Twilight Jokes at Dawn (1-9)

Twilight Jokes at Dawn (1-9)
by Adam Jan Kaufmann.

1. – Pickup and a Dog

White of gray pupils
only a pickup
stale days
observers
Eye
emptied
is, or in the silence of an extraterrestrial candlestick
what crawls in the silence of the ball
measureless
Sundays
as impeccable scars of hunger
consuming
sub-skin pressures
in the rust of the morning
corners
on focused waves
curled puddles
or salvation of baptisms
soft hookers
what actually hides in her evening magic?
antennas
roofs
all sorts
of plots
what silence?
just folding screens
flash skies
& a dog

2. – Happy Hour

Ties grateful
delicacies
pressed in at dawn
only dragonfly
which demands to sing out our dreams
we must keep still today
though the hours are not much in our sleeve
& these shoes have been patched a million times
cry
from behind the fan of her eyes in the only rest
from northern jived
Aurora lights
remains of a matchbox
& beetles
shaken out
whether the night can be
funnier
can taxi cabs can-can
it’s more banal to be seen
from behind those eyes
than to be the fan
of bitter delicacies
& it’s time to shut up now
or close
the bar

3. – Ago Forgotten

the end is already written
ago forgotten
but forgive our culture
we never ask
we punish fools for that
preach
punish
humiliate
our brothers
but Poe you very much in try
Baltic Sea
tears into this pen
though I should have been the first man ashore
nights
overshoot
would
& survive
at long last least first
flogging eyelashes of love
can only bake
tart eyes
spider webs
your
rooms will not
be shaken
night in them perhaps
and only its end

4. – Persian Nightmares Cut-Up at Breakfast

A Persian cat lays his claw weapons down on a bed of oranges
scratching
the guitar string
nibbling
mocking
he stretches his neck in the palm of his hand
you?
I’m listening to “Milord” from the bottom of a coffee cup
parrots in cages exercise
departing
we will start soon to fall
from a naked bear, gracefully, gracefully
you are rolling through the attic
tangling roads
spiders
rats
& with a lipstick, write on the hotel wall:
“Sub Rosa”
I’m just looking for a cannonball
in the second floor pillows
or Marx
behind the bookcase
you talk about the deeper matter
or finding Christ the Bomb
in my opinion
you are simply petting a cat
dying of oblivion

5. – On Queen of Spades

I cried over my burning match
you over your card – Queen of Spades
she went to tan a fan
or two
you have enough of Parisian waltzes
& coastal flowers
to House
bums like me
the house where Sartre used to stay
in his best sardonic days
& he wept, & he wept & wept
bleach
above his shelves
from above the northern aurora
dripping with souls on the window sill
ill ill
just the shell chest
of a virgin
tucking in all your truly’s
begging for
grace
humming Brel confidently with an umbrella
spread in full sun
in reversed
reverie
how much can you sell me?
quite a few
bums, dear Sir

6. – A Gypsy Wanderer, Not Necessarily Stoned

She bought incense & candles
4 A.M.
in bags, (rags) the gulf is wrapped like a dress
Kabbalah
tempting Tarot of an old Gypsy
in a pink blanket
her bathtub
when she came back home, the Gypsy was bleeding
his fingers were mocked
with seaweed
for a moment
she could stay
or walk away alone
she herself has never been
where
too many ghosts inhabit her vessel
too many skulls live in
tenement
riversides
the spirit of seekers is still here
playing games
stagnation
standing
sludge floods the nights
which is the way forward
she didn’t go
& the Gypsy that dawned for a second
will never see
blind eyes

7. – Blues Street (Apnea)

How many jams we had on Blues Street?
coldness of fresh bodies
winter leaves
paraphrases
subdominant
weed harmonies
& spacious
transparencies
to life
how much this Blues Street Street must have heard
or groaned like crazy with tramps of sound
weapons were of wood & metal
simple, cruel, effective
how many people have been stimulated
guided, piloted
in the middle of the night
down from the ceiling hearing
tonic & mambo
how many times has our young Italian friend hit the harp?
& where did he go with it – there, right in
to the junk shop
selling your thousand
Egyptian lyres
how many lunar sonatas shot the sky
under the night
underplayed
dominant
Blues Delta – holy blues
I’m just wondering – why all this
if the deaf deafness remains
& only the moon
mentions
apnea
while Blues Street once again
blue,
note,
shall tremble
as the circus will visit town

8. – Donkeys

Picking up horses from the top of the well
you must first weigh all the donkeys
fortunes, fortunes… water your hybrids
make a mistake, drunken, no – drunk
She did not come
sad story, hole boy
don’t salt the donkeys
brain damage
white daybreak
at night only horses break up
donkeys stroll the night
under the expert eye
from behind the dark
glasses
consent
are you still alive?
plucked up your monster’s womb?
Why so late & hard to forget
when, in principle, centuries have passed
since the moon spewed you out
& drove the janitor’s
creation
away
from the land of ether & opium
cheesy scratching in your ear
picking up your donkeys
sounds
visions
yes, sometimes I think that it’s his dumb – God – face
dancing
at twilight’s omnipotent orgasms
of course, with those donkeys

9. – Hacavitz

Let’s join the Immortalists … all hop in today
Golden Dawn
is coming
East oriental flowers
& dancing morrisonesque
Indian ghosts:
Hacavitz! Hacavitz!
Don’t you hear it in the green of their feathers?
Turn down the radio … yours will come
a brunette
the light that only in her
exists
exits for/from it, so you can
extinguish it
Do you remember
legs around her sky skin
(whisper of the Night – incense – Miles)
…snakes…
Yours will come
a brunette…
whenever you call:
Hacavitz!
We are looking for gods at the tops of the mountains …
ain’t it the
tip
that brushes
Aztec Lakes?
Andromeda
Turn down the radio … you will hear it knocking on the door:
face of Nothingness
Vril girls
what will your Venusian beasts catch up with
to make it
weep?
the Masters?

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