Reasons Of

Flame

Venomous Butterfly Publications

818 SW 3rd Ave, PMB 1237
Portland, OR 97204 USA
acraticus@angrynerds.com
Rants and Poetry
of Wolfi Landstreicher
 Anti-copyright
Every text, every picture, every sound that you like is
yours. Take it and use it as yours, without asking
permission.
 Afterword:
On Poetic Living
When I speak of poetry, I am not talking about versifying or
wordsmithing. I am speaking about creating lives of passion,
intensity and wonder. I call those people poets who go into the
world with the creative intention of living life to the full. They
may then choose to express the wonder, the intensity, the passion
– the marvelous – that they discover in words, but the words are
not their poetry – their lives are.
Those who try to pass themselves off as poets at most “poetry”
readings have little to do with real poetry. The sonorous,
pontificating voices with which they choose to read their banal
verses prove that they have more in common with papish priests
and sleazy televangelists, those buzzards voyeuristically feeding
off the corpse of the marvelous banalized. A true poet in the
midst of these slimy ghouls can only have the lycanthropic urge
to rip out throats in order to stop the insipid babblings of these
sentimental saps.
44
INTRODUCTION
I have always had an ambiguous relationship with
poetry. I detest most poems and most poets. But
poetry as a way of living and encountering the world
attracts me. The poets for whom I have a high regard
(William Blake, Arthur Rimbaud, Renzo Novatore,
Benjamin Peret – a few others) have all, in different
ways, been rebels against the values of the society
they lived in and therefore also adventurers.
I agree with the surrealist idea that poetry is to be
an expression of the marvelous. Sadly, in this era in
which even the deeper realms of the mind have been
colonized by commodity fetishism and the images of
television, movies and advertisements, even psychic
automatism can often produce results as banal as the
conscious verses, the hard turds shat out by the
constipated wordsmiths this society calls poets, that
fill the poetry shelves of most bookstores and libraries.
Only those who reject the values of this society,
those who consciously choose adventure and life
outside the mainstream, can actually write poetry.
That is to say, in order to write poetically one must
live poetically. Only willful rebellion allows one’s
unconscious to remain free of the banality of
commodity fetishism and media domination. This
spirit of rebellion alone can express the marvelous,
and from this source it is expressed equally in psychic
automatism and in willful consciousness. Now more
than ever, poetic expression can only be the free play
of the proud and willful vagabonds and rebels,
outlaws and anarchists – those who reject this society
in its totality.
—Wolfi Landstreicher
1

