Centurions. Potalishakions.
Prerts. F. Funks. P.l.u.p.s.
Frains Trails Moss.
Scum. Sing my lil yella
basket. A tisket. Tasket.
Athabasket. Ma the basket.
211th Chorus
The wheel of the quivering meat
conception
Turns in the void expelling human beings,
Pigs, turtles, frogs, insects, nits,
Mice, lice, lizards, rats, roan
Racinghorses, poxy bucolic pigtics,
Horrible unnameable lice of vultures,
Murderous attacking dog-armies
Of Africa, Rhinos roaming in the
jungle,
Vast boars and huge gigantic bull
Elephants, rams, eagles, condors,
Pones and Porcupines and Pills –
All the endless conception of living
beings
Gnashing everywhere in Consciousness
Throughout the ten directions of space
Occupying all the quarters in & out,
From supermicroscopic no-bug
To huge Galaxy Lightyear Bowell
Illuminating the sky of one Mind –
Poor! I wish I was free
of that slaving meat wheel
and safe in heaven dead
212th Chorus
All of this meat is in dreadful pain
Anytime circumstances attain
To its attention like a servant
And pricking goads invest the flesh,
And it quivers, meat, & owner cries
And wishes “Why was I born with a body,
Why do I have this painful hive
Of hope-of-honey-milk yet bane
Of bitterest reward, as if, to wish
For flesh was sin alone itself – ?”
And now you gotta pay, rhinoceros
and you,
Tho his hide’s toughern ten young men
Armed with picks against the Grim
Reaper
Whose scythe is preceded by pitchforks
Of temptation & hell, the Horror:
“Think of pain, you’re being hurt,
Hurry, hurry, think of pain
Before they make a fool of you
And discover that you dont feel
It’s the best possible privilege
To be alive just to die
And die in denizen of misery”
213th Chorus
Poem dedicated to Allen Ginsberg
– prap – rot – rort –
mort – port – lort – snort
– pell mell – rhine wine –
roll royce – ring ming –
mock my lot – roll my doll –
pull my hairline – smell my kell –
wail my siren – pile my ane –
loose my shoetongue – sing my aim –
loll my wildmoll – roll my
luck –
lay my cashier gone amuk –
suck my lamppole, raise the bane,
hang the traitor
inside my brain
Fill my pail well,
ding my bell, smile for the ladies,
come from hell
214th Chorus
Ling the long Chinese peeswallower,
a lad like ye,
Laid his hand on Garty’s knee
and paid the pree –
Shong the mong of anisfore,
Maharajah
Dusty, kinked the from of Jaidphur
from the Konk mirror free
So all Bojangles Banghard
had to do
Was roil his roily tooty
mot the polyong,
And if you knew what I meant
you would say
You disgust me –
Aright, ring the devil free –
Bong – Ring the devil free
Prong – ring the devil free,
Song, ring the devil free,
Ong, ring the biney free
215th Chorus
Moll the mingling, mixup
All your mixupery,
And mail it in one envelopey:
Propey, Slopey, Kree.
Motey, slottey, notty,
Potty, shotty, rotty, wotty,
Salty, grainy, wavey,
Takey, Carey, Andy
Sari Pari Avi Ava
Gava lava mava dava
Sava wava ga-ha-va
Graharva pharva
Dharma rikey rokkkk
Tokkkk sokkkk
Mrockk, the Org
Of Old Pootatolato
England Ireland
O
Sail to Sea
216th-A Chorus
Fuck, I’m tired of this imagery
– I wanta quit this horseshit
go home
and go to bed
But I got no home,
sickabed,
suckatootle,
wanta led
bonda londa
rolla molla
sick to my
bella bella
donna donna
I’m a goner
Soner, loner,
moaner,
Poan, cornbelly,
No loan,
Ai, ack,
C r a c k /
I’m sick of this
misery poesy/ flap Jean
Louis
Miseree
216th-B Chorus
Filling the air with an arbitrary dream –
When no desire arises, that is the original
Feeling of peace in Actual Nature –
It is not moot to question how a dream
ends
Whenaslong as it ends –
A Baby in Pain:
tell the proud seminal mother
how many more of that she wants
to satisfy her fertile ego
and how many more babies
crying in the night, angry screech,
knowing that their flesh is on the block
of death the hungry butcher.
