Autumn Collage by Serge Gurkski (best finance books of all time TXT) 📕

Or: trance. As someone mainly interested in women, words and vodka
(permutations are encouraged) this sparkle from the scattered disk
I mentioned in my Stanza # One gifted my mind with
a remarkable genetic trance-ability. Mostly quite confusing
to everyone including me.


XXIV: si le vent frappe à mon porte


If the wind knocks at my door

and tells me it is time to rise again

I follow …


And out in that final night

to be followed by a new day

lighted by a bleaker sun – it’s winter -

than the day before, I cannot but just

follow the call of life again.


That’s just how sentimental

it will ever get.


Hope pales, wishes dwindle. Lovers

lie more, the more I

reincarnate. Also a kind of

evolution. God becoming

more gnostic day by day.

More distanced, more cryptic,

more of and like themselves.


Displaced birds roam desperate skies,

They gyrate towards final singularities.


I so had wanted to have wanted maybe you

or anything alive and fine to me, but

sincerely once at least.


Will then you, sparkle in my soul,

raise me up to my ultimate

beyond?


XXV: Chicken picking on echoplex


We must not play gods if our hearts

don’t match the marbled ones

of those adored up at Athen’s

Acropolis, with all of them

deities slaughtered ever so nice-

ly by Jesus meek and mild.

Come and go Constantine the

obviously unavoidably great.

(And yes, I don’t like you at all,

Mr Kavafis:You may have beeen as Alexandrian as they come.

And that’s not for your having been gay but because of your

ever so arrogantly anti-Julian the Apostate-attitude,

as if Mount Athos had born you in pain. )

Once having been a real god (of Thracia) myself,

cornered ever so sweetly by hot model legs

spreading out over clouds of sweet smokes.

Oh don’t you mess with boogie piano man,

he always means it right. Say hello to Mr

Conkeroo and then with a sweet smile

greet your night. Just another one.

to cum.

You’d preferred it vanilla? Wrong wish!


This is for all the bums of America (and beyond that

piss-colored horizon):

My message spells: Keep going on!

For the all drop-outs of all the big fat

in-corporated states,

handing out bad tasting candies to

all of us losing out. And it spells:

I’ll bite your finger cause I lost my gag reflex.

Oh baby! Of course

I meant no mean when I

told you that your

love would be invain. What

do you think of me now?

I’m glad you don’t bother

but rather have turned back

to your sweet and strong num-

bing perfumes, chasing by inhale

the muddy brown air-waves of earth

away.

Your Rum’s not smelling that fine

as it did last night? I’ll tell you why:

Yesterday, it was only yesterday, it was alright

to drown another lost day of your life

into

Well they tempt you, man, with silver

And they tempt you, sir, with gold

And they tempt you with the pleasures

that the flesh does surely hold*

but wrong!


(So sorry for the French, and even the more so

if it is Greek to you, may it be katharevousa**

or dimotiki***.:

Chicken picking on the echoplex:

*lyrics from „Pink Cadillac“

**Καθαρεύουσα

*** δημοτική


XXVI: Gardener of Love


Mostly to my astonishment girls start distancing themselves from me,

but then I think: It had been high time anyway. And I always prefer them

leaving me, because my own good-byes hurt me so much more.

So hey! yeah, there’s another one down and up

and a-drowning in Niagara falls.

What can you, a gardener of love do but

hatch them for a while till they float and fly away again?

Once their heart turns to cold, you

better step away.


XXVII: Slopes of the Ozark


All the grass on the Ozark slopes.

colored green by the sun.

is dipped into touches of blue.

Call it Bluegrass if you need too.

Three hours later on the highway

You meet another brown-haired black-eyed

cutie just two steps away from the local

whiskey bar. You of course invite her

for a dance and there you roll.

Next morning though you notice

another ring on your hand and you

ask yourself: how you made it from

Black Oak, Arkansas to Las Vegas

and back from there too that fast!


XXVIII. A Gift To Myself


Floating on the waves of memory back

into a strawberry-blonde kid’s here and now,

I can, for the first time in almost five

decades find traces

(absconding the light of your lightest touch and ephemeral like butterfly wings)

of a “happy childhood“,

to which by any means belongs learning by heart

this Rhapsody in Blue in order to sing it to myself

at times of boredom or pain or both. I was rich in those and there-

fore sang it often.

As a song to myself.

Letting all the sharp Blues contours cut the surface

of the forcedly pacified waters of convention.

