?
A subtle subtext of
desire Kindles cravings to
aspire. Where am I going; Where have I been?
Will this loneliness
ever end? I met you once within
a dream; Satisfied with none
between. Where are we going; Where have we been?
Our destiny is yet
to be seen. We shall reap what
we sow In heaven above as
it is below. Conflict
on the Ecliptic An Inimical Emblem Ophiuchus straddles
the abyss holding high over our heads The ever-writhing carcass
of our scaly adversary With head inclining
toward potent Scorpio And tail trailing into
shrewd Sagittarius. The centaur aims at
another altitude While Heracles' stance
shields the lyre. Can our celestial nemesis
ever be decisively vanquished? Only if a maiden takes
its cinders to the roost of the Sphinx, And scattering the
ashes to waywardly wandering Aeolus Turn away and not look
back. Ecphrastic
Ecstasy Twisted sisters intertwine
Lacing limbs and tresses
Deep chills racing
up the spine With each of their
caresses Weaving flesh in and
out Tongues darting sharply
Eyes rolled back In deepest rapture
Swooning in enthralling
Currents of obsession
Lush patterns rush
Past these figures
in lust Each glint of gold
leaf A wink at the world
Sea snakes slither
and slide Across the abyss inside
A dumb fish glares
From down below Occluded gaze Turned within This is its dream Green Berettes Flaming faggots from
the sky Stupid fools who want
to die More masochistic than
the rest They're the ones called The Green Berettes
Fairy wings across
his chest He can't pass an IQ
test He was farthest from
the best When he joined the
Green Berettes He's turned on by clash
and strife He'll throw away his
worthless life And at home, he'll
stick his wife Up the slit with a
trench knife He's in love with his
M16 Though he's really
a closet queen Killing babies is his
dream And he'll laugh to
hear them scream He sleeps at night
with his gun Drawing blood is so
much fun Find him unarmed and
he'll run And fall down with
pants undone Got his kicks in Vietnam
Can't wait to go to
Iran Or anywhere to do some
harm And watch his buddies
buy the farm He gets into blood
and gore Got the syph from a
Saigon whore Deep at heart, he's
really poor Cause he don't know
what he's fighting for He'll get blown up
by a frag And sent home in a
plastic bag They'll wrap him up
in the bloody flag Cause his life was
such a drag Nevermore, we'll hear
him brag: Flaming faggots from
the sky Stupid fools who want
to die More masochistic than
the rest They're the ones called The Green Berettes
The New,
But Not Much Improved, Masque of Anarchy I met murder on the
way; He wore a mask like
General Haig, Saying, "If the Commies
ever come, We won't hesitate to
use the Bomb." A Southern bigot preached
a sermon With a sneer like Strom
Thurmond, Saying, "What to do
with the blacks Is handle the with
an axe." With powdered face
and hair dark dyed In their leader took
a ride In a shiny, new black
car Assuming he's producer,
director, and star. "I'll appoint for our
nation A Secretary of Transportation:
I've got the fellow
for the job; Who cares if he is
with The Mob?" And for him, I will
thank, Doobie-doobie-doo,
my friend Frank. Pals like him are worth
a million, Even if they are Italian.
Democrats will all
get laid off; I've got debts I need
to pay off. UN Delegate ain't much
fun, so I'll give it to my
buddy Bonzo. I can talk and act
real fancy; The thinking is all
done by Nancy. Our country will change
its ways; We're headed for Death
Valley Days. I'm only a B-movie
ham And if we get into
a jam, I think I will avoid
the crush And pass the buck to
George Bush. Our troops I will try
to muster-- Don't forget that I
played Custer. I always look back
to the past, and This may be our very
last stand." Then into his cups
he raged That he'd never be
upstaged For Congressmen cannot
feel Any hope in Tip O'Neill.
Britain's guardian
of the cash, her Hat like that of PM
Thatcher, Suggested clipping
Freedom's wings Now that Tories pull
the strings. Now the rest of the
Free World Looks at us quite appalled.