– how many pigs hung upsidedown
and slowly bled to death
by reverent ritual fools
with no noses and no eyes
Emancipate the human masses
Of this world from slavery to life
And death, by abolishing death
And exterminating birth –
O Samson me that –
The Venerable Kerouac, friend of Cows
DEPEND ON VAST MOTIONLESS THOUGHT
216th-C Chorus
Well roofed pleasant little hut,
screened from winds:
That’s all I need. Foursquare
The image of the Buddha in my brain,
Drawing from the countryside the verdant
Fantasm of conception, saying:
“We green imageries of bush & tree,
Like you, have risen from a mystery,
And the mystery is fantastic,
Unreal, illusion, and sane,
And strange – It is: When ye
Are not born, thou never showest:
When thou art born thou showest,
Thou showest emeralds and pine trees
And thou showest, and if not born
Thou showest naught in white
Dazzling buried in mindless obscure sea
That strange eternity devises to befool,
Befoul and play unfair with Mag
The worshipper and worrier, Man,
Mag, Mad,
it’s all green trees, men
And dogs of toothbone:
All shine in the dust,
All the same Novice Scotia”
217th Chorus
Sooladat smarty pines came prappin down
My line of least regard last Prapopooty
And whattaya think Old Father Time
made him? a western sponnet
Without no false on bonnet,
Trap in t
he cock adus time of the Nigh,
Slight the leak of recompense being
hermasodized
By finey wild traphoods in all
their estapular
glories
Gleaming their shining-rising spears
against the High Thap All Thup –
So I aim my gazoota always
to the God, remembering the origin
Of all beasts and cod, Bostonian
By nature, with no minda my own,
Could write about railroads, quietus
These blues, hurt my hand more,
Rack my hand with labor of nada
– Run 100 yard dash
in Ole Ensanada –
S what’ll have to do,
this gin & tonics
Perss o monnix
twab
twab
twabble
all day
218th Chorus
Sight the saver having from the coast
put further items down – what? you
wish to talk to me, hear me scratch
at the mean little door, hiding in my bonnet –
O come off it, the vast canopial
Assemblies wait for yr honest spontaneous reply.
What shall it be?
I promise to reject pain when next
My turn comes back again
I promise not to steal, nor go to hell
For stealing
I promise to say Na
When Tathagata’s Angels
Ride for me. Na –
I wanta go to Inside-Me,
Is there such a place? No is.
Flap the wack I smack the hydrant
of desire, sip sop the twill –
(hiding all them guys – ’twere
as I told you, old dreams
of young brides’ll do you no more good)
Wake up Scribe! Pharisee!
The axxabata
f l O R I A N I O L A
S P R I N G T I M E
OW OH ALL
OFFICIAL SEMINARY
219th Chorus
Saints, I give myself up to thee.
Thou hast me. What mayest thou do?
What hast thou? Hast nothing?
Hast illusion. Hast rage, regret,
Hast pain. Pain wont be found
Outside the Monastery only –
Hast decaying saints like Purushka
Magnificent Russian-booted bird loving
Father Zossima under the cross
In his father cell in Holy Russia
And Alyosha falls to the ground
And Weeps, as Rakitin smears.
Grushenka sits him on her lap
And lacky daisies him to lull
And love and loll with her
And wild he runs home in the night
Over Charade Chagall fences
snow-white
To the pink cow of his father’s ear,
Which he slits, presenting to Ivan
As an intellectual courtesy, Dmitri
Burps, Smerdyakov smirks.
The Devil giggles in his poorclothes.
Saints, accept me to the drama
of thy faithful desire.
No me? No drama to desire?
No Alyosha, no Russia, no tears?
Good good good good, my saints.
No saints? No no no my saints.
No no? No such thing as no.
220th Chorus
Pieces of precious emerald and jade
Come from igneous rock once on fire,
Erupted through a volcano, sandstone,
Came out oozing in crevices
Pieces of light long buried in the earth
Are diamonds and floods of them.
“Amen the Jewel in the Lotus!”
Prays the Tibetan Saint with Prayerwheel,
“Om Mani Padhme Hum,”
He wants to pile up credit
Like the jewel in the rock
So that when he’s found
The doves will have laid aground
Eggs of bright amethystine
Wallowing splendorous decay,
Kings of Ore, art of fathers
Handed to sons, fire and air.
Kingdoms have been founded on diamonds,
Emeralds and pearls, and walkways
Of padded lily milky meshed
And crushed in holy feet, Maha
Graha Sattva, Being of Great Power,
Fortunes in Wisdom, Stores of Love.