INSURGENT PASSION,
FLAMING REASON
Dreams of revolution set our hearts on fire
And fill our nights with the most dangerous caresses.
This world’s icy and dreamless logic will never touch our
minds,
Because our reasons are the reasons of flame.
2 43
RANTING:
a product of stolen words
Reality is not a transcendent truth, but a historical
configuration, a multi-dimensional process that can
take place in individuals who desire, think, act and
change together. Fading illusions are so many targets
ranged around those of us enraged by our cramped
existence; so many delicious inducements to unleash
the weapons of mockery and laughter. Let a few
people meet who are resolved on the lightning of
violence rather than the long agony of survival; from
this moment despair ends and tactics begin.
Everywhere where domestication comes into play
there can be no free space. Look at architecture –
another lovely mask covering the boredom of an
insipid society. But the new does exist apart from the
consideration of progress. It is implied in surprise. It is
to be noted, however, that there are those whose lives
center around lost and vapid fairy tales. They need an
ancient dream to justify the breaths they steal – their
crime of being alive. But for this crime there can be no
forgiveness. It can only be the act of ultimate defiance,
spitting in authority’s face, shouting, “I AM!” against
every constraint society has invented. I wish to state,
once and for all, I do not want to be civilized.
 filled with icicles and apple cores.
It was still upon the treetops that we danced,
Nietzschian aristocrats of anarchy
whose crimes were but the butterflies of love
embraced in madness,
blowing kisses
to a rumbling storm of violence and beauty.
These epileptic seizures never caused the harm
that springs from monolithic orders,
and the ways were full
and bountiful with laughter,
like a flea who’d found the universe too small.
The horse whose head
had turned to bowls of cherries
juggled all your canopies
of green tomorrows
in the fiery spheres of chocolate nights.
It was here that we drank those wines
whose delicate flavors
reminded one of the kidneys of Jack the Ripper
danced upon in twilight escapades.
We were the monkey’s flickering tongues of flame
which made this dream
the laughter of nights
beyond the blind eyes
floating in the soup
of Heracleitus’ malice.
42
WE WERE BORN INTO A WORLD
WHERE:
Dreams and desires have been locked within the
cages of psychotherapeutic interpretations;
Revolt has been bound with the fetters of moribund
leftist ideologies;
Creativity has been enslaved to the sadistic masters,
art and literature;
The marvelous has been handcuffed to the cops of
mysticism and mythology;
Reality has lost the ability to laugh at itself and its
foibles and so suppresses a truly playful spirit;
Thought has become a rigidly armored fortress
protecting its ideological foundations from every
criticism;
Revolution has had its passion organized out of
existence leaving only structural rigor mortis where
once insurgence breathed and danced.
This world has ceased to bring forth amazing
monsters;
It is no longer a conduit for the marvelous;
It has lost touch with the convulsive beauty of love
and lust;
It can no longer give birth to babies with wings;
It has ceased growing and begun to rot;
It has suppressed surreality wherever this marvelous
flower has bloomed.
Therefore, from now on, surreality will manifest in:
Dreams and desires freed from all interpretation and
sublimation, being the living energies of free-
spirited individuals;
Total revolt against every aspect of social reality
including the ideologies that strive to squeeze this
revolt into the limited mold of leftist activism;
The free-spirited creation of our lives for ourselves,
lived to the limits against every role and rule;
3
The discovery of the marvelous in each unique being,
free from any mystical or religious guidelines;
The humor and playfulness of free-spirited individuals
who realize their strength and creativity in their
own joyful foolishness;
Open, expansive, generous thinking which grows from
the inner strength of free-spirited rebels;
An insurgent dance, a feral insurrection that refuses
all limitations, exists beyond all structures and is
the realm of indomitable free spirits.
Today, social reality is a lifeless, passionless corpse.
Let’s bury it. Now the amazing monsters of
surreality must come forth in the world playful and
terrifying in their wild energy, freed of the cages
and chains that have bound them; our dreams, our
desires, our humor, our revolt can populate the
world with the most marvelous creatures.
Social reality is dead; long live surreality!
4 41
SEA OF MURDER
The fires of Heracleitus
dance their flickering steps
with legs of tongue across the crimson waves
which tower like trees of spikes.
You’ve seen the moons
that hide their faces
between the streets where crime
is but a moment’s dream,
a monkey prancing
in the aisles of supermarkets
vomiting up pricetags
with a scream of wanton hatred.
This was the end,
the wandering fen of dialogue
could not extend the avenues
which were for stewfeathers,
black flames lighting up the sky
in roaring screams of wonder.
The waves splashed high
upon the parapets
of catapulting dreams
the dolce vita song
cascading through our hearts
in bloody streams.
What we had eaten in our time
was dark and filled with terror
yet the flavors dance more lightly
on our nerves
than any fairy tales of summers

