Bernstein’s in Hong Kong
But Charles is his own king
He lets da man talk and talk
While he sings his bawdy songs
To jelly the Bernsteinian rock.
I saw an ideological construct in the sky
A sort of joy
Floating amongst the clouds
Formed by dead cells —
A ray that seemed to have lost its way
A way that seemed to have lost its day.
Says he between his red stained teeth
the operator of the wrecking ball
As he spits out his betel-juice
Life’s ok..the world’s still there..why fret?
The immigrants never left their war torn cities
Who ever said there was a war?
Black flags never flew over terrorized rivers
that their stench is engraved in the mutilated air. Airpot of immobility. Except the flight of
airyones into holes in the hidden blue. Never to arrive, or to arrive again and again against the glassy faces glued to the glassy air: tell us what’s it like? What did you find there? What they want to hear is what they want to see. In the mirror riddled with riddles, wholed with holes. Continue reading
Not the old, familiar theme of ‘how you misunderstand me,’ but in the absence of control, meaning sheds words like dead skin or victimize them to speak untruth instead. Continue reading