Mountains rise high, diamonds shine,
Men ride high the alumpshine
The lump sunshine
Delicious is the taste of Porcupine
221st Chorus
Old Man Mose
Early American Jazz pianist
Had a grandson
Called Deadbelly.
Old Man Mose walloped
the rollickin keyport
Wahoo wildhouse Piany
with monkies in his hair
drooling spaghetti, beer
and beans, with a cigar
mashed in his countenance
of gleaming happiness
the furtive madman
of old sane times.
Deadbelly dont hide it –
Lead killed Leadbelly –
Deadbelly admit
Deadbelly modern cat
Cool – Deadbelly, Man,
Craziest.
Old Man Mose is Dead
But Deadbelly get Ahead
Ha ha ha
222nd Chorus
Mexico Camera
I’m walkin down Orizaba Street
looking everywhere. Ahead of me I
see a mansion, with wall, big
lawn, Spanish interiors, fancy
windows very impressive
Further bloated copulated bloats
Silent separative furniture
The Story of No-Mad, silent
separative corpses;
Ignorino the Indian General
He Chief, wow,
Of Southern Sonora,
You know the Bum,
what was his name?
Asserfelter Shnard Marade,
the Marauding Hightailer
of Southern Slopetawvia,
krum, full of kerrs and kierke
gaard/
and bash bah
the Plap
223rd Chorus
Pineys hursaphies,
Finally allawies,
Fonally finalles.
Hookies from OO-SKOOL,
Polls for Who Hook Fish,
Fowl for Fair Weather.
Wu! cries the Indian Boy
in the South Sampan Night,
“Esta que ferro,” you be of iron,
I’ll be a damn tootely wow
wot Rot Moongut Rise Shine
Hogwater Wheel –
Juice a the eel –
In Old Lake Miel –
Honey wheel –
Sound
E Terpt T A pt T E rt W –
Song of I Snug Our Song
Sang of Asia High Gang
Clang of Iron O Hell Pot –
Spert of Ole Watson Ville
Gert –
Smert –
Noise of old sad so
Such Is
Sing a little ditty of the moon inside the loony
boon of snow white blooms in Parkadystan
I S T A M H O W H U C K
224th Chorus
Great God Amighty
What’s to be done?
O what’s to be done?
Sings the majestical keener
and moaner
At the Mexican Funeral home –
And from a clap in the upclouds
Comes a clap of clouts,
“All has been done.”
As Theravada say “Nothing”
Nada moonshine number, whats been done?
All been done – all singly blessed –
All has b
een done? The mansion’s
been built and Damema
grown old & died
in burning house within?
And Seventeen Sutras & Lotuses
Transmitted by Perfumed Hand
From Jingle to Jiggle
The Hip Hou Parade
of Togas & Mowrdogrogas
Of Maharajah India –
‘All’s been done’
‘so rest’
Repose yourself
225th Chorus
The void that’s highly embraceable
during sleep
Has no location and no fret;
Yet I keep restless mental searching
And geographical meandering
To find the Holy Inside Milk
Damema gave to all.
Damema, Mother of Buddhas,
Mother of Milk
In the dark I wryly remonstrate
With my sillier self
For feigning to believe
In the reality of anything
Especially the so-called reality
Of giving the Discipline
The full desert-hut workout
And superman solitude
And continual enlightened trance
With no cares in the open
And no walls closing in
The Bright Internal Heaven
Of the Starry Night
Of the Cloud Mopped afternoon –
Oh, Ah, Gold, Honey,
I’ve lost my way.
226th Chorus
There is no Way to lose.
If there was a way,
then,
when sun is shining on pond
and I go West, thou East,
which one does the true sun
follow?
which one does the true one
borrow?
since neither one is the true one,
there is no true one way.
And the sun is the delusion
Of a way multiplied by two
And multiplied millionfold.
Since there is no Way, no Buddhas,
No Dharmas, no Conceptions,
Only One Ecstasy –
And Right Mindfulness
Is mindfulness that the way is No-Way –
Anyhow Sameway –
Then what am I to do
Beyond writing this instructing
Poesy, ride a magic carpet
Of self ecstasy, or wait
For death like the children
In the Funeral Street after
The black bus has departed –
Or – what?
227th Chorus
Merde and misery,
I’m completely in pain
Waiting without mercy
For the worst to happen.