SOMETHING GREEN
Callously separated cranial passage
designed like something green
which dances and sways
in the victim’s dreams,
as to the cerebral contingent’s
dance and play,
I don’t consider it the realm of hamsters
to vomit up strange hues.
This mystery dwells in caverns
filled with conifers
and the teeth of rare sharks.
Deliberate monastic orders fall
over the influence of vaginal tics
and clitoral laughter.
Who said you were of virginal dreams?
I spread my fingers through moisture dreaming.
I laugh like the climbing pizza
thrown in the face of orchestral jazz
and find an apish grin inside your bucket.
Run into the night of grey petunias
with your ultraviolet flashlight
and gather the nectar of loves forgotten.
We are not automatic like tombstones
but spontaneous dwellers in the tops of trees
whose fingers tickle us delightfully
and run through the hair of our dreams,
guests of the sweet-brained monkeys
whose mischief dances like volcanoes
between our pulsating thighs.
40
AMAZING MONSTERS:
RANTS AND MANIFESTOES
I
Darkness - I don't fear it - or at least I'm not terrorized
by it. For darkness has its magic. It opens gates of the
imagination that otherwise would remain closed.
Streetlights, neon signs, floodlights - these are rapists of
the darkness, tearing through it glaringly with their
messages of fear or gaudy commercialism. So unlike the
moon or stars whose gentle lights caress the eyes. At
times, I feel that the deadening of imagination in
modern society is due in part to the violent destruction
of the night by artificial lights. For in the dark, the stark
definition of all things breaks down, the rigid lines, the
stiff separations disappear - anarchy breaks forth, the
opening of all possibilities - the marvelous appears in the
world as we create amazing monsters without
imaginations. Those who wish to kill the darkness - to
eradicate it completely - are enemies of the imagination.
They have lost their own imaginations by using them to
imagine only their worst fears - and now they are slaves
to those fears. So they rape the darkness, wage war on
the marvelous, seek to drive away the wondrous
monsters of our imagination. If it's war they want, it is
war they shall have. Against their technology and
impoverished imaginations, we shall come with stones
and wrist rockets and al the strange and untamed
creatures of our imaginations.
WAR ON THE STREETLIGHTS AND THE
NEONS!
WAR ON THE TECHNOLOGICAL HELL!
WAR ON THE COPS AND OTHER LEGAL
TERRORISTS!
WAR ON ALL WHO FIGHT AGAINST THE
MOON, THE STARS, THE NIGHT!
5
The forces of darkness gather, untamed chaos erupting with multiple heads
forth, a volcano of passion. We are strong and heroic, for developing those systems of chaos and love.
our own desires are our energy. The lust for life lived to
the full, for burning passion and wild adventure fuels us. It was here that the potpourri
We will NOT be stopped! For where we are put down, of science
always we rise again, the wild ones who will have overthrew its own calumniated discipline
nothing less than a world of wonder. and danced upon razor blades
to the hot horns of a hellish debacle.
II We never wondered why
this should not be,
A world of wonder - one in which we bring forth the
amazing monsters of our imaginations - will be a world in but rather spilled the wine
which terror exists...But not terror as we know it in the in ravenous drips
world of order. down the elephantine caverns
Terrorism is an activity of the forces of order, or those of flowery, anal throats.
who have or desire to have power. It has no interest in
ecstatic terror, only in the subliminal terror of every day
life - a terror which as it frightens us also bores us,
because it is the substance of daily life in commodity
hell. But in the realms of the "mind" that have become
unconscious, our repressed passions and desires live - and
these are amazing monsters. At times, these monsters,
when brought to light, will fill us with terror - but they
are not terrorists - they do not want to try to compel us
to obey. The terror they evoke is ecstatic terror that
breaks us out of the normal flow and opens us to the
marvelous. This terror is brought on by the opening up of
all possibilities, the breaking forth of the total of the
total abandon of free play, the birth of anarchy. If we
flee from this terror, we return to our cages and the
boring, rational terror of authority. Instead, we need to
abandon our selves to the ecstatic terror, the convulsive
beauty of delirious anarchy, to immerse ourselves in it, to
bring ourselves through it and make it OURS. Then the
amazing monsters we've so long repressed will freely
dance within us. We will be the most energetic, ecstatic
and lusty outlaws. The authorities may call us mad -
lunatic terrorists - but the terror we unleash will be a
terror that sets free - our insane monsters daring to break
6 39
 all cages - and too bad if the creatures inside cringe back
in fear! - That will not stop our wild and joyful rampage -
our ecstatic war against all the forces of order. The chaos
of our desires - the passion to open all possibilities and
live life to the full will break forth in the light of day - a
brilliant shadow eclipsing all the forces of order.

III

Society would lock me in its cages, chained and kept

down, but I will not belittle my self to fit its molds. I
explode forth, a fiery meteor, into infinity. I MAKE
LOVE TO CHAOS! Within the hidden realms, beyond the
AWAKENED FROM THE SLEEP knowledge of order - there we meet - the wild ones, the
OF REASON free spirits. We dance, we sing, we feast, we make love
freely. We break down the walls of civilization so that
free life can spread. Where we live cannot be named, for
I wandered like a cantalope
all names are lies. It has no boundaries - it exists
rolling through the mossy fur wherever we are. Authority has no control within our
of a three-toed sloth. realm for we are beyond all rule. We are chaotic
Inside these strange facades outlaws, creating free life in the cracks of society
I found the appetite through the untamed play of pleasure.
for elegant petunias
and somberly danced with the cardboard image
of giraffes in flight.
It was a nightmare sewn together
from the scraps of your elevated slippers
which adorned the feet of a calamitous hippopotamus.
He smoothly removed
the whitened moles
from the bottle caps
of this elevated train car.
When all this ceased to amaze,
I leapt into our first-hand carriage
and laughed like a leopard