Liberty gone, do they
think Whether we will swim
or sink? Our country lacks moral
character If we intervene in
South America. Our neighbors will
make no bone To tell us Yankees
to go home. Before long, our vile
nation Will plunge into annihilation;
For into total war
it's headin'-- Look out now! It's
Armageddon! This situation may
dismay us If we're heading into
chaos. We need a land where
we are free Or we're on our way
to anarchy. In election 1984, Will you want to ask
for more, Or can we try to choose
another Having had enough of
this Big Brother? Millenialism What's contemporary
about modernism? Accumulation, aggregation, Amalgamation, conglomeration;
Malaise, malade, miasma,
mirage; Third generation nation
Gels in the garage.
Dated uttering - jaded
uttering Sated stuttering -
faded fluttering "Who will pay the rate
to keep a date with
fate?" Zero degree of signification
Null set of valorization
Quest for absolute
zip Zilch: the ultimate
trip. Flashing forth to the
future we find Collective conscience
of the mass Few who dare to break
the glass Shards shatter to free
the mind Whosoever seeks to
reunite such figments Reconstructs the prism's
pigments Scattering possibility's
plectrum. What's progressive
about posterity? Perhaps different -
probably same: Only the present with
another name. Mismatched
Gizmo Gears Every time I set my
alarm clock It is as if it were
a time bomb ticking Set against my free
will (That is to say, life.)
That means that I have
to be somewhere For some one or other
to see me (For what?) Do we exist for another's
timetable? (Are we so expendable?)
Or is it just common
courtesy? (Who raised you?) We only have so much
time? (How much?) So what satisfaction
is involved In making someone wait
for us? (Especially beloved.)
I am waiting for you
Here On the margins Of inhumane Experience. (Can you hear the whisper
of the forest within:
the sigh of the pine;
the scent of pure pain;
Fear amidst the furniture?)
The beast must be waiting
outside. Or is it inside so
close Its heaving musk Envelops us With each leap Of the albino doe. Monodramatic
Portrait Katrina, will you please
sit still! Our session will end
soon. This canvas must be
filled By the rising of the
moon. Wafted in the evening
air, The lurings of the
lute Mingle with the mandolin,
Counterpoint in swift
pursuit. Embowered in his gondola,
The prince must not
wait, But I need you tarry
Finally fixed by fate.
Lingering on each stroke
Of the ocher in your
eyes, The umber is an ember,
Kiss me quick before
it dries. The scent of gesso
and gouache Makes me want to squash
This whole tube of
bloody scarlet Across the face of
my palette. As you sprawl naked
amid Tangled sweaty bedclothes
Giving me another long
Lonely lingering last
look. Muage Power on...Insert disc...Directory...Play
I Ching program 64=26 =1000000 binary:
sixty-four squared is a milliard. Annuit. Attono! So all these people
come into the lobby, see, and there are all types, you know, and some guy had DK (Dead Kennedys, you know) on his back, and
some local-type hippy chick with hair to the waste and all and a black dress slit to the hip with mauve hose. Huh. And they were all milling
around but not too many so they looked through their programs while we all waited for the thunderclap. Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronn
Tuonnthnntrovarrhounwskawntoohoohordenenthurnuk!
brekkek kekkek kekkek
kekkek...koax koax koax...1000000. So when he came on,
these people clapped As if it were enough
to be a celebrity. But no one could hear
Nor listen at first.
Some of them murmured
as his whispers came out quad; Illumination wavering,
ghost of a dream. People getting up and
down were part of the choreography. Then there were those
on the stage with cups of something, And so there were all
kinds of reactions, But the drone went
on and on. Klikkakklakkakklaskaklopatsklatshabattacreppycrotty
Graddaghsemmilsammihnouithappluddyappladdypkonpkot!
And many left. Who
were they? Could they suspend
their likes and dislikes? Satori...ataraxia...13th
cone. 10001001000101010001010100001001010111000010100001001!