Beware the neighbors! Bullshit like that.

And delighted in it.

And rightly so.

Because a single blue note

saved my life.

B

in C sharp minor.

Thank you!


XXIX: Pratidanam – returning the compliment


Je ne sais pas non plus comment vivre sans toi.

Non, chuis pas malade si tu me demandes.

How to live on without you I don’t know anymore.

No, I will tell you, should you ask, I am just fine.


My heart is a prince among the small people:

all those delicate fragile souls yearning

for warmth and a smile.

Whenever I sing a song smooth

to myself I do it to pamper it and to

embalm it with all the sympathy

it does deserve.

Pratidanam is sanskrtam and it means:

a present you give for a gift you received,

and sanskrtam – that is Sanskrit, the ancient holy

language of the same people who collectively

dreamed up both: the Ramayana and the Mahabharata -

compounded but ever so carefully by Panini who wrote

the most advanced grammar for 2000 years to come.

Panini, a Leibnizian mind, winking at us from a far far time

and a far far place.


XXX. “Out of a misty dream,“

recited Lee Remick Dowson’s poem, “our path emerges for a while …“ but that was no dream: a nightmare it was. And yes, the ocean knows no time.

Ebbing and flooding and ebbing and flooding again

erasing the traces of sorrow by washing away all castles built on sand.

And the ocean is life, in which all spit-out Jonahs are to drown.

Sooner, later, but finally always.

I have not made my mind up yet

in who to better trust:

a lover liquid or rather one of flesh,

but anyway I ‘ll be and stay a slave.


XXXII. Hurry

sorry , ‘m in a hurry

shops are gonna close soon

runnin out of money

runnin out of booze too

gotta better run now

rockin down the alley

better gonna get me

what I think I need

will be broke by sat night

till then I have fun.


XXXIII. Nap Girl


You need to get in the flow with

me now.

Won’t you

mount my blue balloon as it takes off

to softly friendly skies

and kiss their charmer, that’s our sun?

Let’s sail off into another swinging night

of lush and lust and love and lay- lay back

with me:

Sail with me and let’s bump on chuckling clouds

before they rain themselves dry and drown out down

on thirsty soils of yearning

and dream up fantasies of better no returns.

Smoothly talk to me, please!

I laid down my arms:

The roses are not on war anymore.

————————–

“Other arms reach out to me
Other eyes smile tenderly
Still in peaceful dreams I see
The road leads back to you.”

from the lyrics of Georgia on my mind


XXXV. Sunny, sunny winter time


Sunny sunny winter time

and me out there tryin to get me

another fix. Brother brother

can’t you please spare a dime

on me?

Went over to the river,

watched me out a bridge to pass

away,

humming Berryman all to myself

closest ever

to that draw of the bridge,

but it

would not work, I was

not stoned enough yet to

leave earth and life like that this day.

Watch me tumbling down

to the shelter, mumblin

obscene prayers to myself-

Man, I am on the low-down.

Can’t you help yourself this time?

Someone just had snapped away

a cigarette

and the butt was glimming still.

So I put it up and leaned out

over the railing,

closed my eyes and inhaled

the nicotine and mem’ries

of a pretty woman smiling

right into my deepest dark.

Wandering along the bluely shaded alleys

of a long and so missed

past,

But now they’re

missed no more.

(had help with this -not to mention chemicals – by Boz Scaggs and Duane Allman, which is why I ll fatten this one up:)

Bozscaggities

Came across some melodies

made me wanna swing.


XXXVI. Bozzscagitties


(Miss Riddle, I’m stuck in the middle again!)

I rather feel I do not want to dance to this tonight -
yet-

“It’s a long way home and it’s late and yet we pretend.
It’s a long way home and you called last night: Just friends!“

yet I can’t resist the beautiful
trouble you are
to me
tonight
and you know who I am but
I have
no clue about you.

You suggest. I better play along
nicely, a voice a caressing velvet
to please you best-

with my voice playing along nicely
and it better be

a lower baritoned velvet

touching
your ears.

To do it to you

best!

(Payday)

My Shoe-shiner could you kindly keep it down?
Do we really need an apocalypse right now?
….

Come payday: “

Crystal chimes meet wah-wah: friendly intercourse
Sun’s a friend and she helps me walking out and
down to town on a friday night.
Straight into another
superbly star-lit night-

Dancing in the limelight.
Swinging in