38 7
 Do Not Tolerate Me! such slivered fasts
and monkish dripping eyes.
I They ran through the sea of hands,
applauding, pickled fingers,
I WILL NOT BE TOLERATED! aureoles of all the flying cats
I demand the burning fires of passion, the untamed with purple tongues entangled
conflagration of desire without constraint, of lust
without limits. Love me with an energy that cannot be in the silver web
denied - or hate me with a fury so intense your glance of conundrum.
could wither me were not my passions equal to your own I never sought to turn
- but DO NOT TOLERATE ME! such fertile wonder
Toleration is a sickness of bourgeois society that into grey and ebbing fossils
smothers us in boredom - a cop inside our heads that
keeps us passive in the name of social harmony. SHIT ON clicking softly through the tepid afternoon.
SOCIAL HARMONY! Let the hot, ecstatic energy of What dreams may come
IMPASSIONED VIOLENCE burn through us! LET ALL THE will never be for corpses
GRAND, VOLCANIC ENERGY OF OUR REPRESSED PASSIONS or the dreary ghosts
ERUPT, A VIOLENT EXPLOSION OF HATRED AND LOVE, who wail and whine
FURY AND ECSTASY, DESTROYING MEDIOCRITY -
destroying all that bores us - BEFORE WE’RE BORED TO the losses of pathetic mice.
DEATH!!! Indeed, we dance as in the limpid wine
Those who choose to tolerate - to merely exist - will be of majestic octopi
BURIED IN THE FECAL MEDIOCRITY THAT TOLERATION who squirt serial intoxication
CREATES - Let them drown in the boring shit they have through the eyes of grand delinquents,
chosen...But none of that for us who truly choose to live.
Coursing through our veins are dreams and visions, those whose quaking crimes
passions and desires, the chaos that can birth a dancing send the quivering teeth of sharks
star - don’t dam this wild and fiery flood with that into the entrails of a cop.
disgusting cancer - toleration. Demand of every What serial delights!
encounter amazement, wonder, ecstatic passion. AMAZE A feast upon the squirming tentacles of joy,
AND BE AMAZED!
I WILL NOT LET MY LIFE SLIP FROM MY GRASP IN a wild debauch
PASSIVE BOREDOM! I WILL BURN - A CONFLAGRATION that flows majestic
OF UNTAMED DESIRE! A SOARING PHOENIX IN FLAMES like the river of mad eyes,
WHICH CANNOT BE IGNORED!!! I will live my life in a the febrile horn of otter heat
burning heat of untamed lust and passion! With a violent and my own beloved owl’s libido.
ecstasy, I will demand (of myself) - I will CREATE a world
of wonder and amazement.

8 37
 of dripping, colored foxes,
juicier than the daring escapades
of a strangely simian outlaw,
this man whose razor
was the laughter of the moon in heat
and whose chorus
was a howling ocelot
jumping from the treetops
toward the stars?
THE FORTEAN OCTOPUS HEALED
The ostrich and hyena pull my plow
over a seething landscape
dripping with the blood of fresh petunias,
the amber fluid from the otter’s lobe.
Not yoked;
they would not tolerate
36
No more will free spirits put up with being bored and
passive.
ENOUGH! IN FACT, TOO MUCH!!!
WE WILL BURN and in our burning, burn society to the
ground.
TAKE THE TORCH TO TOLERATION!
TAKE THE TORCH TO BOREDOM!
TAKE THE TORCH TO SOCIETY!
BURN IT ALL IN THE UNQUENCHABLE FIRE OF OUR
DESIRES UNBOUND!
II
We will not be appeased - All the rowdy, crazed,
laughing, dancing, raging, free spirited rebels WILL NOT
BE APPEASED, for we will have nothing less than our LIVES
TO THE FULL, each moment burning with our uncouth
passions! We will not tolerate what does not make us
DANCE WITH JOY, ROAR WITH RAGE, WEEP WITH
SORROW, HOWL IN ECSTASY OR QUAKE IN TERROR!!!
And we will not wait around for our lives to begin. WE
ARE CREATORS!!! We will make the world the way we
want without waiting for the old world to fall! On the
edge of society, joyfully outcast, we dance. We are
hidden from the powerful, yet they know we exist - AND
THEY TREMBLE!
For from our hidden realms, we flash forth like
LIGHTNING, leaving our mark, our crazed message that a
life of INTENSE PLEASURE and WILD ADVENTURE is
possible EVEN NOW for those who dare to create it!
We are OUTLAWS and RENEGADES - and this is our
strength! Already, we are freeing ourselves of the chains
with which society shackled us. Already, we are learning
to live our lives FOR OURSELVES!!! We need no
ideologies or dogmas, no masks or disguises. We face
society with ourselves - BOLDLY - as its enemies. Our
passions, our desires are the energy with which we live
our lives - HOW CAN WE LOSE!?!
9
For, indeed, it is our lightning-bolts of SPONTANEOUS,
CHAOTIC, EROTIC ENERGY, these flashes of FREE LIFE, A Night Distinct and Wonderful
that could spark a fire of REBELLIOUS PASSION that will
raze society to the ground!!!
The razor sharp moon sliced the sky,
III dripping through forests of hands.
Screaming, we danced
Free spirited rebels cannot tolerate economy. Wherever through the showers of blood,
it exists, constraint exists. Its demands that we pay, that these ostrich dreams which ran
we sacrifice, that we work, that we accept less than the
through the labyrinthine rivers
fullness of life which we desire nauseate us! But we will
not let ourselves be passively sickened by this vampire, of elephant wine.
sucked dry of real life. NO! For while we live within its Was it I who sang the arias of doom
midst, we will be ROBIN HOODS - stealing what we can or did the sky
for our own pleasure and to share as we desire, breaking fling off its shroud
down property and exchange in festive games of theft and skip in naked wonder
and free sharing. We will NOT tolerate the half life
which economy offers nor allow ourselves to be made over landscapes
into pawns in its game. ripe with grey petunias
For economy sucks the wonder out of life and steals its and vermillion ottomans
beauty. All that would be vibrant, dancing, burning with on which the snails of verdant passion
WILD PASSION, it has strangled with a price tag. Where raised their horns,
there could be a world of wondrous lovers, mad
adventurers and amazing monsters who NEVER COUNT a toast to fiery lust?
THE COST, instead we find commodities for sale. But we When I embraced your seething storm,
will not offer ourselves to the sacrificial altar of the the undulating flesh
market. Nor will we passively watch as the world is of a thousand dancing mermaids,
transformed into a market place. With all the FIERY you turned and laughed
PASSION of those who dare to CREATE THEIR OWN LIVES,
we will BURN all that has made WILD AND AMAZING at the algebraic method
MONSTERS into mere commodities for sale TO THE with which the pompous towers
GROUND! And we will FREELY SHARE and FREELY GIVE had turned our platypus dreams
and FREELY TAKE as we are moved by our UNBOUND into the calculations
DESIRES!!!
of a flattened scheme.
But what could stop
our serpentine dance
of tangle vines