A wake. Necropolitan Nightmare Iron horse racing into
midwest city dawn, Urban Caliban crashing
on cemetary lawn, Circuiting civilization,
successive strings of graves, Neon temples flashing
staccato Jesus saves, Investing living with
no thought of tomorrow, Buried in a shroud
of sarcastic sorrow. Paranausea He sat and thought.
His eyes were mirror bright. Moc night. What's right? "You eat." Feline fingers force a tangle of tentacles toward him. You
can hear it on the radio. ROK on. A title? A phrase, a phase, a plynth. "If you want to get to heaven." "Think of me." The
MC5 played at Chicago. Motor City. Ford. Oh, Miranda, what did you say? I will not serve. Coriolanus. Park Chung Hee puppet
clique. Hahn Kim Chi lies like DeSade on Asylum Records or a remote peninsular valley. Hail Atlantis. Jesus was a seagoat,
so is Nixon. A paranauseous plea to my pedantic pedant. I sit and think. My eyes are mirrors. Andy Warhol's Frankenstein.
You can't fool me nor Dopin' Dan. I know who you are, and you are The Man. Nothing more. "Violence! Violence! It's the only
way to make you see sense." ROK on! Candy and Candide. You can hear it on the radio. Tsing Tse. "It's just a shot away." Nova
Express. The Godfather. Pax Romana. St. Stephen stoned. Religion or politics? I'll see a satire on TV with Persephone. The
dark side of the moon appraches. The Nazis invented speed. Speed plus methaquaalone: Biphetamine T-20. STP. Sugar, candy,
Candide. Hey, Joe, you can't fool me. It's her gun. Plexiglass guitar. Diamond Dogs. "1983, A Merman I Shall Be." You don't
want me to rave. I must write. There is only one exile. Krshna uniforms. I remember Parnell. Cottrell-cottager-carpenter-Christ.
Architect artiste. Peolio Paliolith-corporal parts of the lion. The Sorcerer. Faust. Have you seen the silver dayglo poster
of Mephistopheles? He has a ski-slope nose like Bob Hope and Richard Nixon. Bob Hope-TV illusion. Christmas to the GI's. 1971
Korea. Eisenhauer's final address. The Military-Industrial Complex Hex. He knew Nixon, too. Were the Roseberg's guilty of
selling the A-bomb to the Reds? Communist control. Nixon got Hiss, too. Didn't he have something to do with the UN? I sit
with a suicidal strychnine smirk-the archaic smirk. My mandrake. "This is the end." The Doors. Nixon chased Tim Leary to Afghanastan.
Turn on your TV. Conspiracy. There is. "Old soldiers never die, just young ones. "Stranded in the Jungle." Ho orothun-The
Golden-headed One. Synthea. The MC5 played Memorial Day weekend at Thunderbird Beach. Alice Cooper couldn't make it. They
sang "Baton Rouge is Burning." US largest refinery. The cops won. "Misty Roses." Virgin Mary. Caesar was queer. The dragon
eats its tail between LSD & Elysian Fields. There's an LSD in Lincoln Park, too. Miss No. Life is secure with Lady Jane.
FCC ban on dope songs. The Mike Curb Generation. The MGM lion roars. Art for art's sake. No. Art for the sake of freedom.
