Three poems by A.J. Kaufmann

Three poems
by A.J. Kaufmann

City centre howl

sway through the city centre
sway through dozens of downtown women
keen on uptown dealers
& middletown sailors
decked safely at the ocean liner's pretentious
steer
like a belt
or a giant beard
you be the judge
you be the prince
of the marked cards

smug harbors
smog cutters
rag havens
scum investitures...
up against the wall
up against this side of the gun
up against the marvel of
oblivion
& the steep amazements of her fury

shit talkers
need a single bullet
a single dollar to shut their mouth
and begin to pray...

emerge out of the car horn fog
swallowin' the shallowin' sound of music
some cheap swing matters
hidden in the big bass drum
safely pinched inside the
banjo
young enough Sinatra imitators
dead cunts on prison bars in Cuba
swollen to incredible sizes
like raw dead rats
consumed as chicken
wings

sway right through the city centre
to find all paths meet
at the very same spot
to find that they all lead straight into death
straight into nothingness
apathy
kids
drinkin' their beers and whisky and vodka
and who-knows-what that they can afford
and I wish I were that rich

shit talkers
need a single bullet
a single dollar to shut their mouth
and begin to pray...

and I'll burn all the fuckin' smug harbors
at any given
chance
watch bombs explode in the rag havens'
hearts
watch poison gas overflow
the sick smog cutters' veins
& kind institutes of art
collapse...
be a hopeless guerilla in the concrete wall's shadow
ready for
execution
ignoring the falling down
new
architecture

+++++++++++++++++++++

Locomotive for Billie

whistling the love for sale away...
chasin' the ghosts of hysteria, the men of town
the men of a million songs
the men of a million debts
the men of cheap cigars
the men of low reputation
of high life's gutter pleasures
and humble wives making pancakes
the spurs of the madness on top of the wing
the wing on top of the madness
the pancake gets thrown at the wall
the wall forms an answer for Billie
and yeah, that's a quote from the
Holy
Bible...

whistling the duty out to the bar
mingled in silent death's little sister
the one with beautiful heels
the one with a spirit and lips of ashtrays
the one that's waiting for love for sale
whistled
far from behind the stage
far from behind the cornershop light
far from behind the
sex in the lobby
the poker at church
Melinda on Fridays...

and it's all so strangely
satanically
spiced
so tingled
and carelessly
undermined...
the thick white lips shaped in a D
like Mr. D
like dis way to de Konig
like here are the Germans
and they're waiting for your song
and here are the last war's
disabled heroes...
like the D's so goddamn black
it hurts
& the D becomes an icon:
very soon forms a little tail
a tail just perfect to step on...

a tail to be hit by a locomotive
rallying through the counter
through the sad old lady
through the tankards
through the barkeep's dingy face
heading for Billie at death's sails full-fledged
driven only be the setting sun steam
of the probably last true black
angel
the goddamn flying dutchmen
of trains
the red-bearded
undertaker

+++++++++++++++++++

Soul radiation in the dead of night

She extended the tongue
sliced in half as the lizard's restless sign
language
penetrated the screens of my heart
attack
delusion
while I've been stealing poem titles
from Pop's old
lyrics...

we've had cold coffee
& bourbon on ice
ice on the windowsill
snow on our angels long gone
clipped
heartaches
while the winter was dyin'
and so were our clothes...

"damn, it's beating so loud
I can hear the meat
through your murmured
lectures..."
she said
collecting dregs
sediments
ashes
pretending she's feline enough
to make it
halfway through
residues of unburnt powder
sludges from washing and cleaning
or spirits in the house
knockin' at the greasy
windows...

Electric light's gone
3 AM's gettin' closer
& the supper's not ready
I'd yell at her
I'd beat her up
only I'm not that
type
& she'd kill me earlier

she took hold of a little kitchen knife
she looked as if she's gonna
use it
to stop the goddamn beat
the heart's delirious
ramblings
to offer the poet salvation
& save him from his
monsters
evacuate his longing
make him write w/ the monkeys
in heaven
make him finally
smile & starve...

a hopeless little girl
pretending to be my whore
choosin' resentment
over
disguise
& masks above all
freedoms
freedoms above all
classes

& I miss her now...
even standin' at the opposite
river's
muddy
bank


Author bio:

You can find A.J.'s site at: Kaufmann Poetry.