10 35
in tuxedoes shaped out of crab shells
and hats of marinated lice.
I would have eaten this delight
if not for the aurora borealis
piercing through my brain
with tunes of unfit monkey bars.
34
Ned Ludd Was Right!
The machine IS the enemy.
Smash it without mercy!
Don’t tell me technology is neutral. Every day I wander
this city, and every day machines flash lights trying to tell
me what to do. Huge tarmac pathways cross my way,
upon which gigantic, speeding metal machines move,
machines capable of killing me if I cross their path and
already slowly suffocating me with their toxic fumes
which fill the air.
WHY SHOULD I TOLERATE THIS INSANITY?
NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!
The machine is the enemy.
SMASH IT WITHOUT MERCY!
Around me stand tall buildings, -- ugly monstrosities of
steel and glass and concrete, overpowering in their
hugeness and sterility. I dream of them as ruins being
eaten by a forest. But for now, these structures—the
products of machines—house other machines. Machines
on which the lies by which society defines my life—and
the lifes of everyone—are recorded, and which, with
electronic blips and flashes, can transmute the lies and so
control our lives.
I WANT TO SMASH THE LIES!
NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!
The machine is the enemy.
SMASH IT WITHOUT MERCY!!
And all of this did not appear from nowhere. The roads,
the cars, the traffic lights, the skyscrapers, the
computers could not exist if, every day, the lives of
millions were not eaten by the factories. Machines
control their daily activity, determining their movements,
eating up their time, to produce more machines. Their
only respite comes when the machines which control
them break down—or when they break them down. Then
for a moment, they are not machines. Don’t tell me
11
technology is neutral—I’m not blind enough to buy that
one!
NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!
THE RUINS OF THE WESTERN DREAM
The machine is the enemy.
SMASH IT WITHOUT MERCY!! Aluminum wastrels crinkle
Can’t you see? Each little machine—each car, each into watery columns
computer, each factory, each worker—is not a separate of amber beams,
entity, a mere individual tool. NO! They are all cogs in
your silver jade elephants followed
one vast machine, the machine of social reproduction—
and if we let them be, we too are cogs, the gears that into the tunnel of grey slippers.
manufacture society. Will you be a mere cog, a gear, a It’s times like this
tool of social order? I wonder why
TO HELL WITH THE SOCIAL ORDER AND ITS PHYSICAL the dance of peacocks
BODY: TECHNOLOGY!
so resembles
NED LUDD WAS RIGHT!
THE MACHINE IS THE ENEMY! a table of knives
SMASH IT TO POWDER WITHOUT A GRAIN OF MERCY!!!!! devouring the children of grief
who fly through wombat jungles
with their hair aglow and flowing
in orange and purple cataracts.
We’ve seen this image dancing
through the streets
of Berlin
with abandoned chocolate cantaloupes
and the empress of spikes
whose navel is
the lime covered magic
of a giraffe in heat
blowing trumpet tunes through the cataracts
of marinated elephants.
I had just seen this dream
inside your ear
licking the walls
as an army of single-footed octopi
rolled down the river of Paris