Coleridge was an addict. Bill Burroughs scored smack at Exchange Place. Jimi died of Seconal(tm). Jim Morrison's father was
a Navy admiral. He drank himself to death. A Warehouse opened with Owsley's bust at The Royal Sonesta. The Grateful Dead trucking
Europe with Bozo masks and Nudie suits. St. Dilbert. WRNO & WNOE doing Drake. Jefferson Airplane busted in Baton Rouge
two weeks after Woodstock 1969. Constantine in the Kremlin. Breshnev looks like a Mafioso, too. Beatles members of the British
Empire. "Revolution." Strike Force patch. "DON'T!" Peter Green. Afrakadabr. Dylan at Bangladesh moaning, "A hard rain's gonna
fall," with Leon Russell, the Okie. Hank Wilson's Back. Workingman's Dead. Do you know the words to "Jailhouse Rock?" Remember
me. "Louie, Louie." The Sundance Kid. "Y'all can go home now, the revolution's over."-Garcia. "Who's the bull goose loony?" Paris Sight Prince Paris peers
past Priam's parapet Features framed in
fatal flame; Troy glows as it has
never yet. Fumbling with Achilles'
bane His quiver upsets scattering
Falcon-fledged shafts
across the marble Into an ominous cipher
Resembling the figure
of Paris himself. Not bothering to gather
his arrows, He lets his bow slip
twanging away. Striding across the
mezzanine Myriad images burst
past As Helen stares vacantly
into her glass. The fecund ferment
of olives and wine On the plains of Sparta
permeates her mind. Once again to be home
and away from this strange house And the paramour stroking
the fine hairs on her neck. Paris breathes in once
again To assure himself of
his presence. How much longer will
there be Another again before
the end? Menelaus himself will
want it. And just how long has
she been gone, Or has she been always
already absent? She was just a lonely
succubus Not really truly one
of us Floating free she flitting
flees Over the hills and
through the trees Into the river from
a sparkling stream Into my life from a
feverish dream She whirls in a dizzying
dance Feet fly, tapping chants
Figure of romance Without merest chance
If there exists In waking world Such a girl Taking risks Will unfurled Gain the pearl Prepossessed She was just a lonely
succubus Not really truly one
of us Floating free she flitting
flees Over the hills and
through the trees Into the river from
a sparkling stream Into my life from a
feverish dream She whirls in a dizzying
dance Feet fly, tapping chants
Figure of romance Without merest chance
If there exists In waking world Such a girl Taking risks Will unfurled Gain the pearl Preppie’s
Howl I saw the best bods
of my generation blackballed from fifteen Sororities only to
become Homecoming Queen by balling The whole football
team in the locker room Who had unlimited credit
at Nieman Marcus, Sanger Harris, and Bonwit Teller and charged
a dozen pair of Gucci's and the Entire line of Calvin
Klein designer jeans just because They could not decide
what color they liked best Who cracked up Porches,
Triumphs, Jaguars, Maseratis, Lamborghinis and Deloreans
walking away without a ticket Who were accepted by
Harvard, Yale, Purdue, Colgate, Fordham, And Chapel Hill for
spelling their own names with Reasonable accuracy
on the application forms Who belonged to the
NCAA, ROTC, FBI, CIA, and the Crosby, Stills, Nash, Young,
Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith Fan Club Who drank Crown Royal,
Chevis Regal, Glenfiddich, Bushmills, Beefeaters and Ripple
Who guzzled Heineken,
Hofbrau Haus, Guinness, Lowenbrau, St. Pauli Girl, and
Old Milwaukee Who smoked grass, sniffed
coke, shot smack, sniffed glue, And had the detox ward
redecorated Who spoke French, German,
Spanish, Italian, Swedish, Russian, And Esperanto all through
their noses Who were plagued by
rude waiters, slow taxis, inconsiderate Doormen, thoughtless
hat check girls, ignorant busboys, And shortchanging washroom
attendants Who traveled in Europe,
Asia, Africa, South America, and Australia, always eating
at McDonald's Who had monogrammed
hankies, shirts, shorts, socks, Underwear and toilet
tissue Who played tennis,
golf, polo, racquetball, soccer, lacrosse, Darts and foosball
cheating every chance they could get, Knowing that fair play
may be fun, but winning is everything. Molocha, Molocha, Sis,
Boom, Bah! Provocation Acronym vs. Anagram
Piracy on the high
seas PLO terror attack Pity the poor tourists
Slaughtered by the
scimitar Of Mahomet, Hero as
Prophet. Who has jurisdiction?
Rome has hands on,
hands down. Thumbs up or down?