12 33
 IN THE JUNGLE
REVOLT LIES DREAMING
I never knew how the screaming of doves
could follow you through a whirlpool of dessicated
albumen
like the dancing feet of a jackal in heat
whose bloodied face dreamed of delectable foundations
of purple hands
from which hung the silver cross of Ardennes,
home to the elephants’ jazz club
where the merry dismemberment of senators was a
theme for blowing hot.
Cats dug the mountainside wine casks with flowing
streams of stars
and wombats which circled the afternoon fair of
delights.
“Death to the pigs!” screamed a solo ferris wheel
collapsing like a tinker toy façade
upon the heads of utterly despicable weapons poised
like green gorillas without hope.
32
THE JUNKYARDS OF HISTORY
A grey utilitarian dust smothers the landscape; it
squeezes the life drop by drop fro those who have not
yet had the time to live it, in order to lubricate the
machinery of economic necessity.
They slither from the boxes they call homes, trash bin
cubicles cluttered with pastiches of pop culture with
which these dispirited cogs invent identity, an
individuality as unique as the grey malaise their passive
existence builds.
Yet from the midst of this dusty fog, this discolored,
passionless horror, suddenly strange laughter springs
forth to haunt the sleep of utility’s reason; for in the
cracks and crevasses, there are vagabond jesters, fools
who serve no courts, no kings, no gods, not even
conscience;
Wanderers at the fringes – meandering through the
nights in mad adventures.
Though often we may choke upon the grey, our laughing
colors smothered in the dinginess, drawn down into the
maw of passionless despair,
Yet through us whirls a mad cacophony refusing to be
channeled or suppressed…
13
 And so a rowdy, dancing, howling band – strangely
invisible except as colors flowing through grey dreams – MITUS’ REVENGE
flies through the night on razors edge, sifting through
the detritus utility has left behind to find the weapons Vaginal fluids in compass
and the toys which will invent the sounds and colors of develop the delight of corpulent chaos.
desire without constraint. Such dreams as a rat might erode
This greyness is the stench of social rot, of civilized for simple populoids,
decay. I cried like a swansong
Utility has filled the world with useless junk to feed howling in the wind,
our crazed cacophony, a resource for the ruins in which somberly dancing in leaps
we dream our crazy colors. of carbuncle sauce,
For from the junkyards of history, we shall create ruins such tales have fallen and devoured my madness –
from which bricolage symphonies of chaos will burst key to the triangular horse of Mitus.
forth.

14 31
 INTOXICATION
Surging, reeling passion went screaming through me. I
knew the moon the stars, the planets, for that moment,
as my own, as an intense pleasure that I wanted to share
– but how do I share it? – how do I share an intensity of
passion that howls “I want you – I want to consume and
be consumed by you in fiery pleasure! Whirlwinds of
ecstatic joy tearing us to laughing, panting, howling
ribbons! Learning to be the pluriverses by ingesting all in
our own ecstasies! What wonder we could find in each
other’s caresses!” Damn! – Why can’t the world be so
free that my embraces could encompass those beautiful
women, those wonderful “straight” men, the marvelous
children, the moon, the stars, everything in a pleasure
that goes beyond “sexual” or any other social category
for pleasures. – How do you express the longing for a
world in which singing and dancing are the way we speak
– in which poetry has disappeared because the intensity
and beauty of our lives and interactions makes poetry
irrelevant, a poor imitation of a reality where we live in
dreams more beautiful than we have yet imagined –
Intoxicated with ourselves and with each other.
30
THE WALLS STILL STAND
Sometimes it seemed we could not be stopped; we
were crazy feral children, our eyes ablaze with
polymorphous lust.
Our intensity demanded eternity, an unending flow.
There was no turning back.
Reeling, dizzy with joy on the edge of a cliff, our lives
so full of now, there was no tomorrow.
We flew burning through the night finding toys with
which to create the wonders of our lives.
Bricolage symphonies, cacophonies, insanities.
Our madness was intentional, a godless rite to break
down the walls and dams.
The moments of our lives seemed like forevers so full
of this life they had become.
We lost ourselves in flows of desire, in wandering
currents of sensation stronger than the channels that
would keep them in constraints.
Our hearts pounded, we were wild-eyed with our
energy, flaming tornadoes dancing zig-zag through
heaving landscapes…
Smashing the walls…
Smashing the walls…
Smashing… smashing… smashing the walls…
But the walls still stand and I am tired…
Set me aflame once more.
15
 A FERAL CHALLENGE in its corrosive surface.
Like an alligator
I want to throw my words around like howls of dancing I swam from Atlanta
wolves to the bean piles of New Jersey’s
or mad songs of gypsies who have eaten the full moon. southern colony of monkeys.
I want to send them prancing through the tops of These creatures shifted limes
jungle trees into the columns of a box of molten lava
like monkeys after coconuts or mangoes, and drank tornadoes out of boxes
to turn them into lightning bolts of platinum digestion
storming towards the stars, like the forests of tomorrow
tempestuous winds stirring the night sky in a dream.
into a froth of jumbled passions.
Too often, so it seems, the words drop from my mouth,
leaden with the poison of banality,
not fit even for the ears of pigs or kings.
But as the moon rounds out the night
and dreary grey faces close up in sleep,
I want to run screaming through the streets, the
fields, the forests,
pouring out words of crazy passion,
like strong wine into bacchanalian mouths.
Such are the crazy gypsy songs
I throw into the night: PIERCED ARMOR
a feral challenge.

As if this dream
were a prison,
I wander back and forth,
intoxicated, sad and falling,
falling into the colors
of your eyes
whose lights
devour my heart.

16 29

ALL BLUE
All blue:
The seasons containing posters of Delilah in rags
dance about theories of albumated creampuffs,
and the series of port wines
combine with my children of grief.
I don’t complain in this October heat;
the fires dance like the ostrich
who ate the capital buildings
of manifold purpose.
The storms of your love
washed the octopus
and the glimmering streams of confetti
detested the nightmarish sheep
with their purple dewclaws.
Seldom have I seen such detestable fiddles
fed to the dream lines
of undetected mettle,
all of a form so crystalline
I lost my teeth
in the battle to form liquid craters
28
THE MOST DELIGHTFUL POISONS
If you wonder why I do not run to your dream like
scathing gates of a new tomorrow,
If you wonder why I prefer the streams that run
backwards uphill like a tiger dripping through
forests at dawn,
My words tumbling out in torrents of nonsense and
dreamy dissembled cataracts,
It is because I have seen a dawn of assembled laziness
Actively building a playground of monkeys and dreams,
A vertical nightmare toppled among the lush fragrance
of flowers dripping with the most delightful poisons.
To sip of the petals fills the mouth with an almost fatal
sweetness,
Intoxicating honeys of insurrection,
In one hand the molotov cocktail, in the other the
elixir of dreams.
“Do not wait,” I was told, “do not wait for the day,
For your own dance which blows away cops brings the
dawn.”
And your dreams are too mild and pale for me,
smothered in the fear of the blood that may
spill when we make the world our own.
17
 Where else do the purple-feathered
birds throw apples from their nests
to the vagabonds who’ve turned their ears
FOREVER VAGABOND
to grazing antelopes
One smolders waiting for a lively wind to raise the and thrown their collars to the winds:
flames, to birth the crazy dance that licks and flickers, No more!
roars and rages, bringing marvels to a night that And so I want forever
otherwise might languish. Within one’s sack a thousand to ingest this fiery dawn,
dreams, the wealth of vagabonds and madmen, strange
visions of vast insurgent games and wild leaping dances, the quiet, gentle storm
of castles in the air and hidden among the trees. With within your eyes
such ragged wealth one simpleton went wandering among and yet I find chaotic feet
the realms of nightmare and the lands rumored to be that draw me over distant landscapes,
madcap paradise, arcadian delight for the wildest of and a mouth sewn shut
dreamers.
He came to a small forest, his heart, his mind, just by parapets of silence
smoldering ashes, hoping that the fuel to raise the flame and control.
might be here among these other tramps and dreamers, In this the heart,
wanderers and fools… Surely there is someone here with grown monstrous in a storm,
whom to meld a dream, a scheme… to project marvelous explodes into a million shards
creations.
For a while, castles in the air, schemes for strange of distilled melting blue—
music ands and rumors of mad dances fanned the sparks, a monkey’s swirling tale
but not enough to waken a flame… Once, it’s true, or of pained desire.
twice, the passion flared, but there was no fuel to feed
the flame… The spark was growing dull. Time to leave
before it died away.
Some people’s dreams cannot sit still or they will
wither. Maybe when this foolish tramp finds himself
more crazed and blazing like a storm he’ll fall upon this
land again to dance his crazy dances with those he madly
loves, to flash his lightning laughter through the air – and
then to disappear as suddenly as he appeared – forever
vagabond.