No death penalty in
the Eternal City. Hostages are worth
the wait. When traded back to
Arafat. If Insane Anglo Warlord
Could get his hands
on them, What the hell would
he do? Go the whole nine yards
To the shores of Tripoli
Spreading holocaust
From sea to shining
sea? Or how about a change
of venue to Mars: A chance to hijack
the Challenger To hold the whole world
at bay? Who can interrogate
The tactics of the
Trojan Horse? Is our global strategy
Simply a matter of
course? Do we know why? Can we find how? Shall we leave it all
to Rome? Or must we question
Innocence like Genet Of Americans affording
to tour this way When others have no
home? Psychosohedron If you dangle on base
triangle--ico, ico, all day You will flip on this
trip--ico, ico, all day When you turn, you
will burn--ico, ico all day Then you'll freeze.
If you please, play ico, ico all day Ico, ico. Everybody
ico. I do the ico. She do
the ico. Everybody ico. See the man with the
plan--ico, ico all day He don't know where
to go--ico, ico all day Ico, ico. They all
want to ico. He might think he's
in the pink--ico, ico all day I went down to Ico
town--ico, ico all day I saw a chick who was
so slick--ico, ico all day I got sick of that
trick--ico, ico all day She went round, and
I went down--ico, ico all day We played ico, ico.
We got lost on ico. I was abused, so confused:
that's how to play ico. That circle jerk just
won't work when you ico, ico all day I got off, began to
cough--ico, ico all day Get a fix; it's all
kicks--ico, ico all day I won't play. What
you say--ico, ico all day I'll go home all alone--ico,
ico all day I don't care about
this affair--ico, ico all day Ico, ico. He don't
want to ico. He'll do his thing
out of this ring While we play ico,
ico all day. I will be much more
free with no ico, ico all day Ico, ico. Put it in
the ico. You won't stop at the
top; Ico spins you every
way. Romantic
Archetypes Listen my friends,
and I'll chant you a song About Pepe Le Pieu
and El Kabong; I swear you're gonna
bust a ligature Getting a load of this
caricature. Well, I was on the
scene the other day-- Can you guess who came
to play? A shiny slick stripe
with a voulez-vous Can you get a whiff
of you-know-who? He's so bold, and he's
so brave; He's so cool, and he's
so suave: You can almost scent
a taint And you know what kind
of thing he ain't! His act is together
wherever he is at; He'll sidle up to give
you his politician's pat. Subliminal predator's
eyes out for blood: Does this whole charade
do anybody good? You pause to sniff
then along Comes guitar quickdraw
El Kabong Saying, I don't care what you
think; All I know is that
YOU STINK! Yuptown Clarabel, Queen of
the Ozarks, Holds court Saturday
morning At the Cherry Street
Cafe. Urbanely sipping cappuccino,
Suavely nibbling croissants,
Arbitress of Midwest
trendiness, Haute couture par excellence.
Who will be the mayor
of 15th Street? Who will be the king
of the geeks? The old mongoloid with
the box on his head Lumbers by no more;
now he is dead. Avoiding the sun, this
old fool Would sit on his box
in front of the school Mumbling to himself
in the shade; He was jester of all
he surveyed, Sitting and watching
the children play And passersby throughout
the day. Clarabel winces at
the shattering of her repose, The clattering of a
yardbird in shabby clothes, Lawnmower on the sidewalk Casting pebbles on
plate glass, Dust provoking coughing
in all those who pass. What have we here?
A candidate at last? Benny the painter with
beer on his breath Sits by Claribel embarrassing
her to death. He came by for a loaf
of fresh bread, Will eat a warm slice,
and go home to bed. He asks her if she
will not mind If he joins her as
two of a kind. He would be if he were
more neat, Not looking like the
Mayor of 15th Street. "So, Claribel, how's
the society page? To young professionals,
you're the rage. You're so well known
by all you meet, You ought to run for
Mayor of 15th Street." As he says this, she
instantly recoils Smirking coyly as her
blood boils, A victress who scarcely
enjoys her spoils. So when you are out,
be prepared to meet With pride, the Mayor
of 15th Street. |
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