18 27
 CRESCENT VISION

THE GENTLE SCREAM OF MY DESIRE Alas, these are times most strange,
for blue fish fly forth from the eyes of strangers
If I could speak with all the wild-eyed as lightning passes between the fingers of black-haired
courage of the damned, children.
I’d pour out tales as merry And that is not all,
and as sad as the heartbeat of a platypus for the dogs cry, “Earthquake!” though the sky is clear
but I find myself dizzy and the trees are still as peacocks.
in the cool and fiery passion I have seen peaches strutting through the parks,
flowing from your eyes. their fuzz turning into polywogs in the sun.
The melting fragrance of their colors Expect soon an outburst of frogs
is a source of madness whose sweet aromas strum a melody
that engulfs the most severe of apes not unlike a grappling hook
and flings them in a swirling dance or the teeth of a mole.
across a floating abyss
of columbines.
I have drunk of this liquor
which flows out of your eyes
and my intoxication swirls
the worlds away
into the swinging arms
of gibbons
with hands of watermelons
and minds which dance through galaxies
of flaming ice and elegant poisons.
I do not want to lose
this ardent madness.
Where else do green wombats of desire
dance through the forest tops
with mouths of ice
and goblets full of fire?

26 19
 those magic monkey chips
PASSIONATE STORM with which the other moons of green
had made their profound philosophies
As this storm that swirls through my mind
of statuesque delirium.
casts bolts of lightning
Had I not flowed through those legs
through the vast universe of my passionate flesh,
like the ice of contaminated fleabane,
I gaze across galaxies
I might have mistaken them
into the vortex
for the years
around which this storm roars,
in which your lovely breasts
that calm silent center that is your eye…
of iron and fire
The agony of love rips at my brain with hungry talons
had grown into the corn of Babylon
releasing lunatic monsters,
the rich grains of flowing gems,
strange population of dimensions of desire
of vibrant, radiating hair.
that darken the sky with vast tornadoes
and weave landscapes to crazy for normal feet.
I sprout wings and take to these seething skies
in the hope that I might fly
into the vortex of your eye,
but these howling gales which twist and turn
play with me as with a butterfly.
Still I keep my face toward the source of this madness,
this storm I must devour with its center, my love,
as I must be devoured by you –
the monstrous love of the unique ones…
No small, no mellow dream;
nightmarish in its vast and dark dimensions.
This is the love that I must know:
of flesh, of mind, of universes, a ravisher,
dimensions far beyond the wildest dreams of bourgeois
romantics,
the most profound inducement to crime and
insurrection.

20 25
THE REASONABLE DESTRUCTION
OF THE FAMILY

The bloody reticulated abdomen

of somnambulant zebras
is not to be mistaken for
the way my mother dances
in flowing shards of pink
volcanic glass
while drinking liquid stars
and laughing at the flowers
of unknown muskrats.
I have seen days when she flows
through amber rhythms of sound
and puffs her adder tail
to the melody of bladed
peacock tails which pierce her
to the heart
to find it made of cheesecake
and fine wine.
These were the days
when all the hoary headed ostriches
reached into their bags
to find the fluids of solar wealth—
EROTIC INTERLUDES
The nymph of oak
forever young
kisses the serpent
of the eye.
Beneath the hand made of serpents
two have become one.
The birds of Lesbos
play the beautiful horn of the dawn
as the sun peaks over the horizon.
Wandering aimlessly
through the garden of desire,
I joyfully pick
the flowers of pleasure.

24 21
 AND STILL I HEAR THEIR from the passage of a cave
of undulating flesh,
MONSTROUS ROAR
a river filled with snakes
who danced upon a screen
Liquid like a cannonball
of nails and ice.
explodes into the membrane
The further trumpets coiled and turned,
between the trees of time
a veritable landscape of discarded hats
fighting for rhythms of the saw.
and filtered minds.
I wandered strangely
From this I drank the acrid films
past these arbored gardens
and shot the enemies
full of seahorses
of clovered muskrats
and trunks of treasured meals.
and the humidors of love
You never saw me,
without relief.
kissed my toes
It was green inside these mountain skulls
for chocolate cream and horror.
and olived with the caracas of monkeys.
The roars were not of lions,
I downed their screams;
they drained the atmosphere of dreams
I danced the night around
and ate away the melons of desire.
in swirling galaxies
Still I danced away.
of vaginal distension.
My guns were aimed
This was my highest moment,
at all the tops of pyramids,
my defeat of undesired
the schemes of whiskey dealers
obliteration of the dawn.
without a wit of monkey heart
or green inside their eye.
The daze drifted away in purple fogs
and the nights I rode for miles
on mares of steel and blood.
When I opened my hand
I found the wine and music
of a distant race of monkeys,
dreamers in the hinterlands
of horror and despair.
These strange flowers screamed

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